Entry 9

Again, last night, the air was filled with the unceasing, furious clawing. I don’t even recall the commencement. It was as if the sound had always been there, hiding under the noise of everyday activity. I do remember, though, the first instant I could comprehend the noise I was hearing, I turned on the gas on the lamp I had placed on my nightstand. Even with the flame lit and orange light cast about the room, the noise did not stop. It didn’t even hesitate. It sounded as if it originated within the room, but no being was present. This wouldn’t be nearly as frightening if my room wasn’t at a corner of the house and bordered on three sides by the out-of-doors. Seeing the futility, and hoping to return to the placebo feeling of safety given by my bed, I turned off the lamp and returned underneath the covers. The scratching never stopped.

Not entirely unexpectedly, my opponent is still participating in our chess match. In response to his Pawn to D-6, I’ve moved my bishop adjacent to my king, to C-4. Strangely, the presence that commands the black pieces does not frighten or worry me. The more I ponder our competition, the more I accept this phenomenon as almost commonplace. As disturbing as I know I should find both my acceptance and the actual presence of another somewhere on the premises, I find that I am not perturbed in any way. I don’t know if I should be scared simply because of this, either.

My father’s grave was unusually unhelpful. Much like the home that I live in, my father’s grave has fallen silent, and no longer provides me with any contentment. I resent this. I don’t want my father to be silenced like all that surrounds me. The only thing I ever hear anymore is the scratching on the walls and my own movements. I haven’t spoken a word since Charles left. I need someone to talk to. I need my father.

Entry 8

Last night was abhorrent and terrifying. After I extinguished the flame of my candle I attempted to return to my slumber, but would not be grated such a privilege. The noise that I believed to be the penning of my quill was not of that origin. Throughout the night the sound of incessant clawing at the walls filled my ears. The more disturbing part was that the sound possessed no distinct origin; rather it seemed to be exuded from all directions. After an hour or so passed, I finally drifted off to sleep. I wish I had an explanation, but my ability to reason and analyze the situation and the finer details was clouded by my overbearing terror at the time.

More startling than this, though is the peculiar state in which I found my study this morning. When I woke up, I quickly moved in to the site, seeking an immediate sense of security after last night’s events. All of the objects and books remained exactly as I had left them; as expected. The odd case was the chess board that I had left on its designated table. I distinctly remember moving only one piece last night and I double checked my suspicions to be correct using this text. What was puzzling was that in addition to the white piece that I had moved, a black piece had also been moved. Knight to C-6.

I spent the first portion of the day monitoring the chess set. So many questions have arisen. How was this piece moved? How could they have gotten in here without my notice? Could this be related to the mystery phantom I encountered the other day? Are the clawing noises related to this in any way? But the one question that burned in my brain, more so than any other, I should be regarding as the least important – what will my next move be? After long deliberation, I loosely defined a strategy in my mind. Knight to H-3.

Following my mandate, I returned to the area in which I had sighted the man. There was no notable change in any way, but I would not be deterred. I closely examined places where I believed he had walked and where he would have walked if he had continued on his path. The path I had used on that day was a route I did not typically traverse, and since then I had not used it. Sprawled across the hallway that he moved through was an old carpet. One of the things I searched for were disturbances in the carpet thread’s alignment. I found none that would correlate with the man’s footsteps. Reexamining the room he had entered I took great care not to overlook any details or disturb any objects, yet I still found nothing that would point to his existence in any way, shape or form. This was truly a mystery.

Unbeknownst to me, the day was already fading into night when I had finally given up my investigation. I hadn’t even visited my father’s grave and the sun had already retreated too far to grant me proper sight. Tomorrow I would have to make up for lost time. What was even more startling was that I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and I felt no tinge of hunger. To ensure my health I opted to forcibly eat something before I went to bed. I can only imagine what tomorrow will hold.

Entry 7 (Sometime Later Than Night)

The date is currently unknown to me, as I have awoken at a time straddling yesterday and tomorrow. The realm beyond my bedroom window is blacker than the coals in my fireplace. There is an eerie silence at this hour, but I suppose this is a product of the night.

I know not the reason for my midnight disturbance, but I suddenly awoke only minutes ago with my wits about me as if it were the hour of the sun’s triumph. My ears twitch at the slightest creak. The sound of my quill is so comparably loud that it seems to scratch at the paper like nails on the wall.

My thoughts return to the man that I saw earlier. The memory of my fleeting encounter with him is disproportionably well remembered. As I attempt to recall other events of yesterday, they seem to blend together. The entire day I remember only as a whole; except that event. I’ve reread my previous entry and not even the notes that I’ve left behind reimburse my decayed memory. Only that event, do I remember. In the morn, I’ve resolved to more thoroughly investigate this matter. There is no way his existence was hallucinatory.

Since the beginning of my recollection the air has gained a notable eldritch quality. The feeling is not that of a draft. The air doesn’t even feel as though it has any turbulence. Yet it seems as though the warmth has faded and replaced with a paranormal chill. Even as I hold my fingers to the tip of my candle’s flame, I feel no heat. I wish greatly to return to the comfort of my bed, but my eyes feel not the strain of a weary day. Despite this, I will attempt speed the arrival of the morn. Hopefully the sheets will provide me protection from this unearthly chill.