April 6
The thing in the walls continues to tease me with its frantic chatter, its slow slither.
April 7
The thing has wounded me after it burst out from a picture of an idyllic scene. I write with a chunk out of the side of my skull through which my very brain pulses as though infected.
April 8
I’ve placed the picture…back over…the hole in the wall but the thing remains somewhere in this room. The…cursed…thing.
April 9
I struggle. This…thing…it bears some resemblance to my uncle Rochford. I caught it in…my shattered mirror contraption. I ache. Tremors. I try to lure it…with flashes of light.
April 10
This it for me. It wraps around. It is uncle. Same rube accent. It wants every last suffering. The shard. If only closer. Wait now. It dances and sings. What horror. My pencil I could use…
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