Entry 6

The oddest thing happened while commuting from my study to the kitchen. Down the hall I swear that I saw a man walk past the doorway in the dining room. I immediately investigated, cutlass in hand, should the case have been that the man was of evil intention. Instead, though, I found absolutely nothing. I heard no noise, no door, and no footsteps. The man simply vanished. I dispatched the occurrence as a figment of my imagination and nothing more, but I can’t shake the feeling that this person isn’t just an evanescent contingency.
On another note, I’ve resolved to play a game of chess against myself. Each day I will make a move, doing my best to disregard my own strategies for each side. I have completed the first move for the white side, moving the king’s pawn forward two squares. Tomorrow, I will devise a strategy for the black side, and move a piece accordingly.
My research into the dark arts and the undead has become fairly extensive. Never did I know that such powerful knowledge existed within my father’s grasp. It’s almost as if the deeper I go into this subject, the more beneficial and potent it appears. It is becoming increasingly difficult to resist the temptation to attempt such sorcery, and even harder to stop reading about it. Every page I read, the benefits seem to become greater and the risks seem to become smaller. The thought tickles my brain of my father once being a great necromancer, possessing scores of undead at his command. As amusing as the thought was, I dismissed it to continue my studies.

Entry 5 (2 days later)

Charles arrived today with the weekly set of supplies. I witnessed one of only a handful of times when Charles broke his edifice of nonchalance. Though he shed no tears, I could see in his face a sincere look of sadness when I told him of my father’s death. Charles and my father had always been close, and Charles always felt a sense of debt towards him. Back when my father was first constructing the manor, he recognized the need for a supplier, so he hired a man of little means in an attempt to at least bring one man out of the grinding poverty that is so common in these times. That young fellow was Charles. So my father dressed him up, gave him an on-grounds home, a few effects and a carriage with which to transport food stuffs and other necessary supplies. After a few years, Charles was able to move into a home in the town at which he garnered the supplies. Always an honest, noble and kind person, Charles became our family’s only friend. Though he stands as the sole link to the outside world and the key to the prison doors of the estate, I couldn’t leave this place. I couldn’t leave my father. He means too much to me, his memory means too much to me.
We spoke for an hour or so, sharing a lunch before he returned to his home. After he departed, I returned to the study. I have been absolutely engrossed in the aforementioned fable. The young boy and his sister were taken to a castle and then killed by the lord of the manor, believing that they would rebel against him later in their lives. Or so he thinks. In a twist of fate, the boy lived and was whisked away by a seer. Not even the legends of my youth can compare to this compelling tale. I lie awake at night, anxious to know what will happen next.

Entry 4

For the past week I haven’t spent a moment outside my study other than to sleep, prepare meals and visit my father’s grave. The library that has been amassed provides me with all the entertainment which I require. Having no one with which to converse with I have noticed that the sound of my own speech has become nearly foreign. I expect, though, that Charles will be returning within a day or two, hopefully giving me a chance to talk to someone, even for a few minutes.
Having most of my time for reading, I have picked up another book which I recall my father reading at one point when I was younger. Unlike the others, this one is fiction. The main character is a boy, Raven, whose parents died when he was young and has been living with his older sister on the streets, living on alms and trash. Amidst their begging, they encountered a dog being attacked by a ruffian. The two fought off the vagabond and took the canine under their wing, reluctantly. I haven’t delved very much in to the story yet, but it appears interesting so far.
I found my father’s old chess set this morning. After dusting it off, I could only admire its crystalline luster. My father was never much of a chess player, and the last time I had played was back when my grandfather was still alive. I still vaguely remember the matches we had. He always beat me. Not wanting to put this beautiful set to waste, I set up the board on an end table in the study and placed two of the lesser chairs on either side of the table, coinciding with the white and black ends. I resolved that I would play a game before I took it down.

Entry 3 (3 days later)

Not a day has gone by that I haven’t visited my father’s grave. Odd as it may seem, I can still feel his essence floating about the tombstone. Yesterday, I swore I could feel his palm rest on my shoulder. I didn’t check for it, I enjoyed the fleeting feeling of his hand. How I do miss him.

For the past few days I have devoted a good amount of time to reading. My father was an avid collector of books and filled the shelves lining the walls with more books than I could ever read. Most of these texts are of trivial matters to me, but a few I have found to be particularly interesting, the most interesting being volumes known as the Necronomicon and its sibling, the Normanonicon. They catalogue and detail various types and species of undead. I would not be surprised if my father had read these volumes, considering. These two pieces go into the utmost scientific detail in the analysis of the supernatural, and I am finding these prospects strangely enthralling.

I’m trying my best to resist the temptation, but I can’t help but consider the possibility of resurrecting my father. I have heard many tales of the powers of necromancy and now I find that all the tools to conduct such magics exist in my own home. I understand that the dangers exist. For every tale of a powerful black mage, another exists detailing an instance where the resurrected beings turn on their summoner. For now, the idea will remain just that, but only time will tell what my future in the practicing of this magic holds.

Entry 2

It amazes me how life continues on, how the world still turns. Continuing on seems more trivial as time passes. Since I was a young child, my father has stood at my side. Make no mistake, I was never babied, but to lose the only person who’s been there since your birth isn’t something that passes over you like water over the riverbed. No. This wound goes beyond skin deep.

The walls of this structure become more prisonlike every minute that I walk through them. No longer do they echo with his voice. No longer are they riddled with his trinkets left scattered about. No longer does he pace the regal halls. No longer am I sure of my reason to remain here.

I’ve spent the day in my study, the majority of the time spent staring through the window out at the bordering forest. The property extends a kilometer or two in a radius around the mansion most of this being forested, but I recall only once or twice ever encountering that border. I’ve spent my entire life on this estate. I attribute this to my father, who was never fond of travel. It wouldn’t mind this, if it didn’t mean that I now have no other acquaintances. I’ve become trapped in my own home, trapped from the outside world. I can only hope that another will come along. I’m so lonely.

Entry 1

Assume entries are daily unless otherwise specified

My father died today. I’ve been in this world for 34 years and never did I cry so vigorously. Not even when my sweet wife and only son died did I weep with such passion. I even watched him die. I watched his blood cover our front lawn. I watched his lifeless body fall to the ground. I should’ve stopped him. I could’ve stopped him. I don’t know why I didn’t. It’s as if I didn’t want to accept what I saw him doing. At least until it was too late.

It was early morning and time to wake him up. He usually didn’t require this service, but I liked to check on him anyway. His room was empty by the time I had gotten there. The entire room lay in shambles. The bed had been over turned and the sheets had been torn apart. The chair at his desk had been tossed out the window. The rug that previously inhabited the floor was no where to be seen and numerous gouges adorned the walls and floor seemingly randomly. I frantically searched his room for him with no results.

His desk was the only thing unharmed, but all objects that previously sat atop it had either been broken and tossed about or impaled in the wall. All but a single piece of parchment. Hastily at first, but then with greater care, I read the note. It was from my father.

“Dear Son,” the note read, “You more than anyone else has seen and felt the evidence of my deteriorating state. You may not have seen all that I have, but you’ve seen me and I know that my sad excuse for an existence saddens you and for that I’m sorry. I never meant or ever wanted to be a burden. I love you and I’m sorry that it had to end this way. I’m leaving you with everything, including the pistol you’ll find in my hand. May your mind serve you better than mine did. –Lord Curlingtonfield I”

I stared in horror at the note. I couldn’t believe it. So many thoughts rushed through my mind. Then, through the broken window I could hear the sound of the front door open and slam shut. I ran to the window. There I saw my father walk onto the lawn. I breathed a sigh of relief, seeing him in health. I prepared to go downstairs and outside to meet him, then he reached into his coat and pulled out the very pistol that his letter mentioned. My heart stopped. I screamed through the broken window. I pleaded to him. I shouted until my throat hurt. He turned around, facing now the building. He looked up at me and I fell silent. I could feel tears streaming down my face. He raised the pistol to his head. I don’t know whether it was actually him or my imagination, but I could hear him whisper “I’m sorry”.

My father died today. Right before my eyes. I buried him, too. I thought about burying that accursed firearm with him, but I decided against it. It was the only item he explicitly gave to me. The only thing I now have to remember him by. I miss my father.