Diary,

This will be my first night in the new house upon the mountain overlooking Addy Lake. I have taken the liberty of setting up in one of the smaller bedrooms upon the first floor as I do not trust the stairwell in the foyer to hold any weight larger than that of a church mouse. I shall, in the near future, attempt to reach the upper floors in due time. I pray that the local wildlife does not enter these grounds at night and the howl of wolves has set my teeth on edge. 

I am fortunate that I do not share the name of the last inheritor, even though we are related, though somewhat distantly, by blood. The name of the cabby who took me up the mountain to it spat when I mentioned her name. I am fortunate still that my own name has not made me infamous in these parts. Perhaps I have outrun them at last.

In the town, when I mentioned I was to move into the Manor the look in the eyes of the villagers was one of pity and bemusement. They dare not tell me what entails of this place's history, as their local superstition prevents it. A house this old and prestigious must be in possession of a library and I intend to search every broken corridor for its entrance for want of further history of this place. 

It is a distraction from myself, I am fully aware, but if this place is to be my house then it shall, in due time, be my home. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary, 

Upon my stay of one week's time this place has become no less inhabitable despite all attempts to remedy the situation. It appears the last owner did take the liberty to install a more modern plumbing into the manor but, as there has been little maintenance to its upkeep, has eroded and spilled forth rust and filth into the sink in which I had intended to use. I have resorted to drawing water from the old well out in the courtyard, and, despite its terrible upkeep as well, has provided water in which I can, at the very least, use to clean my person. 

I would seek to have repairs done to this place, but as it so happens, I have received the bills for this establishment. Along with this manor and its grounds, I have also inherited its debt and  a very lengthy legal threat about what will be done, should I choose not to pay them. I do not wish to bring myself into court as I do not wish to bring any more attention to my person. I still have most of the assets from our incursion and suspect that any bills, infested or not, will work to silence those collectors. 

I shall have it bound and sent along in one week's time when the postman comes to deliver the weekly mail. I met the fellow today and he was not pleased that he now had to add this place to his already mile-worn route. A shame he has such a dreadful continence as he was a rather handsome fellow in a rugged underclass manner. 

But the bill was not the only news that I had received, for upon his visit he also presented to me a copy of the canton paper, and there upon the cover, though in a small corner underneath a garish advert, she was mentioned. It's been one year since they caught her. One year since her death. 

I drank the rest of the bottle of Bronzen Apple I had been saving. I couldn't taste it. The article didn't mention how she died and spun some long story about the mysteries surrounding her death. It begs the question if the author of such an article was deliberate about the obfuscation or they were censored by those who do not want it known what is out there. 

I marked more stones and scattered them upon the grounds to make sure this place is safe. I too am tired of running. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary, 

It seems that the wolves are not the only disturbance that I must endure. Over the past two weeks while I have attempted to slumber, still in the downstairs bedroom mind you, I have heard a vast and prolonged scrabbling against all manner of materials and at all manner of hours. 

I scoured the rooms, searching high and low, but have found no other evidence of the rats, of whom I suspect have made themselves at home within these walls. Nevertheless, I beseech the mailman, the same wearisome fellow as previous, to take me back to the village so that I might buy poison or some other sorts of traps for the varmine.  

But as I traipsed through the village it was under no uncertain terms that I discovered the villagers avoiding both my path and my gaze. I had wondered for a brief moment if they had by some means discovered that which I had kept hidden about my person, but, having the chance to overhear the whispers of a woman incapable of discretion, I discovered they merely believed that my life was on a set time and that I soon would either perish or flee. 

I politely nodded to the madam and said that I would simply outlive these accursed conditions and merrily went about my business buying poison for my uninvited guests. 

Having made my purchase of Bozell's Better Rat Bait, I had the damnest time trying to persuade any coach or cabby to bring me back to the manor. Eventually I offered double the price to the only person who would even listen to my plea, a former circus strong-woman by the name of Harriette Pasche, on the condition that I did not speak a word during the carriage ride. 

I of course agreed, and though the ride itself was seamless she white-knuckeld the grip on the reins the entire trip up the mountain. 

During those next two weeks I put about spending my time laying traps and clearing the bodies of the vermin that I found deceased along the wooden floors. There were far more than I had anticipated and, fearing the smell, I came up with a clever scheme. 

In the morning I would dig a pit somewhere along the perimeter of the house, and outside the stone scatterings, of which I would drop in the bodies and cover it at the end of the day. All of this was sound, and also granted me the opportunity to clean and repair parts of the house as I went along setting and removing the traps and bodies. 

But, Diary, I did find something of utmost concern. While I was cleaning out one of the servant's quarters I came upon a bundle of letters, stacked and bound  and hidden in between the rotting mattresses. They were addressed to a Mr A.Q. from a Ms P.F. and dated around the time of our incident. There were in total 34 of these letters and, having insatiable curiosity, opened the first, only to find it contained the same infestation as the bills.  

I read the letter carefully, and found no further evidence as to any connection between the events except for one small burning letter directly in the center of the page. A simple O, written in the cursive script which seemed to follow like an eye as I searched the words high and low. It still burns in my mind as I write this. 

I have placed the letters into the vault with the bills and will reflect upon them at a later time. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

It has, apparently, been at least a month since I have been able to write my thoughts. So much, and yet so little has happened. Each night before I slumber I believe that I have already written what has happened during the day upon these pages, but alas! It seems that I have been negligent and forgetful as of late. 

I feel a scratching at my mind as though things are being etched away at my memories and my continence. I oft find myself staring into the cracks and corners of each room while cleaning each of the debris from the area. (Though the first floor is quite habitable now!) I have, it seems, misplaced the rat poison as well, for I cannot find the bottle. 

Speaking on the manner of the poison, I was visited by the local constabulary, and, having done nothing of recent to require their visitation, I, at first, believed it to be related to the infested bills that I had used to pay one of the many debts. But, as it were, they were here upon other matters. 

I invited them inside and played good little host to them as they questioned me about my recent purchases. I hadn't the time for a lawyer, and wishing to draw no further attention to myself, despite knowing these liars and brutes will use any such discussion against me, I did offer the receipt to the poison and, as politely as I could muster, questioned back as the reason for their inquiries. As it were, the strong-woman, the apothecary, and the mail-man had all recently been stricken with a sudden illness and the only connection between them was myself. 

Though it did come as a surprise to me to find that all were related to one another. The strong-woman married to the apothecary and him the brother to the mailman. As this manner could quite easily be explained as a poorly cooked meal, I have no doubt this was merely an excuse to both inquire about my person and invite themselves into my home. 

I tried my best to express my utmost regard for the family and to remove these constables from the premises as quickly as I could. They did not take too kindly to my intonation and, in no uncertain terms, told me that they would be keeping an eye on both myself and the manor. Perhaps I should send something along to the mailman and his family, but alas, how else is it to get to him other than in the mail for which he carries himself? 

There is much to think on, and my mind is too full of cotton. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

It has been quite a day, and only one since the last time that I wrote! I have managed to scale the stairs to the upward section of this manor, and, though it is an achievement in its own right, not one that I would consider to be much of an improvement on the condition of this place.

The entire floor of the upstairs has been rotten though with with a thick mold that has left many gapes and holes and has made traversing it nigh impossible. I have taken note as to the amount of rooms left to investigate and seek out what furniture is worth salvaging and what is worth burning in the yard.

I shall not want for firewood in the winter, to say the least. As it were this is still better than the abode down south where we hid for three weeks under the floorboards with the bills hot in our pockets. But at least then I had her by my side and she could make any place as sweet as a winter palace.

In due time this will become habitable. I shall make it. For her sake as well as mine.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

I write to you today not in the manor, but from the only inn in town, as I have, for the time being, needed to evacuate the manor. It has been at least two weeks since I have spent the night in my home, but I do visit it every day upon waking and return to town before the sun sets. 

I awoke one night, as the moon was high in the sky and the wolves were still showing outside, to a dreadful smell, putrid, acrid, and death-like. Try as I could, I could not rest for the smell burned both my soul and nose and I knew that some manner of creature had died in the walls. I had initially suspected it to be a wolf or some other large creature, given the pungency of the odor. 

I spotted a handkerchief in what little remains of the cologne I keep in the bathroom and set about exploring for the carcass. High and low I searched the ground floor and surrounding outside areas and found no hide nor hair of any source. The origin, as it were, was above me. 

I delicately eased myself though each rotten room, careful not to step through the softened floorboards, and to my dismay at the time, found that there was no source of which I could discern on the second floor.

And in this frustration I began to hear it, the pipes which had been laid down by the previous owner, began to tap and creak and moan in the walls. They groaned with a voice so close to that of a man that had I any less composure I would have thought myself in an ailing ward for the sick. 

These pipes moaned with agony as I traced both smell and pain towards the attic, for which I had never been, as the second floor was too dangerous, how much more rotten would the attic be? 

But this situation would not be rectified without exploration and I set about, as delicately as I could, ascending those porous and softened stairs up towards the apex of the manor. The light barely shone through the thick haze of dust, even though there were spots of moonlight easing in through the many windows. 

I followed the sounds of the pipes and the smell of death and saw a trickle snaking along the floor, black and bubbling, oozing and weeping from a single sink with a grand mirror flush against the far wall of the attic. 

The fluid oozed out of the basin and seeped down the sides of the sink, undulating and pulsing, moaning and crying. 

I dared not step closer in the darkness and instead fled down into my room, stuffed what I could of my belongings into a case and made plans to spend my evenings in the village until this was sorted. 

I ventured down in the morning, contacted what repairmen I could and set about plans for repairs with them. 

I won't venture into the details, as it is uninteresting and tedious, but needless to say, that they too have no earthly idea what this sludge in the pipes that vexes me could possibly be and, for my own health and safety I have elected to stay within this inn until the problem has been fixed. I suspect at least another week until it has become somewhat habitable again. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

I have returned and spent one week alone in this home before I heard again those vile moans. As they do not disturb me during the day, the plumbers, who have completed their repairs of the pipes, assured me that it is some other aspect of this place that is causing my nightly terrors. 

I suspect it may be the wind, as howling oft has the sounds of man, but more and more recently I have begun to hear a distinction between the sounds. It makes the sounds of two people, indulging in themselves, first in delight then rapidly descending into pain and suffering. I know it to be my mind lying and drawing up her memory but it sounds, oh how it sounds of her that final night before the infestation rotted her. 

And in my curiosity, or in anger or fear I do not know, I ventured up those stairs in the daylight to examine once again the work that was done on that sink. With the vile odor and sludge removed I carefully and timidly approached its basin. 

The water was clear and sparkled, and I more grateful than ever to have it returned to me after using that well for these months. And it was then that I knew the eyes of someone were upon me. 

I could feel them boring holes into my skull and piercing my skin with needles. But the room was empty, save for myself and the mirror. 

And it was the mirror which stared back at me, for at first I thought it was merely a stain, but as I looked closer and closer I could see a face that was not my own peering back at me through the glass. I do admit that I cried in fright upon this realization but, after gathering what courage I had left, examined it further and realized that it did not move nor blink nor act as though a person would, and determined it to be but an image. 

The mirror, being of a grand and magnificent size, was far too large for me to remove in any capacity. However I found that I could lift it slightly away from the wall, and, to my luck or detriment, this allowed the painting to slide down from the back of the mirror and into the sink. 

It was of a young woman, remarkably like her in all aspects except the eyes. These were as dark and cold as hers were light and full of life, and she too wore a pair of rings upon each hand. 

But there was no date nor name nor signature upon the front or back, and, having no frame of reference upon which this painting was indeed painted, I know not the history of this woman nor her painter. Perhaps at sometime I will bring it to town, though I suspect the locals may fear it more. 

The question remains how its visage was shone through that mirror as its back was intact. And further questions arose as the night after the painting was removed the pipes and their moans ceased to disturb me at night. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

'Though fast and long, we knew ourselves, but you were gone too soon.' These words rattle around my mind like a penny in a peddler's can. They are lyrics from some song, I know the tune but…. I do not know from where. Perhaps some long lost song heard on a street corner in some distant city. 

I can't stop thinking about her lately…. Though truth be told she is never far from my mind. I've begun imaging her perfume mixed with the rot of the house and the rot of the infestation. I should have never convinced us to steal them. I cannot rid myself of them without spending them, isn't that what it was she told me? Part of their history, their curse or what have you? Rotten bills from devils and revenants. 

I scrub myself daily checking to see if they too have not wormed their way into my skin, rotting my bones and organs from within. But it is, to my relief, that I haven't any of the symptoms she described before her untimely demise. I miss her dearly and have even hung that portrait of the woman from beyond the mirror in the room in which I sleep.

She stares at me silently as I think of her, my mind drifting to more pleasant days. But I should admit that this is not the only portrait of, who I am assuming was at one point a Mistress of the home. I discovered another one of her paintings in the master bedroom, of which I was able to explore using a variety of boards over the gapes and holes of the upstairs. 

Her painting was fresh and clean, though it was adjacent to a more rotten and molded companion, of whom I assume must have been her husband. This painting was far too destroyed by decay for me to see the man's face. 

Ah, but in the manner of rot, In the office, where I have stored the bills in a safe, the wall behind said safe crumbles away as I speak. I cannot recall if this wall was failing before I placed the money inside of it, or, if it is the infestation itself that is causing it to fester, but it looms like a cloud of darkness. Perhaps this is something that should be addressed, but I fear those who would touch it, for I haven't the courage to do so myself. 

I must admit that I haven't stepped foot in that room since I noticed that decaying halo. Along with the pipes, the previous owner installed a telephone, a new device for speaking long distances. The cable runs through the sky all the way down to the village below, and, from what I can discern, only connects to said village. And though I have used it but once before, I have very little need of the thing. 

However, before I unplugged the damned thing, it rang continuously for an hour straight, and upon answering it and responding with the customary "hello" I heard nothing on the other end except the click of someone ending their side of the call. This continued on and off for that hour and each time I stood watching that decaying wall, imagining it spreading further and further. 

I was half in mind to smash the telephone, but thought better of it. I may have need of it in the future, but if it too has become infested, then… perhaps the only time to use it will be when I myself need to call into the village for some manner or other.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

That song has not left my mind for a minute for these long weeks! I have begun to hear it all throughout the house, in every corner of every aspect of the wood and nails and pipes and that damnable window!

I still hear it rattling despite moving myself and my bed into a room opposite of the house. I still sleep upon the first floor as I do not trust any aspect of the second floor to keep my weight for longer than a few minutes. And though this window was of the least concern of mine, as it is still causing its ruckus it is all that I can think of. Rattle rattle rattle to the tune of that melody. 

And, I must confess I have moved my bed twice since it began its accursed tempo. For, after I had attempted to fix and failed at that task, I first moved the bed into the room adjacent from the office and, being deprived of my sleep I failed to notice that I had placed the headboard in the wall opposite that same wall with the rotting halo so that when I lie in bed I could stare at it. 

This was in my part, a grave mistake, for I woke in the middle of the night to see it spreading. The rot congeling and twisting, growing before my eyes into a twisting nest, pulsing and undulating. I have not the words to describe with any semblance of accuracy what it was, but I knew it was akin to the organs of a beast, each one arranging and rearranging itself to make sense in my mind.  

And as I lay there staring at the viscera my body was unable to move. My eyes nor my limbs would obey me, though I twitched and longed to scream, I could do naught but watch as it pulsed along to that same rhythm. 

And then, as if it were nothing, it was morning with the sun streaming in through the window. The rot and infestation vanished with nothing in its wake except the pounding of the rhythm throughout the house. 

I had assumed it was the window once more, but when I heard the voices of the policemen outside the home I knew this was, in fact, a truth of reality. 

I hurriedly dressed myself and greeted them at the door. They looked surprised at first to see me and I suspect they assumed that the house had been my end. I invited them inside but they insisted upon staying out on the landing. 

They informed me they had been trying to contact me for days, at first by the telephone, and then by a letter and I had the pleasure of their incredulity as I explained to them the broken phone and lack of the postman. 

As it were, the lack of postman was the reason as to their visitation. He, along with his brother and sister-in-law had died, and I was to have visited the constables to inform them of my whereabouts and interactions with said individuals. This date had come and passed and, given that I had not shown, they were, within their rights to "escort me to the precinct to give my statements." 

I shall not recount it, but given my predilection towards those sorts of people, it is needless to say that I will be sore for quite some time. Fortune was perhaps on my side as I was not formally charged or arrested and was able to return home the next day. 

I suspect I was the most entertainment they have received in a while.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

I have sealed off the attic today, and though that accused tempo continues to cry out from above I will not and shall not ever enter that place again. I know not if what I saw was merely a hallucination from the lack of sleep I have received due to this noise, but regardless the upper floors truly are not safe to wander. 

I explored again, looking for any lost valuables or any other items of notes when upon nearing the stairs I felt a dreadful chill along my spine and the sharp twinge of a spasm in my entrails. The feeling only amplified as I grew nearer and nearer and the image of myself drowning in that viscous black sludge entered my mind. 

And though I could feel the bile in my throat, I did manage to rope off the attic, though I must admit that this will do nothing but ease my own agony and do nothing of the sort of actual safety. Though my mind is quite better for it. 

Ah, but there is the manner of the chimney, as eventually winter will present itself and as I have resolved to keep this place habitable, it shall become of utmost importance. As such I began to remove what ash and cinders remained in the base, while taking note that I must enquire as to the services of a chimney sweep in the future to clean out the flue. 

I also did a cursory check to see if there were any pests, and to my good fortune, nothing has nested itself on the inside. As an aside the rat problem has mostly subsided and though I still find the occasional body, it is nowhere near the mass amount that this house once had. I feel as though the problem has brought itself down to an acceptable level for a house of this nature. 

But upon my inspection of the flue I noticed scratching along the walls as if something were carved all around the bricks. At first I thought it must be some creature that found itself trapped inside and attempted to climb its way to the surface, but the more and more I looked at it I began to see a number: 11,124. The original amount we counted in the bills. 

Her body had creases that matched this number, like divots, carved away but painless. But why upon the surface of this house as though it too were a living creature capable of sickness? 

This will all be sorted in time.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

As it were, even in these coming summer months, the nights are still quite cold. Quite cold indeed, and, having cleaned out that fireplace for the most part, I have moved myself into that room at night. 

It seems that I am destined to spend at least one night sleeping in each of these rooms. Ah, but spend the night sleeping I did not, for that damnable tempo kept bang, bang, banging away all night long, and to accompany it, there was the most bothersome scrabbling around the chimney almost in time with the window. 

It kept me awake all throughout the evening and into the early morning of the hours and then on until breakfast where I ate wearily in the kitchen. Having suspected some manner of creature had found itself inside the chimney I gave it another thorough search and found that there was a new number carved underneath the one that I had previously found. It was the new total after I had spent the bills carved into the surface of a single brick.

I do not know what compelled me but I grabbed a hold of it and pulled it from its place. A mistake I regretted instantly as the surrounding bricks all fell loose with it and I just barely managed to dodge into safety. I cannot say how much of the chimney was destroyed in that moment, for as I left the house I saw that the stack still stood tall against the roof, but the hearth was completely devastated. And I, seemingly no reason to keep it, tossed the carved brick onto the pile of rubble, and promptly made my way into town to seek repairs. 

Despite myself I took some of those infested bills to spend in the village. Surly in an economy so small they would be swapped around from owner to owner and not left to linger in the clutches of one. This is not what they crave, after all? Perhaps I am doing them a service. 

And so I write to you from the confines of that same inn I have spent many a night in before, as it appears to be my second home as I await the masons to repair my one source of heating in that house. This venture, were it not the only one I could maintain, would be too costly in maintenance for any rational man. May this village never come to know of my past. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

It's finally spread to me.

It surfaced deep from within my bones and out through the pores of my skin, festering, bruising, rotting. I cannot see it, I dare not look, but I know through the feel of my own body that the halo upon the wall has made its twin upon my back. 

I am marked and its signs are all too visible for me to leave the confines of this house without the volley faux concerns to hide blighted curiosity. As such I have reconnected the phone, for it is the only portal to the village.

I haven't need of it yet but if, but when the house continues it's inevitable decay it shall be the only way to receive repairs. 

But upon reconnecting, as if it were waiting for this precise moment, it sprang to life, ringing violently my hands. I answered it, cautious as to who had need of me as I had, to my previous knowledge, paid all of my bills to whom I am indebted. 

A young woman spoke on the other end, in a stern voice in which she used to convince herself of her authority. In length she described herself and asked about me and my whereabouts before informing me that they had reopened the case of her death. Her body had been exhumed, examined and reevaluated for which the speaker took great lengths to describe how the rot had infested her. 

Each part itched across my own body, twitching and aching as though growing at the mere mention of her. I knew not if this was a ploy to extract a slip of the tongue that would allow her to accuse me, or if it was something she believed would be of genuine concern to me. 

I, in my best acting skills, acted devastated to find out that she was not allowed to finally rest and asked to be informed upon further developments. 

She informed me she would keep in touch, and it occurs to me now that she never once stated her name, position, or where she was calling from. 

I have decided to keep the phone unplugged until there is a reason for me to call. 

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

A long a dreadful night. A long and long and long and dreadful night of which I have awoken and must record. It has been but one day since I last wrote to you and every hour, every minute, every waking second I spend scratching and picking away at the scabs that have formed beneath my skin and ruptured forth into each follicle. 

I walked in my sleep up past the roped barrier and into the attic. And for how long I stood in front of that mirror, scratching and scraping myself. Scrubbing and rubbing and scratching away at my own flesh before I awoke, covered in markings in front of that damned mirror. There was nothing in it by my own hollow reflection. 

All of it pulsates and spreads and I… I know now where it emanates from, and why I hesitated before I cannot say, but I… I write to you as I still bleed, feeling the sensations subside and the pain and the burning and the burden ease. 

Perhaps it was all in my mind, but if it were it still is gone. The rot, the rot, the rot in my own flesh subsides and I tore asunder my own skin and carved out that mark that she said would be one of protection but I know now that it was false. 

My mind races and I cannot think in the eloquence of which I dream and so I shall put bluntly that I, in my own desperation, took knife to my flesh and carved out the "protective sigil" that we had inked upon ourselves so long ago. If it was as protective as she said it was I would not have seen the rot on my flesh. 

The pain resides only now in the marred flesh and I have dressed it as best I could. I can only hope now that the rest of it will leave me soon. I feel so wretched. So burdened and unburdened and hollow and bloated and every contradiction writhing and slithering within me. 

I'm so ill. I'm so tired. 

-A

Diary,

It feels as though through all waking hours I want for nothing but sleep. My dreams are a mirage of the waking world and the terrors in my mind. I feel myself scratching away at where the sigil once was, opening and picking away at the scabs and skin. 

I cannot tell if the rot has subsided from my body, for as I look from moment to moment it has vanished and reappeared. Perhaps I have been cured. Perhaps I have been damned. 

I see her peering out through each mirror in the house now. The women in the painting, for whose portrait I have since turned to face the wall. I cannot stand the sight of her yet I cannot bring myself to destroy these visages, for they remind me so dearly.. So dearly of her. 

I can scance see myself in the glass, for her face is all but my own now. I wonder if it truly is more paintings of her, or my tired mind simply wants to see her. 

The new postman came today, a young man, too young to hold a job perhaps, but young enough to not know fear. He handed me a set of twenty letters and apologized for the late delivery. 

They were wrapped in a tight twine that sliced into my skin when I tried without a tool to open them, but being a practical man myself, I have upon my a small pocket knife for which I used to sever it. 

Most of the letters were composed of bills, for which I have the bank pay in installments. I need to check if things are in order, but there was one letter, far far older than the rest, nestled in the very middle and addressed to a woman I do not know. I am no historian, as such I cannot precisely date the stamp on the letter, but it looks to be at least 50 years older than the current ones in circulation. 

Was this for her? I have not opened it, but have kept it on top of the safe underneath that halo of rot. 

If I weren't so tired, perhaps I would look into this further. But I can do little but sleep these days.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

This week in the village they hold a charming little festival to celebrate the equinox. And though I had no previous knowledge of the event, as I rarely make my way into town, I was informed of the event by the postman's weekly visit. He is the only other human face I see besides hers these days. 

I thought it might do good to see other people as I feel my mind begin to fester as my body, and for the first few hours away from this house, in the fresh air of the mountain and in the singing and food of the village I could feel my body begin to heal. I ate and drank and ignored the looks of annoyance and pity upon the faces of the villagers. And though they did not outright say, there was a sense that I did not and could not belong to their little community, though they did not mind me spending my money. 

This was of course a mundane sort of irritance, one that is expected of a stranger in such a small town, as such it did not wound my pride. The feeling of humanity was somehow a relief to me before it set in. 

I have not found myself away from the house in such a time and for as long a time since the rot came and left from my body and around midday I began to feel it upon me once more. It started with a sense of emptiness, something was missing, something was wrong. Then as the day crept forward my organs began to hollow out and tug me back towards the house. 

My skin began to sweat and muscles twitched and deep inside the hollowed feeling the desire bloomed into a new organ which stung and throbbed. Each heartbeat tugged this new organ in me back towards the house and, before I had a good sense of what had happened to me, I found myself walking along the path back up towards the mountain. I was a dog that had been called home.

My senses were a blur and the throbbing emptiness drove me forward, sweating and filthy, up through the threshold where it and I collapsed until morning. 

Through the night I did wake but once and knew that somehow I had been taken up into the master bedroom and lay upon the master bed. Beside me was a familiar weight, one I had slept next to all those years, but I dared not look upon it now. I wished for it to be her. I wished for it to be gone.  

I awoke on my back with my head split in two and a ghastly pressure in my innards. I did not look to see if there were two indents on the bed as I left.  I must believe it was the drink.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

At last I have arrived back! At last I am here and well again! For so long I was away! Those mere two weeks were hell upon my mind and body. My insides hollowed and filled with needles, my mind tormented and rubbed raw, but I am here! I am here again! 

As the winter months approach the mountain has grown considerably colder than before and I believe that snow will soon begin to fall upon the land. As such the pipes in the basement burst forth for, not having pipes before and having no clear instructions as to their maintenance, did burst and the basement became filled with a wretched odor and filth akin to the attic. 

At first I was not aware of what was happening, for all I heard was that tempo which plagued me so long ago and has since become such a sweet melody to my ears. (How I longed to hear it while I was away!) But as the day grew longer it became apparent that this tapping and rapping and creaking was not my sweet melody, but one of a more sinister nature. 

It was akin to the growling of some great beast, snarling and gnashing its teeth against the metalwork. And long I stood there beyond the threshold of the basement door, peering down into the darkness, wondering if some creature was to take me into its great maw. 

Time did not exist in that moment, all hours were minutes and all years were seconds, as I stood until the fear consumed me so entirely that I felt it as a friend. I descended down into that darkness with naught but a single candle upon a tarnished holder. 

The basement was as mundane as the rest of the house, and quickly I spied the burst pipe leaking forth directly onto what little winter clothing I had maintained before arriving. All of it ruined, and though I did manage to replace them while I was away from home, I cannot help but feel as though these clothes are not mine. 

But there was more to that basement, for I found not only the ruins of my own wardrobe, but, floating in the water, a series of photographs. It should come as no surprise as they were of the woman whose portrait hangs about the house. Whose reflection still haunts my own.  And, like the other portraits about the house, all others' faces were ruined by tears or mold or, in one instance, chewed by some manner of creature. 

I have placed them on top of the letters, for which I still have yet to open. In my pain from my absence of home I had not the time nor the energy to research those who had lived before. I no not even the name of the Mistress of this house, for every instance is also ruined. 

Perhaps in due time she shall reveal herself to me.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

It has been far too long since I have written. I have been in and out with bouts of illness from being too far from my home. The house grows older and more decayed within the minutes and she cannot stand much longer.

She spoke to me at last when I was shaving, gazing upon both of our reflections in the bathroom mirror, though I could not understand the words from her lips. I asked again and again and more muffled was her voice by the second until at last it was only myself again in that solemn reflection, and never did I think I would again feel that same hollow loneliness as the day she died but it too was now heavy in my chest. 

And so I moved every portrait of the House I could into her bedroom with every mirror and every silver spoon and cooler for wine as if I were a raven collecting all that sparkled for its nest, all of which seemed to glow under the pale moon from the window. 

And as I laid my head down to rest on her bed, I could feel her next to me, but I could not see her except in the reflection of my own face in all the trinkets and baubles. And I was too tired to move, too tired to understand the cotton-mouthed words she spoke in my ear, and as such I felt myself fall into a trance neither lucid nor dreaming, awake but sleeping. 

For how long I was in this trance I do not know for as I awoke next I was not in the home but I found myself in a room in a hospital. I had not a scratch upon myself but as I stood I must have scared the nurse half to death as she let out a frightful gasp before attending to me. 

She informed me of the situation which was as thus: upon the mailman's weekly visitation he had noticed a dreadful creaking sound, followed a most horrible crash, and, fearing for myself, found a way inside via a window, upon which he discovered that the master bedroom floor had collapsed down into the study, where upon the bed (and myself) were perfectly intact though having found itself upon the ground floor. 

She said he spoke of a vision of death in the rot on the wall of the study, and that I had narrowly escaped death, though they found not a scratch upon my body. 

I asked her how long I was in the hospital and she said two days, for I could not be roused. It was then I felt that same tug and hollowness prickling my innards. The only cure was to return back to the home, for which I promptly attempted and fell onto my knees as my body could no longer work. 

It seems that I was sleeping far longer than before I was discovered and it took another two days to recover my strength to be able to walk back up that mountain path, as no one in town would take me. The mailman said he would when his route permitted it, but it would have been but another three days, and I could not last that long with the ache in my belly and the needles down my spine. 

And waiting for me, upon that doorstep when I arrived back at the home was another brick from the chimney. Carved upon it as well were more scratches though I cannot discern what they mean. They are numbers for certain, but this amount is not one I know. 

Perhaps in time it will have meaning.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus

Diary,

The rot, and rubble and master bed in the study has made it nearly inaccessible to enter the room and as such I have moved all of the infested bills from their place inside the safe, along with the letters of which I have not yet opened, and placed them into a burlap sack and am keeping it in the remains of the ruined fireplace. Hopefully this rot will not spread to the bricks as quickly as it has the wood and paper of the walls. 

I was tempted to open these letters and learn her name. But as I held them in my hands I felt her cold hands upon my shoulders and knew with a pit of dread in my throat that this was not for me to open. I felt myself begin to speak, asking why this knowledge wasn't for me, but the words too were stuck within that dread as her fingers inched closer around my neck. 

She released me as I released those letters into the cold and broken hearth and I wondered how many more owners of this home would hold them in their hands before she let them be read.

But this was only a warning to me: she was not angry, not furious, nor disappointed. I was merely being scolded like a child. Still she wanted me here, and though I could not see, nor feel her with any of the other earthly senses, she guided me into our bed, the one I had been using before the master bed, and all my energy, for even though it was merely morning, was gone. 

I believe I must have slept for at least two days, but I cannot trust the calendar any more than I can my memory. The numbers are changed each time I look upon it, and the days are months and the years are weeks. 

And even writing this entry has yet again exhausted me.

Duly Yours,

Aurelius Quercus