The journal is almost complete. There are only a few posts from the captain remaining, so I’m going to wrap that portion up today. Things are becoming a little clear.
I was able to get the third drawer open (finally!) and found a pretty strange bowl inside. It might be a prayer bowl or chalice of sorts. It has a very…peculiar feel to it. The locksmith thought it was made of silver and clapped me on the back (I fucking hate being clapped on the back like that. I’m not your pal, friendo).
The bottom of the thing has LBH carved into it. There’s that BH initial again. I’ve searched the best I could and haven’t found anything. I know the B stands for Boone, or I’m pretty sure. More on that later.
The names on the correspondence are between Mr. Arthur Reuss, who owned this home, and a reasonably prominent occultist in England. I don’t want to give his name due to his status in the annals of occult religion. We’ll stick to initials. A.E.W.
So there’s this lengthy conversation between the two about the contents of the diary, but they also discussed other things. One topic that kept coming up was the bowl. They refer to it as a vessel. Apparently, it was the property of LBH but was also in Gregor’s possession. Prior to his having it, the bowl was lost to history for over 500 years.
It turns out the bowl was held in a coffin in a European monastery for hundreds of years before the monastery was raided in the late 14th century. A.E.W. hinted that it would work in the opposite manner of a Babylonian demon bowl. So I spent the next few hours reading about demon-exorcising bowls. Google is amazing, isn’t it?
Anyways, I have been prattling on long enough. I give you the last portion of the captain’s journal.
From the journal of Captain Grady White
1856
I believe it’s the 14th of June, though I have no way of verifying that. My ledge has become my tomb, I fear. The waters have receded to the point that a leap from this height would undoubtedly be fatal. I’ve no food, and with the abundance of water around me, I feel as though I’ve struck down the albatross. Water, water, everywhere. Nor any drop to drink.
I’ve not seen nor heard from Gregor, so the assumption that he has perished must be true. The darkest parts of my mind fear he has succumbed to the same terrible fate as my friend WS Foster. I know Gregor has been swept away in the waters, but that doesn’t put my mind to ease.
The eyes are still about the cavern. I see them from time to time. Whatever the beast is, it has the patience of a holy man. I’ve screamed with all my might for it to come to me and end this eternal nightmare. I’ve thrown stones, a boot, an empty container of tobacco, and even my own waste in an attempt to provoke its fury. The damned beast crawls out of my range.
The whispers are what have me determined that my sanity is gone. I hear them about me now. Whispers of names, places, historical events, secrets that I’ve not shared with another living soul.
There is no movement about the cavern floor. I would be able to hear anything in the waters below. I am reasonably convinced that I have lost my rational mind and, in doing so, may have been the reason for all the events that have played out.
What if it were me that slaughtered the poor Foster? If I were to blame for the cave sealing closed, or what if I were the actual creature in my wretched sketch? My mind reels at the possibilities.
I learned many things throughout my years of higher education, though I feel none of that will help me out now. Is that a life wasted? Have I spent my time upon this Earth driven by the singular focus of exploration? I must say, I think I have. I would that I could relive the last ten years and incorporate a wife, children, and a piece of land. Raise animals. Eat of the earth and drink of the streams. Live a life of no regard, yet still, live.
Until we meet again,
Cpt Grady White
June 19, 1856
I regret that I have been neglectful in my journaling. The time came that I was confident of my fate and comfortable with my own demise.
That was not to happen. I awoke to an effluvium surrounding me beyond anything I had ever experienced. There, on the narrow ledge that I was to spend what I assumed would be my last days, was the beast. It had finally come for me.
Or so I thought.
A bowl of magnificent splendor was presented to me, filled with water. I drank as a man possessed. There was no longer any reason to fear the beast, as I hoped it would put an end to my suffering.
I looked at the now empty bowl and saw that it was covered in some ancient writing. I can’t decipher any of it, though I feel a power emanating from the vessel.
After drinking my fill and stowing the bowl, I turned fully to the beast and asked for its name. I swear the thing smiled at me before wrapping me in one of its arms and, crawling up the wall and across the ceiling, carried me out of the hole in the chamber’s roof.
In the brightness of the day, I found that I was standing alone. The beast was gone.
As I searched for food, a man on a horse rode toward me. He introduced himself as Boone. No surname. Just Boone. We spoke over a fire, and he fed me a fine meal of the most delicious meat.
After we had our fill of supper, I excused myself to write this passage and bed down for the night. I have a feeling he saw my newly acquired bowl. I have also discovered that it is made of solid silver. I must be on guard as I do not know this man.
Until tomorrow,
Cpt Grady White
June 20, 1856
I figure it’s only fair that I continue this journal. So what if the owner’s dead? He’ll make a fine addition to my meat stock. The dumb bastard went ’n fell asleep. Didn’t even wake up when I drug the knife through his throat. Who can say who’s at fault here, really?
I have been waiting for a place to say my thoughts. Glad to come across this Cpt. Grady White. Sure he’ll be missed, but who’s going to find him?
Let me introduce myself. I’m a monster. What’s left after that resembles the shape of a man. I don’t believe this world was created to tame me. I am here to tame this world and all those that walk upon it.
Damned if this ain’t turning just like when I was up amongst them Mormons in their Zion. Shunned me out right quick. I had to head into the mountains for a spell to gather myself again. Took the local pastor along with me. Parts of him, anyway.
Stole away in the mountains until the heat was off. I guess they figured me for dead in the snow. Not happening to this buck. I run the show; they will get in line. Posse never got close. I left the preacher man’s cleaned bones behind and placed a little spell I learned from my time incarcerated in federal prison (I didn’t do it, your honor. Okay, I did it. Self-defense and protecting my property. He had it coming. Dumb bastard told me he wouldn’t come out to California with me. It was a mercy killing. Promise I’ll behave like a real gentleman from here on. The judge didn’t accept my sound reasoning, and here I am, putting hexes on bones. Guess they should have let me go.) It’ll make the person who comes across them bones start craving the same flesh he tries to protect. Haven’t seen any papers, but I imagine there’s a piece about that son of a bitch eating his wife n kids. Or his girlfriend, or whoever.
I have been in the mountains before, and I’ll be in them again. This range ain’t no different than the others. Bit colder, maybe, but I can make a nice suit out of the captain here. I’ll be fine.
Before I head north, I think I’ll make due in these hills for the summer. Head up into the Dakota area this fall, plenty of buffalo for me to keep warm. Ain’t no way I’m settling here. Hell, maybe I’ll be out to Oregon country before spring hits. I guess I mean I don’t have a plan.
Well, fuck this government man and his shiny bowl. I’m for taking it along, might sell it for whiskey money.
I ain’t for that Until Tomorrow horse shit.
Boone
I sat down this fine evening to my last bit of the captain’s man Foster. I guess it’s been a fortnight since I last wrote. That’d put me into July.
Been hearing something at night. Only at night. Something keeps crawling around my camp. I set up traps tonight. I’ll catch whatever it is. Don’t fuck this man. I know my place in the world and its as the supreme being.
Speaking of supreme, that bowl holds blood like it was made for it. I poured some water in to drink, and it kept spilling everywhere. Drained the life out of a native, and that bowl held every last drop. Almost like it was eager to get some.
The strange words carved into it seem to have caught the stain of the blood. They keep shining out, making the pack glow red. It’s weird, but as I said, the bowl must be worth something.
How many times would this vessel have come in handy? There’s a part of me that almost feels ordained by divine providence to be the lord and ruler over this vessel. It almost speaks to me. I hear it whispering in the night. It called out my name, but quiet-like. I had to strain to make it out. Not sure what it’ll tell me once I arrive in the next town.
It’ll be time to start my great exodus. Me, my knife, and my bowl. I know it’s the right thing to do, the bowl told me. In my dreams, it speaks to me. Told me the story of when it was buried away, talked about some whore nonsense, and how an Arapaho ended up with it soon after. It proclaimed itself to be free when the native died.
A warning was included. The bowl wasn’t strictly speaking to me; more, something else spoke and was holding it. Something bigger ’n life and covered in these wonderful quills. It spoke in a deep voice that sounded…old. Told me no whores blood no more. Told me the last whore added to the bowl caused it to fall asleep for over 20 years. I have been with my share of whores, ain’t a one put me to sleep for more than a couple hours.
Inside my head, I know this sounds crazy. I ain’t dumb. I also ain’t crazy. I know what this is; it’s my chance to create the world how it should be. Humans are a scourge to the land, and even the fucking darkest parts of hell are too good for them. I trust in the end goal. I know this vessel is that missing piece in my plans. I’ll bleed them all out really fine. Makes the meat taste better, anyhow. Ever find that bit of blood on a chicken leg? Blood it right, and that goes away.
I’m tired and need to sleep. That’s a funny thing, sleep. Spend your life trying to accomplish, just to be interrupted by sleep.
This feels right.
Boone