March 3rd, 01:12 - Our unit has hit a wall here in France, we were supposed to assist the forces here in repelling the Germans but we weren’t prepared for their assault, yesterday they wiped out more than half of the other brits in our troupe. Squadron leader Lieutenant Fawkes was among the number injured by heavy artillery fire. I had to drag his half-torn body out of the ditch he lay in. He handed me his scrapbook as he was being carried off to the emergency tents, the shrapnel
protruding from his lacerated arm had nearly torn up my hand in the process, adrenaline is a hell of a thing. Until he recovers I will try to keep these pages alive. My name is
Private William Greene of the Royal Scots infantry and I’ve been fighting this war since the beginning. Formerly a professor, I had no proclivity for violence or blind
willingness to be sent to my death. I do however, believe in people, I have seen many a graduating student walk out of my doors to brave the world for themselves, knowing full
well that this is likely where they ended up, I stand by my principles and I’m doing the same thing I always have, fighting for a better future. At least, I hope so.
March 5th, 19:23 - It wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination to think I’m starting to go slightly deaf, the bombardments keep me awake most hours of the night and the pressure from German
infantry means we can’t rest during the day either. Private Wilkins tells me that what little sleep he does get is plagued by nightmares of fleshy things wriggling in the barbed
wire so close to where we rest our heads. I think he could tell by my reaction the thought of such a thing disturbed me, so instead he resorted to calling me a feardie boy, we
had a good laugh then after. Wilkins always has a way of lightening the mood, I’ve known him since we got into a verbal scrap at the enlistment office over my own lack of
enthusiasm concerning the heightened nationalism in our country leading to more and more violence. We’ve since come to understand one another, cultivated a sort of friendship
even, he’s simple minded and brash but headstrong and I’ve rarely seen him shaken by the atrocities we’ve since witnessed.
March 23rd, 04:45 - It appears the Lieutenant’s sacrifice was for naught, the brass has decided to move us away from the front lines here and toward Belgium, where the trenches have been dug. I’ve heard stories of the war efforts in Belgium, the so called ‘Dodengang’ or ‘Trench of Death’ is our destination. Mayhap the journey will give us a chance to rest peacefully, when I
find myself restless I’ve discovered a habit of looking through the old entries in this here scrapbook. Our Fawkes was quite the artist, each page is filled corner to corner with
rather lush depictions of exotic flora from nigh across the world. Take for instance the Rafflesia or ‘Corpse Flower’, despite being called this, it is in fact a parasite that feeds on
dead trees while releasing a sickly sweet smell to lure flies to carry it’s spores, while I find these pages to be of great entertainment during my restless nights, I have found nary a
trace of journal keeping before mine own. I can’t help but feel my entries inferior, Apologies Lieutenant Fawkes, I have no artistic talent of my own,
my written entries will have to suffice.
April 1st, 12:56 - We arrived in Belgium after a 3 hour journey by truck on which Wilkins seemed to achieve some short lived rest, he woke shortly before we arrived at the trenches in a cold sweat. I had asked what he dreamed of but he refused to tell me and has since been lost in his thoughts, so much so, that he did not snap out of his delusions even when the enemy
artillery had blown to smithereens the truck in front of us, causing our driver to swerve out of the way and back on to the dirt road, I had thought for sure we were bound to topple
into a ditch the way I was nearly forced onto my feet caused by the erratic driving. Nevertheless we made it safely to the trench, I wish the same could be said for our unlucky
escort, poor sods. By the time we had sunk our feet into the veritable swamp of mud and damp wood that was the Dodengang, Wilkins seemed to be back to his usual, hotheaded
self, trading his rationed food for cigarettes with some of the other infantry stationed there. I was by far more interested in seeing where we would bunk so that I could call it a
night, we had been introduced to Officer Waylin who was to be responsible for us during our time here, there are rumors he was sent in to replace the Officer before him, who
would send the men on ‘strategic’ rushes of the enemy trench ultimately leading to major avoidable losses. I approached Waylin and upon seeing my halfhearted stand to
attention and lacking enthusiasm, he understandably dismissed me to get some sleep.
April 3rd, 04:13 - I’m beginning to understand why we have been so hastily ripped from our comfy defense of France, the fight here is a desperate one. Some men tell tales of watching their brothers in arms peek over the top of the trenches only to hear the distinctive sound of engineered rancor and find their skulls have become one with the mud and disease to which we
have now become accustomed. More worryingly so are tales of the fog, some say they have seen the very bodies of the fallen act, unbecoming, of those who surely are dead upon
the fog’s presence. Officer Waylin seems to frown upon such storytelling, often interrupting these superstitious yarn-spinnings with one of his apparent famous speeches about
‘letting fear win’ or ‘surrendering before trying’ which to his credit does seem to light a fire in the hearts of men, more so Wilkins, who has since come to most certainly venerate
the man, espousing his words of bravery to anyone unlucky enough to which he shares a bunk space with.
April 9th, 19:12 - Today was my first experience of the dread fog that had captured the imagination of those few infantry, even those most hardened who would stare down enemy machinations and surely not hesitate to pull the trigger so long as he who donned the fatigues wore the wrong colors, were faintly quelled by it’s aura. One who remained poised was of course Officer Waylin, who decided this was in fact a situation to be taken advantage of, rallying a few of the nearest troops and laying out his plan. They were to rush the enemy using
the fog as cover to cross No Man’s Land uninhibited, Wilkins had almost volunteered to be one of those who would brave fate and venture toward the enemy line, before he could
pitch his idea to the Officer however I took grip of his shoulder tightly, he shook me off but it was too late, someone else had eagerly stepped up to try their luck at becoming a
hero. “What do you think you’re doing Greene? Get a hold of yourself man, this is war” He half whispered, noticeably annoyed at not having been at the front of the line to prove
himself to his new hero. To be truthful, I’m not sure why I did it either, Wilkins and I have all but accepted our fates in this living hell of a world man has created, mayhap
the hysteria surrounding the oozing mist had set my mind awry for but a moment but it felt like a few seconds of instinct in which I would not willingly let him venture into
what many have taken to thinking of as the primordial unknown itself.
April 11th, 12:01 - Those men never came back. Those few on watch had said they heard nothing overnight, no shots had rung out over that long stretch of blood and barbed wire meaning they certainly couldn’t have been included in a gunfight. Waylin believes the Germans are up to something but I know how his men are superstitious and would rather blame the
ordeal on the supposed shapes in the mist that so many of them claim to have been witness to. Many would even ignore the fog’s presence all together and avoid looking past the
sandbags, having their eyes trained on the ground as they passed through the outdoor sections of the trench, refusing to face the fog and have it stare back at them. Despite
many of us feeling this way, there have been a few reported accounts of infantrymen in a trance attempting to climb the walls, I would normally have passed this up as mere
storytelling if it had not been for my own experience. I had been assigned to the day watch, fighting my own battle with ostensible awareness when a stranger took hold of my
leg, needless to say jolting me well into lucidity. When I had turned around to face him, he was moving past me, into the battlefield almost as if he were sleepwalking. He was
making for the fog, I leapt up in a panic once I realized his intent and tackled him to the ground, once more placing my trepidation in another, it took another two infantry to
drag him off the field and back to safety.
Despite risking punishment, I passed my rifle to another man and visited the bunker of the fellow who had attempted to rush off, arriving at his dugout, he was restrained by several of our boys, it seemed as if they were causing him pain just by holding him down, he had been screaming all the while “that mist is behind my eyes, it’s moving towards my head” The ramblings of a sleep deprived soldier no doubt, or at least, that’s what the others say, I heard them chuckling amongst each other at his dramatic outburst.
April 14th, 10:11 - Once again a restful sleep escapes me, I awoke to find a surprisingly fearless rodent perched on the end of my bunk, standing on his hind legs. If I were so inclined towards
madness as some of our brothers appear to be, I would say it seemed like the creature was regarding me with a sort of intelligence, unmoving and calculated, as if it was waiting
for me to do something. Were it not for Wilkin’s fevered awakening I would have thought it a night terror, the rat soon scurried off at the unexpected noise and I had asked Wilkins
what the fuss was this time. He slumped back in the folding bed that barely fit his large frame and breathed a sigh of relief, I asked him once more if he had experienced another
nightmare but he seemed not to be fully lucid and falling back into sleep, or so I assumed, before becoming unconscious once more he whispered fervently something I couldn’t
fully understand, it sounded like “Too far in” I must have fallen asleep myself shortly after.
April 15th, 10:03 - It is an uncanny feeling in a place of such constant bombardment to feel nothing but the wind blowing through the trenches. Such was this morning when I awoke to a strange silence, not a semblance of shouting, artillery or gunfire to be heard. My first instinct was to wake Wilkins from his slumber as we often do for one another, I more often than him,
however I found his bunk to be empty. Upon exiting our dugout I found my vision to be drastically obscured by the rolling fog which had engulfed the surrounding landscape,
a few men were gathered by the sandbags leading out where the fog was thickest, among them was Officer Waylin who didn’t seem to care at all that I had
forgotten to stand at attention and instead addressed me as Private Greene before informing me of the situation. While I was sleeping, the fog had rolled in thicker than ever before,
Waylin saw this as an opportunity to send a small unit across No Man’s Land, this time to do some small reconnaissance of the enemy’s bunker, Wilkins had apparently approached
the group and requested to join the operation, the officer had the right mind to deny him as he looked to be affected by delirium however Wilkins had insisted that he had simply
not slept well the previous night, Officer Waylin had decided to let the private do what he willed and they haven’t been in contact with any of them since. I do feel regret at not
being able to stop him once more going over but in the end, it was his own choice, he’s a braver man than I. What’s more, I visited the bunker of that wailing man from the previous day, strangely, naught but his standards remained in his bunk, drenched in water. We are only given one uniform.
April 16th, 10:31 - The fog has not yet cleared at present and the stagnancy of the battle ensues. The men seem to be hallucinating things, disembodied faces seeming familiar to
them in an uncanny way, remaining in the corners of one’s peripherals and never fully in sight. One man by the name of Lance Sergeant Monet had apparently just gone mad
had taken off without a word straight into the maw of the fog, even leaving his rifle behind. no one had attempted to give chase, still sends a shiver up my spine to imagine what
urge would drive a man to avoid his sense of danger to do such a thing, I cannot ponder. I find myself unnerved by the intensity of the silence more than anything.
April 17th, 09:58 - Last night I awoke once more, the first time I had slept for such a duration in so long, when I pried my eyes open I happened to spy something I still cannot explain, something that still disturbs me so as I write; I had been observing my surroundings in the dark as I usually do upon waking at night, everyone else sharing the bunker was out cold.
Twenty or so minutes must have passed when I chanced to gaze at the form of an entity studying me well before I had noticed it’s presence, had an animal happened to
invade our bunker? No, an animal could not remain so still as this thing had so effortlessly blended into its surroundings as if it had been there the entire time. As I thought
about it more and more, the being frightened me with increasing intensity, I thought my best chance was to reach for my gun. As I slowly began to move my arm toward the
edge of my bed, the true peril of my situation struck me, the abomination edged slowly towards me as I turned my body, I stopped and so too did the thing, I rested my arm once
more by my side and the thing retreated to where it had been where I first glimpsed it. Every move I made, it would advance on me and judging by its stride, it would certainly
reach me before I reached for my rifle. Adrenaline coursed through my being as all I could do was remain still and observe it as it observed me. I remember slowly losing
consciousness while desperately trying to keep my eyes locked on the entity, the way it walked toward me whenever I made any kind of movement, flowing like water in the shape
of an unnatural being before retreating into the background once more and locking itself into place, once more before I began to slip back into my dreams I noticed it moving
slowly, not towards me, instead, it appeared to be mimicking my own breathing. The collective anxiety seems to have affected me somewhat, is it that, or am I simply becoming
akin to those plagued by hauntings of the imagination?
April 18th, 10:46 - Still no action from our enemy, Officer Waylin seems to be distraught by his failings to gather intel or at least have a single squad come back after being sent out into the fray. Despite the ominous call of the gray mist warding me away from entry, lately I’m beginning to feel the unknown voyage is better than staying here in the Dodengang overlong,
rations are running out and some of the more short-tempered types have begun lashing out amongst their fellow men. What’s worse still is that some of the French boys have been
turning up eviscerated on their very beds, everything below their necks splayed and bloody while their heads remain a perfectly kept visage of their terror, why the consistency?
I’m not sure, but I wonder if I nearly shared the same fate by being privy to the intruder in our bunker. I no longer believe these happenings to be that of human creation, even as
one who has witnessed the cruelty of mine own kind. I choose not to think of this too often, nevertheless, tensions are high, It’s driving us all to grow distant from one another.
Perhaps it would be better to go to my fate than stay here and have death be an eventuality.
April 20th, 15:32 - This morning I approached Officer Waylin with my plan, I was to join the next survey team and make a break for the enemy trenches, where in my mind they would welcome us as temporary allies against the very mist itself, worst case scenario they would take us prisoners and reveal the fog was of their own making. Either way we would be free from the
torment and I may even be able to see Wilkins again. Waylin had been so beaten down by recent losses and mounting problems that I must have looked like a knight in shining
armor, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth after he so proudly held my shoulder and thanked me for my bravery. No sooner than he let go of me did I become covered in his
blood, the aggressor a fellow brit with his eyes rolled back into his head. He let off another shot that grazed my neck and I made for the wall, one shot after another things were
escalating and soon the whole trench was engaged in combat with one another, every man for himself. In all the chaos I must have been the only one to notice the fog was creeping
closer to where the fighting was, I had run twenty or so yards from the pit and could only hear the shots and violence become drowned out by the wailing of the fog that now surrounded
me. Oddly enough, while the air here is filled with stillness, a strange discomposure overcomes me as I venture further.
April, 16:09 - While I was stationed in the Dodengang I had never the chance to see for myself the slaughter wrought upon the battlefield until now, I could not see far in any direction,
consequently my eyes are forced downward to the bodies that lay under my boots. I’ve been wandering for so long that I had almost become insensitive to the nature of this place,
the idea that I could dismiss those that were once alive as part of the ground beneath my feet frightened me as I thought of what I would become. I knelt down beside one of the
fallen, a German boy, couldn’t have been more than twenty years old I thought, when I was torn from my depression, replaced with rising alarm when I realized the lad was still
breathing, in fact, they were all still breathing, further yet, they all seemed to be moving ever so slightly. As if they were molten rock, slowly the corpses began to merge with one
each losing their own individuality in a spectacle I was too frozen to flee from, they began to moan in a choir of uncomforting harmony as their bodies were unwillingly welded to one another,
the very floor beneath my feet now moving to give way to a growing pit in the middle of the field, those inside the maw of the pit now screaming bloody murder. I tried to snap out
of it, the shrieking and wailing kept getting louder, more voices in the throng. My primal instinct had all but sparked enough for me to take off in a sprint, no longer caring for the
moans of those my boots trampled in my dreaded haze, as I was escaping I felt it in my heart, I knew, something was birthed from that pit of hell, I felt its eyes on me as I made for
safety, the same gaze I had received when I had impeded Wilkin’s attempt to go over the wall and yet, the same stare I remember from a few nights ago. I ran for what must have
been half an hour until I could no longer breathe, things are still once more and the bodies no longer weep as I step over them, I don’t recall No Man’s Land being this long
of a stretch.
April, 19:33 - It is as I feared, they too have been swallowed whole by the fog, what’s strange is the lack of bodies, the area around the enemy trench is completely clear, just the mist and mud that engulf my vision. I suppose I must be thankful to have stayed my course, the land has become twisted and I no longer recognize it as it once was. I decided to head into one of the bunkers to investigate, there’s not much else I can do and I feel as though I am seen out here in the open, it is not the feeling of staring down the barrel of a rifle, instead, it feels as if there is hot breath around my neck.
April, 20:25 -After some more hours of wandering I stumbled across an odd tarp draped over a hole, upon further investigation it seems to be a tunnel under the trenches themselves, the fog
does appear to be present underground. I have naught to illuminate my way, it seems however that there is light emanating from within this cavern. As I write, I’m coming up
to the end of the tunnel, I see what looks like an excavation site, so this is where all the bodies were. As I descend I notice the runes carved and etched into the stone walls
with such nonsensical detail that it almost hurts to strain a look at; and from a gargantuan hole in the old sandstone seeps the very fog that plagued us, over the dead bodies of
countless infantry, ours and theirs alike, Wilkins is among them, I found him, dead like all the others. It is darker than ever I thought possible beyond that hole, the light itself
seems to be swallowed whole. There is an odd writhing noise from within, I hesitate to intrude into the dark where whatever animal this is stirs, however, I could have sworn I heard a
familiar voice by the entrance to the tunnel.
As I write now, standing at the precipice toward the breathing abyss I feel eyes on the back of my head, the voices that speak to me from behind are that of Waylin, Fawkes, Wilkins and.. My mother, back home. They speak to me casually but I dare not turn, the voices they speak to me in are so grossly wrong, as if they do not fully grasp the complexity of human speech, as I try to ignore, they grow impatient, the voices manufactured to ease me are slipping and giving way to deep gurgles, perhaps sensing I am too far in to flee, the unhinging of jaws sound and sockets filled with nothing fill my mind, as vision is the vestige of a species of prey.
I feel something akin to warmth on the back of my neck, wrong limbs in the shape of hands push me forward into the hole in the wall, their excited trembling and grasping is beginning to hurt, I can no longer write steadily.