It turns out Boone wasn’t the most active journalist. He spent weeks, sometimes months, between updates. I’ve got a few to add here that cover the remainder of 1856, but it seems his time keeping the journal was fairly short-lived.
On another note, some friends came by on Labor Day, and we put in some work on the room. We managed to remove the furniture, though the dresser crashed through the floor twice. The thing’s fucking heavy.
We removed most of the flooring, though parts were pretty stuck down. I’ve been prying at them in my spare time throughout the day and haven’t made much progress. Time to break out the chainsaw, I think. More power = job done faster, right?
There wasn’t much to find in the parts we did strip down. My buddy took out one of the walls with a sledgehammer sending lathe and plaster everywhere. There’s a further wall behind, but I’m pretty certain it’s the foundation. It’s made of the same cobblestone and cement as the other sections.
One interesting thing we did find was a toy doll. So what the hell, right? It was under the floorboards where the desk was sitting. Ugly thing, but I bet it has some history to it.
Last but not least is the dresser. We got it out of the room, and it’s currently residing in my basement. The drawers have basically swollen shut from years of humidity. I find it weird the humidity didn’t affect anything else to any damaging level. I’m going to use the catclaw I was ripping the floor up with to pry the drawers, but I’m honestly super tired.
I’ve given this room so much time, energy, and thought for the last several weeks that I think it’s starting to play tricks on me. I heard boots on my stairs last night. Like someone was coming up from the basement in a real hurry.
I was up and holding my .357 before I even knew what I was doing. Nobody comes into my house and intimidates me. I believe in the second amendment (within reason, don’t come at me with well-regulated militia and all. I believe there should be far stricter regulations on these things than there currently are. I didn’t even have to wait to buy this. Walked out the door within 20 minutes).
I threw my door open, gun raised, ready to stop whoever was there stealing my things. Only there wasn’t anybody there. I searched the entire house. The only thing different from when I locked up was the room in the basement. That doll was back in the dirt. It had been sitting on a stack of torn-up flooring about ten feet from where I found it. Sure enough, the thing was sitting in the dirt right near where I found it. Honestly, I don’t remember putting it there, but I guess I could have. It’s all nerves and bumps in the night with me lately. That journal creeps me out.
On that note, here’s the next portion of the journal, or what I like to think of as “Mr. Boone’s Wild Ride.” I hope I don’t get sued.
A side note: I am indifferent to the Mormons, so no disrespect intended, just copying some old journal entries.
From the journal of Captain Grady White
September
It’s unusually cold. I think I should move out of these mountains. D advised as much.
D sits there, watching everything I do, never pitches in, doesn’t even do a dish. Just sits.
Wait a minute now. I haven’t introduced my friend D to this here journal. See, D and I are inseparable. He found something he could grasp hold of, or at least that’s how he tells it. He grasped hold of the bowl. Now I’m stuck with him until I can find a new owner for it.
You got to understand D. Now I don’t know his real name. He won’t tell me. Refers to himself as “we.” What the fuck does that mean? Anyway, D likes to watch. He likes to see the suffering and the tiny cracks that appear in a person when they know they’s dead. D gets his jollies on that. I get to eat them, D gets…something else. Every time I stake out some poor trapper or native I see him getting…more. He grows thicker quills, longer claws, and lately has even been dripping this crazy spit out of his mouth. Shit sizzles whatever it touches.
I offered him some fresh meat and he laughed. Sounded like boulders smashing over my own damned soul. I don’t scare easily, but D is the real thing. Thats why I call him D. He’s got to be a demon. Ain’t no beast with a body like that. I watched the skin regrow and cover his rotten corpse of a body. Skin as black as midnight in a cave. Ever blow a lantern shut in a cave before? That kinda dark. It’s like he absorbs the light. Always kinda twilight in the middle of the day when he gets too close.
He loves what I do, though. Makes speeches in my mind. When I sleep he shows me where I will end up. My reign will be strong, sitting in a tower of bone overlooking a valley of the damned. I just have to feed the vessel. And damned if I’m not fucking good at it.
Well, D wants me to head west. Back toward them Mormons. He thinks they have tasks for me to complete. After that, he tells me I’ll be shunned by them. He also tells me I can have my revenge. There’s families there. Families means food. Lots of food. We’ll both eat our fill.
I haven’t been excited to travel like this since I left Missouri. I’m a Kentucky boy through and through, but I grew up in Missouri. Local paper even called me the “Kentucky Cannibal.” Now ain’t that some shit. I’m famous. Just wait till they find out how famous their native son will become.
D wanted me to add something here.
Boone
October?
I know it’s cold. There wasn’t a change between summer and winter. Went from hot to trudging through snow.
D wanted me to leave a note in a book. I ain’t about books and whatnot, but when D says go find a book, off you go. So I found it.
Ain’t nobody going to find this place, so I got nothing to worry about. D led me to this cabin, if you can call it that. Four walls and a roof. Small fire box, ain’t even a bed to sleep on. Just a mat.
Even now, writing in this journal, the meat keeps crying and whaling about “let me go! I promise I’ll do whatever you want.” I keep telling it to shut the fuck up. Next will be my boot to its face.
Anyhow, this meat had a book. The Magus. D told me to write a poem in it, though I don’t understand the words. He said it’s aramic (sp) whatever that means. He said this book will be picked up and used by a searcher. I gave up asking what all his shit is about.
Anyways, I copy down the weird symbols and put the book back on the shelf. D said it must be written in blood. Said the person who translates it will “carry me through the ages.” I asked if that was me, or him. D laughed at me and said my skin weren’t worth carrying anywhere.
So the books sitting on the shelf, and the meat is crying at me. I used its blood for the pages, though.
I figure I got ten days of food yelling and hollering on the floor in front of me. More if I have to ration. D said I have to leave the bowl here. I think he lied to me and doesn’t have any intention of giving me my kingdom. Doubt he could anyhow.
We are going to part ways I think. I doubt he comes without the vessel being near. Said he lay waiting in a cave for years, barely able to walk until some little helpers came along. He ate some, then used the rest to lead men to the cave. Whispering little threats and the such as they ran around people. I seen em around. Makes the hair on my neck stand on end. Ain’t nothing scared me like those things. They do whatever he wants them to.
I’m done here, so Ill be heading northwest. This meat will keep nice in the cold. I said that aloud to get a rise out of it. Lost any respect for people. They’ll say whatever they think you want to hear just to save their skin. I told it I’ll carry its spirit with me, then laughed at it while it cried.
It’s getting dark now; time to sleep.
I haven’t heard anything from D since the poem was copied. Vessel doesn’t even glow anymore. Guess it’s time to call it a night. I’m so goddamned tired. Sleep isn’t easy to find anymore.
Boone