Journal of Stewart Pennington
September the twenty-fourth, in the year of our lord 1874.
I have been advised by my wife to begin recording my.. Experiences, Mary believes that it will help hone my thoughts, as I have been experiencing quite the trouble writing recently. Paul, at the Times, agrees, urging me to rest, and consolidate my thoughts. Reluctantly, I have agreed to their urgings, and shall begin writing once more when the… voices come.
*Idle sketchings of trees and birds, clearly sighted from beyond the window, are dotted through the margins, before a sketch of a bluebird is interrupted by a darkened stripe*
They have come, I hear them, in the back of my mind, vague whispers, and a sense of unease envelops me. I feel as though I am watched, observed, like a bacterium beneath the microscope. They use terms I am unfamiliar with, speaking derisively about all things, my sketchings, my appearance, my home. All except my Sarah, she arrives in the midst of the whispers bringing food and drink, and they acknowledge her faintly, whispering once more.
Some manner of fear must have seized my countenance, as Sarah set down the tray, and she glanced at me, tilting her head in concern, “Father,” she spoke, her voice sweet and innocent of my troubles, “is there something the matter?”
I smile, brushing away my fear for the moment, and I embrace her tightly, chuckling at her squeak, “No, little one, Daddy’s just being alone for a time, he needs some quiet.” I kiss her upon her brow, and she whines, struggling away from my teasing, but giggling quietly, nonetheless.
She scowls at me, despite the laughter dancing in her eyes, “I think I know why you’re here,” she spoke imperiously, crossing her arms, “you’ve been bad, and mother is sending you to your room as punishment.”
I laugh, despite the twist of unease that churned within my gut, what if she’s more right than she realizes, I wonder, what if I’m locked in here like a madman for the rest of my days.
But I push my fears aside, shooing her out of my room, and she retreats stubbornly, sticking her tongue out prior to fleeing.
I laugh some more at the eccentric behavior of the youth, and close the portal behind her, retreating to the bed once more.
But, as I do so, the voice speak, slightly louder than before, still using language that both intrigues and horrifies me, they speak lightly of my daughter, and disgustingly of her growing beauty, one voice moans out a word that squeezes into my thoughts.
Why foo.
What is this word? Why does it fill me with disgust, and horror?
But the voices die away into silence, and I lie back upon my bed, restless mind giving way to peaceful slumber.
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*Several days pass, Stewart writes of observations in the yard, conversations with his family, and musings in general. But, they are inconsequential.*
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September the Twenty-sixth, in the year of our lord, 1874
I am still bound to my “study” as I have come to call it, communication mostly comes through my wife, in the morn to wake me and give food, and my daughter in the eve, bearing more food, and receiving teasing before leaving in a huff.
Arthur remains at school, writing that he shall visit at the soonest opportunity, I frown at his letter, wondering if I had been too hard on him when he’d gone off to school, arguing that a local school was easier, less stress, but in truth I was worried that he’d get into trouble and not the kind a parent could explain away with a tired smile and a pulled ear.
But, still, he remains in health, and in no apparent danger, and so I shrug away my anxiety, chiding myself for the old worries, and I await the dawn, and breakfast.
I hear Mary’s gentle footsteps upon the stairs, and I creep beside the door, feeling mischievous, she opens the door, proceeds to my bed, sets the tray down, and only then does she spot that I am not present.
Whirling about, she fixes her gaze upon me, and I grin at her irritation, she opens her mouth to unleash a scolding the likes of which would be told for thousands of generations. When…
When a.. thing, came into the room.
This thing.. I could not describe it, it was solid, liquid, gas, transparent, and then opaque as the door, with it came a vague sound, like the voices, but, mechanical, similar to a type writer. The moment after I saw it, it flickered away, and I hesitated, dismissing it as tiredness. When my wife unleashed her scolding upon me.
“You fool! You miserable mongerl! I can’t belive I’m still married to you! Gawd! You are such a idiot! My mother told me that you we’re a wreach and I didn’t listen! But not today sir!” She moved, across the room and smacked me, now sobbing.
“I can’t believe how cruel you we’re all those years. Beating me, hitting me, you are so mean!” She bawled, “But, Jeff is much better, hes the best guy around. Better than anybody, and he said me and sarah can go live with him in his castle!”
I goggled, horrified and bewildered, what had come over my wife? Who was this “Jeff” she spoke off? No Castles were in Cornwall. But as I spoke up, a man stormed into the room.
Physically, he was in his prime, he seemed to shimmer lightly as he came into the room, scowling at me, which hurt me, before a hint of anger sparked, was this “Jeff”? Did he do something to my wife? I rose turned to him stiffly, opening my mouth to question him.
When something hit me in the mouth and clattered to the ground, I was about to glance at it, when the man almost roared, drawing Mary behind him, “You evil jerk! How can you be so mean to poor Mary? She didn’t do anything to you, and now yer hurting her?” He swung his fist towards me in a rage.
Now, I am not the man I once was, champion of the boxing league, and accomplished fighter, having been several years since I’d been in a proper fight, but even half-blinded, this man’s strike was clumsy, I spotted an adequate place to halt the blow without harming him, and reached up to do just that.
My arm flailed wildly as I commanded it, and the fist struck me square on the jaw. I collapsed to the ground, senseless, hearing Sarah run up the steps, and I opened my eyes, attempting to plead with the last hope I had, she jogged into the room, and seemed to gaze into my eyes for a moment, and my heart leapt.
“I hate you! You’re not my real daddy! Jeff is!” She stuck her tongue out at me, like she did every eve, and threw her porcelain doll, the one I had gotten for her on her birthday, and huddled beneath this “Jeff”’s arms as he smirked at me.
The doll slammed into my head with far too much force for an girl, and I knew no more.
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September the twenty-sixth? Year, same?
I awoke to find myself in my own bed, with my wife opening the door to my study and the routine continued as normal, as if the events prior had not occurred. I relaxed, dismissing the horrid experience as an awful dream, despite the full sensations of pain I experienced.
Nevertheless, I became somewhat anxious in the hours of the day, feeling as if I was in a foreign locale, and no one had thought to inform me. But, this too was shoved away, and I continued my silent vigil.
I was observing the wilderness, as usual, when she opened the door, again, as usual, and an unfamiliar voice swept through the room.
“Master, your supper is ready.”
I jerked my head towards the door and beheld a young lady whom I had never met in my life, she was possessed of long, pinkish hair, and dressed in a servant’s dress.
“Excuse me, miss, but I have never seen you before in my life.”
She appeared to not hear me, nodding slightly at some unheard command, “Yes, Master Stewart, your daughter and son are coming to visit you soon, and are hoping you will return to normal health promptly.”
I jerked in shock, my daughter? Going to school? Preposterous, it would be far too unsafe, and she needs to learn the proper way in life for a woman!
“What?! I’ve never sent my daughter to school, and I don’t plan to! What are you speaking of, woman!?”
She smiled, and curtseyed to nothing, than left the room, in desperation, I attempted to lift the tray, and toss it at her, but it refused to move.
The food steadily vanished, along with my hunger, and my panic increased. Rushing to the door, I attempted to jerk it open, I was here on self-isolation, and I could leave when I liked! But the door did not budge an inch, not quivering in the slightest.
I ran to the window, and jerked my arms upwards to open it, and it too, did not move in the slightest.
I yelled, I shouted, I swore, I cried, I sobbed, I pleaded for God to send me an answer.
None came.
All the while, the typing sound echoed in my mind, as it had during the dream. Or was it a dream at all.
I found myself comfortable in my kneeling position, as if the floor was the feather bed I slept on, and I found myself drifting away into slumber, even as I roared with fury and despair.
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*Stewart, from now on, ceases writing the date, apparently viewing it as pointless.*
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It has been some time since I have written in this journal, more and more of these illusions plague my every thought, my wife is replaced by someone I have never met, my son returns home, but is now my daughter, my daughter becomes a son, then returns to feminity within hours.
My home changes as well, from wood, to brick, to some material I have never seen. Odd gadgets clutter my study, and I am frightened of what they might do. The eviron changes as well, one moment, we are in our ordinary cottage, then we are in the city, then the city grows, and glass pillars reach the sky.
My actions lack meaning, all I do is ignored, the voices speak constantly, their ethereal typing my constant companion, I scream at my family, and they do not hear, it is as if I am an actor in some nightmarish play, whom has not been given his script.
All is clay in the hands of the voices and the typing, I am a mere puppet, screaming soundlessly into the void, my body changes as well. I have been an elderly man, a young boy, a father to those I do not know, I have adopted the female form more times then I care to remember. I have been a senseless mockery of said feminity as well, retaining my manhood and, dancing on the strings of my tormentors, done things that have offended the very fiber of my soul.
The endless chattering echos and echos, I have pleaded with them to no avail, they are as deaf as my fellow puppets. I scratch out my eyes, and my fingers are blunted, I attempt to jump to my death, my legs become jelly.
I have ceased rising from the bed at all, the food is eaten without my thought, so I become nothing for times, which is all that preserves my mind at times.
I can do nothing but watch the horrible puppet show.
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*At times the journal contains senseless ramblings, and at others it contains horrid imagery, for the sake of these transcribing of his journals, I shall digress, and leave the last entry to your perusal.*
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I am tired.
The typing produces horrors beyond imagining, shattering my psyche as I flee into gibbering madness, and return, sober as ever, to life in the morning.
This day, September the Twenty-sixth, has never ended, I awake the same morn as always, and await the madness that is to come.
Constant chattering batters my eardrums, enraged voices argue over inane topics, I am discussed as if my life is a plaything, and to them, I suppose it must be, an endless comedy for those to giggle at my sufferings.
Time passes, and the voices fade, yet the madness continues, some more stable than others, and all equally maddening.
And as I write this message, only a small, typing sound echoes in my mind, and I turn to a small table at the foot of my bed.
On it lies a revolver, a large one, like one used to kill a boar, wooden handle gleaming with polish, it sits, quietly, almost patiently, for my hand.
I rise from the bed slowly, and approach the table, the typing still going.
I put my hand to the gun, and the typing reaches a crescendo, as I raise it towards my head.
At last, the typing ceases, and all is quiet.
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*That was the last entry in the diaries of Stewart Pennington, madman.*
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