by Shawn Mackey
No, disregard that nonsense. Allow me to provide an abridged entry, without having to waste the ink to cross out the latter: despite all this tragedy, I feel wonderful. Argos has returned from the abyss to alleviate my despair. The entity responsible for this resurrection is a treasured friend—just like you, but do not be afraid. You are my favorite, always and forever.
Entry 50
Over the past few days, our house has been pelted with rocks several times. It starts with Argos barking up a storm, as though the dog has precognition. I understand his superior sense of smell and hearing, but he always begins the precise moment before the rock strikes, darting all over the place in a blind panic, unable to detect the delinquent. I can never reach the window in time, and sitting in wait does not help. It strikes as soon as my eyes are averted and is gone by the time I look outside.
Aiden refuses to chalk it up to a ghostly presence, and his determination is enough to convince me for the time being. He sits on the porch all night, rifle on his lap. If our assailant is even remotely corporeal, Aiden will shoot at it, and he will hit it. Still, this does not prevent me from keeping close to the window at all times.
There is a constant manhunt for the bastard who poisoned our children. It is a relief to see the townsfolk finally exert their paranoia onto something constructive, even if they are becoming a bit too zealous. My mother has been at my house lately, complaining about my uncle’s uncharacteristic behavior, primarily his obsession with bringing the culprit to justice. I have yet to speak with him since the beginning of this manhunt, and the way she describes it is steeped in melodrama and hyperbole.
Yet her worries are rarely without merit. If my uncle really does intend to kill this culprit, it is no worry of mine. It is inhuman and vicious, thus open to any sort of violence on their end. Let them wreak havoc until content.
I do see the flaws in that line of thinking. If they do not catch their prey before winter, they will bring that bloodlust home, a poison sure to put this community to a quick end. Other than my near-lynching, we have been relatively civil since the mayor’s death. A return to that sort of paranoia will doom this town to oblivion.
What would happen if this town were discovered after such an event? Imagine the ruins of our community, decades, even centuries from now. Decades seem feasible, and centuries possible given the obscurity of this island. Would they wonder about our way of life or simply build on top of the ruins?
Argos’s barking has dashed my train of thought. Now Aiden is shouting insults at a ghost. Let us pick up again later.
Aiden saw the culprit during his last pass. It is roughly the height of a child with arms the size of a man’s. The moonlight was not favorable, so he only caught a glimpse of its figure, enough to determine it is not human. This is a relief, for all the mischief in the world is more bearable when a supernatural entity is responsible. I am tired of blaming my fellow man for every violent act. Like my uncle, Aiden intends to use this discretion to the utmost, now carrying a machete at his side.
Excuse my abrupt departure, but I have wonderful news to report. The moment Argos whipped into a frenzy, I ran for the window and saw our nemesis fleeing to the woods. Aiden neglected to mention its warped gait, waddling left and right in uneven strides. I noticed the mockery in that waddle, taking great pleasure when Aiden blasted the creature in the back. It fell on its belly, utterly still for a few seconds, then leapt back to its feet, using its enormous arms to propel its retreat. It hopped all the way to the woods, easily evading Aiden and his machete.
Kantos mentioned a brother. To label him as such is a massive leap, since it implies there are only two of these monsters wandering around this island. If they are not kin, they are undoubtedly the same ilk. Again, the moonlight proved too weak to cast a clear view of its monstrous appearance. Kantos was tall and shaggy, while this creature was short and hairless. Most importantly, it was too far a distance to see if it had the pointed ears described in the children’s testimony. Even with this proof, though, it is not enough to determine its guilt in any calculated crime. I do not believe Kanto intended for me to miscarry.
If these wretches were dragged into trial, I will not play devil’s advocate. Keep this sort of whimsy confined to the pages of fairy tales. Kill these monsters at any cost.
Entry 51
I sat on the porch drinking from a leftover bottle of wine. My mother dropped it off less than an hour ago as a birthday present. We did not speak for long. Today serves as a grim reminder of that awful incident that prompted our exodus, for tomorrow is its anniversary, and a month from then will mark our third year on this island. Neither of us felt like waxing nostalgia, she content with her work and I with Argos’s heavy panting. As I sipped at the bitter wine, my fingers did not leave his fuzzy neck. My mother did not seem to recognize him, eyeing me with strange looks whenever I said his name. The resemblance and behavior were too uncanny for a simple imposter. Still, her side glances irritated me. Better than an argument, I suppose.
There is nothing to fear during the day. In recent months, I have become more of the nocturnal sort, forming an increasing aversion to the sun. The reason confounds me. It is not my nature to avoid the light and transform into some pale fiend, yet I felt uncomfortable basking in the sun, even in the comfort of my old companion. Perhaps my unease was an instinctual malaise cognizant of the coming event.
The creature returned. I had looked at the tree line for so long, I was bound to hallucinate eventually. As it hobbled closer and closer, I blinked rapidly and rubbed my eyes. Pinching my cheeks proved equally useless. It stopped a fair distance, close enough to clearly reveal its grotesque features.
It did indeed have a wolf’s head, though I did not need to study it close to see it was a mask, for the head had no lower jaw. A pelt crafted from the same fur wrapped around its waist, just below a plump belly. It was short and slumped, probably a head taller than a child if fully erect. Its skin was pink as a pig’s, grayish in some areas, especially the belly and underarms. Overall, more hideous than threatening.
This creature and I gazed at each other for quite a while. Argos, lying calm beside my feet, watched as well. When it lifted an arm and motioned with a long black talon, my friend swiftly rose to his feet and trotted toward it. I tried to stop him, but as I reached out, the creature let out a yelp, causing Argos to break into a sprint. He lay obediently at its feet, panting as it looked back and forth between it and me.
“Brother Argos,” it said. Argos immediately sat up. The creature turned and waddled toward the woods, and Argos followed behind him like an eager pup.
What could I do? A rational mind would have begged for their friend to return, to abandon that dog-faced goblin. The brash would go indoors and bring back a pistol. Neither was feasible, for Argos’s pea brain had already forgotten me and I am a poor shot. I chose the coward’s lot and went to bed with my wine bottle, crying until Aiden returned.
The fool searched all night for Argos. We seemed to have switched places in recent days. He incessantly scours the woods for monsters while I sit around drinking and brooding. He tells me there is no trace of the dog, though I may have mistaken his exhaustion for fear. Perhaps he stumbled upon a grisly sight that I dare not put to words.
A week long manhunt proved no sign of outsiders, despite the sounds at night. My uncle hears a baby wailing and my mother hears a constant crackle. Others confess to sightings, mere glimpses from their peripheral that disappear upon closer inspection. Only Aiden and I appear to be plagued with the goblin. Janice hears flapping outside her window, along with the shadows of bat wings on her walls.
Our community is plagued with horrors and I cannot get my mind off Argos. Our brief reunion is no consolation for a second disappearance. I must resist the temptation to watch the tree line in wait for Argos’s next return. Only the goblin will be waiting for me. As I write these words, I can feel its presence, watching and waiting.
This is the first minute of our final hour.
Entry 52
We are officially at war with the island spawn. During the manhunt, two men disappeared somewhere in the northern woods. A small search party came across the corpses, hung by the ankles from a branch with their throats and bellies sliced open. As they untied the dead, they were attacked from the rear by a horde of monsters. The five men were killed, one of them surviving long enough to tell the tale to a larger party. The corpses of three monsters verified his tale.
These dead creatures are still on display at the town hall, where most of the town has converged. I made the mistake of going there to see if one of them was Kantos. The verification did not matter, but at the time, I had to satisfy my intuition. The shaggy brute lay in the middle, his innards sloppily stuffed into his gaping stomach. In his frozen death stare, he bore his sharp fangs meanly.
Kantos stood out only because of our acquaintance, the other two finer specimens of the weird. The leftmost looked the most approachable of the three, its tiny black eyes wide open on a face full of bluish wrinkles dotted with white bristles. It was extremely corpulent, reminiscent of a seal or walrus, with limbs like a man’s. No claws or talons, only a pair of shiny hooves and fat hairy fingers.
The rightmost had a rodent’s face, slender and sharp, and a tail, long and hairless. The black and white fur brought a skunk to mind, but the jackal ears and the pink speckled belly did not substantiate the thought. Its teeth were especially strange, thin and needlelike, with fairly large gaps in between its pink gums.
I planned to stay a bit longer, enjoying the morbid exhibit. Gerald approached me from behind, clasping me by the shoulder and quietly asking me to follow him outside. It sounded dire enough to comply. On the way out, Judith pointed at me, and as loud and obnoxiously possible, accused me of cavorting with these animal people. I did not have the chance to defend myself. A dozen people confessed to seeing me wander into the woods at night, returning shortly before sunrise like a ghoul. Gerald continued to lead me outside, the chatter growing more intense as we reached the door.
Once in private, he admitted to seeing the same, and though it was not my intention, I had doomed us all. I appreciated his humble and soft-spoken approach, and though I felt the need to defend myself, I also knew I could not convince him otherwise. We both knew I had no positive effect on the community’s current predicament. Gerald probably hated me, but at least he escorted me to my house like a gentleman.
I did not mind sharing this island with others, but if these rustics want to lynch me, then they better watch their backs. I do not need to study black magic and hexes to harm them. A knife in the back is far more practical—and more satisfying in the case of Judith. Or should she be Judas? To hell with that dumpy sack of lard and her lisping fat face. When the hordes finally set foot in our village, she will not stand a chance. No one will miss a widowed swine.
And here I have stayed. My uncle stopped by at some point, briefing me on the situation, providing little more than the hearsay spread around town. He insisted on giving me shooting lessons, propping an old gin bottle on top of a stump outside. I missed three times by a mile, and instead of wasting the ammo, he muttered something about being unable to miss at close range. I asked about Aiden, but he merely shrugged and went off without word.
My husband arrived shortly after dusk. He did not complain about the cold stew, lapping it up like a starved puppy. He told me about the strung up bodies, that he was supposed to be part of that party until Gerald decided he was more useful near the hills. I did not enjoy the prospect of Aiden’s life in the hands of another’s whimsy, though he seems to think his battle prowess would have made a difference in the fray. I cannot bring myself to tell him otherwise, the thought of that rodent’s teeth sinking into his throat too terrible to conjure. He is probably the strongest in our community, and even with the recent plunge in our population, it is no easy feat to match brawn with these laborious rustics.
Shortly before writing this entry, Aiden told me about the vicious rumors regarding me. His friends have become more brazen in their speech. Despite his admission to seeing the tree webbings with me long before all the other events, they refuse to extend blame beyond me. The town needs a scapegoat, and I have been chosen. No amount of rational explanation will change their choice.
I should be flattered for the nomination. On an island of unwashed peasants, it is natural for the most beautiful girl to be ostracized. After all, only one can have me and no other can be me. Since you and I know they are wrong in their condemnation, we can attribute their reactions to jealousy. A simple deduction for simple folk.
There is no use expounding on the matter any further. I became far too dependent on Argos for the short time he was here. Am I damaged for preferring the company of animals over people? I prefer you over all. Life would be unbearable without our nightly sessions. No, far worse. It would be meaningless. Though it is I who puts pen to paper, it is you that sustains me. Never forget.
Entry 53
I must redact the opening of my previous entry. As of today, we are officially at war with the island spawn. A thunderous horn blow echoes from the woods, each call louder than the next. Our enemies are closing in. The confrontation can occur at any minute, yet at the moment, we have a more pressing matter.
This morning, Aiden opened the door to find Judith’s body tacked to the other side by noose and nail. She was torn to ribbons, face ripped to the bone, discernable only by her blue dress and frizzy brown hair. Aiden carried the corpse into town, returning minutes later without it. He went for his rifle and ordered me to barricade the door. I used the kitchen table, peering out the window, expecting a lynch mob marching toward our home. There was nothing but the intermittent horn blowing.
Eventually, my uncle and a few others, including my mother and Fiona, appeared in the distance. As I went to move the table, Aiden pulled me away. What did my uncle value more: me or this island? I did not answer, nor did I continue moving the table. They made their way all the way up to the door. Aiden took my place at the window, brandishing his rifle. I heard my uncle shouting and my mother sobbing.
Since Aiden was protecting me, I took the initiative and moved the table, then opened the door. When my uncle stepped in, Aiden did not lower his weapon. The town wanted us dead, he proclaimed, including people once considered friends. On cue, the war horn went off again. My uncle, the crafty bastard, just nodded in acknowledgment. Aiden lowered his weapon, tossed it aside, then stormed off into the bedroom.
My uncle wasted no time relating the developments. Six women were afflicted by a similar condition as the children. Janice, for instance, had grown a pink snout, while another woman grew black and white spots, and another grew white wool across her body. These six women were my detractors, though I had never spoken a word to half of them. Their names do not even currently spring to mind. The others hear the horn and are eager for blood. Without evidence directly connecting me and the incoming invaders, the inevitable lynch mob has been put on hold, though I am certain they are cleaning their weapons in anticipation. If one were in a foul enough mood, I could be shot on sight.
They were in the process of planning a counterattack, desperately in need of Aiden. He initially declined, wishing death on the more cowardly lot. My uncle only needed to remind him of the consequences of their deaths—that the pillaging would not stop at the battleground. Along with my blessing, Aiden left with the others, leaving me and my mother behind. We watched them walk out of sight.
It has been a nerve wracking day. My mother has remained mostly silent. As terrifying as the horn is, I am grateful to be relieved of her prattling. There is not much to say. Our community is on the verge of annihilation. Even if we overcome this hurdle, too few will be left to maintain resources. It would be preferable to die in battle, I believe. All of Luther’s hopes and dreams have been crushed into dust. The poor man must be turning in his grave.
Despite their desire to kill me, I feel obligated to assist the town in some way.
Not only to aid those still in my good graces, but to preserve this way of life. My previous position is defunct in the absence of children, and there is no possibility to make amends for crimes I did not commit, yet the prospect of total extinction is saddening. It was a foolish on Luther’s part to dream of a thriving community on this island, built on the foundation of conniving war criminals and wanted men. It should not end this way.
It should not end at the mercy of bloodthirsty goblins and satyrs. I prayed for an escape from the mundane, and some higher power answered in excess. It could read my heart and know my plea in its actuality: to glimpse or make contact with the unreal. A desire so innocuous in its childlike naivety, the pains of life are cruel enough to punish such a banal hope. Must we be inundated with horrors?
One does not accumulate these types of experiences and live long enough to tell the tales. That is for you, my beloved. Do not let this bizarre fantasy be for naught. In a strange way, I am convinced all this is a fantasy. I may be killed by an ogre’s cudgel, but until I draw my last breath, this is a waking dream. Yes, that is it. Not a mass hallucination, a collective madness, or even an invasion of the supernatural. It is a waking dream, a unique phenomenon experienced by the outcasts of civilization, descendants of the ancient people of mankind.
This is not man’s first encounter with another world. Whether denizens of the deep or the sky, planes unseeable to the human eye, we are not the apex of existence. For all our ships and state-of-the-art navigational technology, the fruits of reason will remain bitter until our doomsday, never capable of shining light on the nooks and crannies that really matter, for they are more harmful than the most potent poisons. Not because we were not meant to interact with these other worlds. Their very existence is unquantifiable, contrary for the sake of contrariness, furthest from the mundane because that is their poison. They exist to fluster us.
