I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to write this blog. Or how much longer ...
they'll ... let me write it. I've seen too much now. Way too much. And I think that
something may have seen me as well. There was putrid
pea-green sludge all over my door this morning. The ceiling tiles over my bed are soaked through and through with a
dark, viscous fluid that drips on my covers. It started Monday night. It has only gotten worse. I got no sleep Tuesday night and I spent the better part of last night in my secret place. Things are happening here,
bad things,
terrible things,
blasphemous and
wicked things ... and I am
powerless to do anything about any of
them.
It's getting darker earlier and earlier, for longer and longer. I think that
they've been waiting for that, waiting for winter and the pervasive darkness in order to carry out their horrific aims, whatever they ultimately are. I see strange glyph-like patterns in the condensation on the windows up here. We had frost last night. If I'd awoken sooner, I might have seen the patterns more clearly a they were formed in the frost, as if sketched there by some weird unseen hand working outside and three floors up.
Maybe things will
settle down a bit. After all it's been all of since Monday night when I saw ... it ...
Maybe everything will be okay ...
