June 4th, 2023
My name is Dylan, I am 22 years old, and I live in Savannah, Georgia. I’ve just lost both my parents in a catastrophic motorcycle accident. My therapist wants me to document how the next couple of weeks go so that is what I’m going to do, maybe I can vent a little as well. Dad was a drunkard, and my mother was always forced to go to the bar with him because he could never make it home alone. Last night, Dad thought he could manage to get them home; he was wrong. When I went to identify the bodies at the scene, their limbs and organs were spread across the highway. That sight awoke something inside me that I had not thought about in a long time. Dad always said there were bodies in the walls. While I never believed him, I did know that the house was old and that my great-great-grandfather was a very odd and eccentric plantation owner. It was a beautiful home that had now fallen into my hands under rather unfortunate circumstances. Because the house is so old and unkempt due to having no money because of my father, it desperately needs repairs. With the life insurance money, I can finally afford to fix up the place.
My father was an ugly man, and he tormented me as a child just like his father and his father. He would chase me through the house, screaming, groaning, and crawling. He would hide and scare me around every corner, and I never felt safe. The feeling was different now, though; it was calm, even peaceful. Maybe it’s because I’m drowning myself in Kentucky bourbon, just as my father did. I think that it is time to go lay down, though. I know I can not sleep in the master bedroom, but I do not think I can get up the stairs on my own. Well, I inched my way up the stairs and I finally made it. I flopped onto my bed, the old box springs moaning and groaning like my old man bitching about his damn arthritis, falling on deaf ears just like the old man’s cries.
June 6th, 2023
I heard something before I fell asleep. I know I did. At first, I disregarded the noises I heard—a light tapping on the wall. Reflexively, I yell, “Damnit, Dad, I’m trying to sleep. Can you lay off”. Then I remember I became immediately sober; that was not my father. He was in 40 different pieces in the morgue. The tapping stopped, and I began to weep and pray to every God I could think of to please save me. Then I fell unconscious and slept for 32 hours straight. I think I need to check myself into inpatient care.
June 16th, 2023
I am trapped. I drink a fifth of bourbon a day now, and I think I understand why my father did the same thing. I’ve tried to leave, but I feel drawn back anytime I walk out the door. In the past week, I have regressed to gently rocking back and forth while sitting in the alcove of my childhood bedroom. The alcove always made me feel uncomfortable as a child; the walls seemed too thick. It almost seemed like there could be a room on either side. But I am drawn to it now. I fall unconscious at random points throughout the day, and the cool hardwood floor keeps the nausea at bay. I’m wondering about the house now; the feeling is not calm anymore. I think something is wrong, or maybe I’m just hung over. I need another drink. Fuck, now I’m upstairs, how the hell did it happen, and how long has it been now? It is light again. It’s 2 pm and life sucks. I know that I need to go to town for more bourbon in a few hours before the shakes start again. I have not gone out much. In fact, since my parent’s funeral, the only trips I make are to the liquor store and grocery store combo down the road. I’ve quit my job, but the life insurance money will keep me afloat for now.
June 25th, 2023
From the wall, I hear weeping, then the heart-wrenching scream of a child: “NO NO NO PLEASE.” I woke up in a cold sweat; these nightmares are just getting worse. Were those footsteps running down the hall just now? No, I’m just going insane. I’ve got to give myself some closure, and I finally think that I know how. I’m going to rip out the walls and prove once and for all that there is nothing there—the tapping, the voices—everything is just my imagination, guided sleepily by the handle of bourbon that I drink every day. I’ve got the sledgehammer, which was enthusiastically inscribed “Persuasion” with a black Sharpie by my father, it feels heavier than before and colder. The steelhead made a resounding thud the first time I hit the thick plaster wall. Again and again, I swung; little bits of plaster and wood struck me in the face, but I just kept swinging. By the time I was done, all that was left was a pile of rubble on the floor where the wall had been. My blinding rage kept me from seeing what I had hit until it was too late. There was a room with plaster on all sides, and in the corner was a skeleton. A small skeleton in a homemade dress. What the hell is this place?
June 29th, 2023
There are symbols painted on the walls; I think they are painted in blood. I could not find much about them, so I went to a local Macabre Museum in an alley on River Street called Graveface. I showed the owner the pictures of the symbols on my phone, and he went pale. “We don’t fuck with hoodoo around here, bro; you need to leave.” He said that and escorted me to the door. He shoved me out, and a resounding thunk came from the big lock, and click, click, the two smaller locks. I don’t know what to do anymore. All I can find online is that the symbols are some sort of hoodoo hex. I’m going to finish this bottle and bust down the other side of the alcove to see what I can find. But first I am posting this online in case something happens. I know that no one will believe me so im posting this in a place where no one has to believe it. God save me.