《They Come from the Earth》 ~1 Property of: Ernest Humes May 17th, 1869 Today, I am writing from the newly settled town of Deloro, Ontario. I''ve just come here as part of a new mining operation, and in these pages I will be documenting my stay here. As Father always says, a gentleman must be scholarly, so here I am, writing. In the last few years, there have been murmurs and rumours of gold in the hills of eastern Ontario. Since Father and the company investigated and found it to be true, we¡¯ve been harvesting the bounties of the earth. The prospect of gold is a most appealing one, even to the lower class folk we recruit to be the miners. We supply them with houses, rations, and a small wage to support their families in exchange for their labour. Right now, Father is the head man of our mining company, Humes Co. Someday I, too, will be the front-runner of the company, but Father has many years left in his career. We¡¯ve been able to live with many luxuries due to the success of the company. For now, I am his right-hand man, and it¡¯s a highly fulfilling position. Father sends me around the country to oversee our various mines, keeping our workers in check and our quality standards high. I''ve been sent here to Deloro to investigate some rumours about the new mine. I don''t know much yet, other than that there has been one man injured under strange circumstances, and another involved in the accident who is unwilling to work in the mines any longer. Tomorrow I will be working undercover as a miner, and investigating this discrepancy. One benefit of not being the head man of the company is getting to do the more interesting, boots on the ground kind of work, as most of the employees do not know me by sight. As to the incident with the Deloro miners, I suspect it is a simple case of uneducated superstition. Most of the miners we employ did not attend much schooling, if any at all. Many of them buy into paranormal nonsense. There is also a possibility of dirty play among the miners that could have contributed to this incident. Tensions get high under the duress of mining work, and it is not so uncommon for fights to break out. Tomorrow is my first day in the mines, and for now I am bunked in a small, simple house by myself for theThe story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. night. The wind is whipping awfully hard, so I have shuttered the windows and locked the doors. The animals are quite raucous at night out here in the country. Tomorrow I shall write again about my day''s journeys. Until then. 2 May 18th, 1869 The undignified nature of lower class people never ceases to surprise me. I despise having to blend in with them, wearing simple, dirty clothes. I haven''t worn such rudimentary garments since I was a child, but it is necessary to avoid suspicion from the miners. What crude folk they are, uneducated, and rather stupid. I suppose that is why my Father hires them to stay out of sight in the earth, like worms. Thankfully, I have returned to my temporary cabin, though after having a rather unproductive day. The miners are slow to accept new faces, so I will have to work to gain their trust. I never got a chance to ask any of them about the incidents that I''m investigating, as when I made attempts to introduce myself, I got little more than a sideways glance from most of them. One particularly surly bastard even spat at me. I knew it would prove difficult to directly harvest information from slobs like these, but they are careless enough with their words that I did gather some interesting tidbits. The miner who has been injured goes by the name Ralph Walters. He suffered fractures to both legs, many lacerations, and a head injury. He is now in critical condition. The strange part is the fact that no-one knows exactly how he was injured. He was found in a deep section of the mine that is currently out of service, after being reported missing for two hours. The miners have their legends and folklore regarding the world beneath the earth, and many believe he was attacked by a supernatural beast. Talk of the beast is always stifled and careful, as they believe speaking of it attracts it. All ridiculous nonsense of course. The more likely cause was violence from another miner. This Ralph fellow was not kindly regarded by all, though I have yet to find who could be the attacker. The next time I write, I hope to have a better understanding of the situation. Perhaps I will even find out the name of this laughable supernatural beast. That''s all for now.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. 3 May 19th, 1869 I had a rather unsettling night in my cabin yesterday evening. There was a large storm passing through, and I''m not used to having windows and doors that creak and rattle. There were shadows flitting about my room in between lightning strikes, doubtless it was no more than some drunken workers stumbling about in the rain. My investigation has come slightly farther since yesterday. I found out that the bastard who spat at me goes by the name Joe, and he apparently has had quarrels with Ralph in the past. This is unsurprising, as he is quite abrasive in personality. I dared not question him yet though, as I would surely either receive a boot to the shin, or expose myself as an outsider. I have yet to speak with the man who refuses to return to the mines. By way of the rumour mill I have learned his name as well: Mitch Pents. I anticipate having a conversation with him, but it will also have to wait until I am better acquainted with the general population of the miners. I can¡¯t simply run around only paying attention to the people who are being talked about, as that would draw attention to me. Ralph has yet to awaken, but I do hope he survives. He could have good information. The majority of things I''ve been hearing have to do with strange sounds and smells from the deeper parts of the mines. These folks seem to enjoy torturing themselves with endless tales of horror and supernatural nonsense. They say they''ve been hearing wails and screeches, accompanied by the smell of rot and decay. There have been tales of glowing eyes watching from the dark, and flickers of movement at the edge of vision. I hope to solve this discrepancy and put an end to this storytelling sooner rather than later. Unease has been growing amongst the miners, and we cannot have them protesting or refusing work. Father will not allow it, and the responsibility is on myself if the situation escalates that far.I have managed to acquaint myself with one miner fairly well. His name is Benjamin Hearst. Benjamin is rather intelligent for a lower class man. No family of his own, he works in the mines and does repair work throughout the town on his off time. He does fairly well for himself, considering his lack of monetary values. He does not partake in the storytelling and fear mongering of the other miners. For this reason, I will be using him as an aid to solve what really happened to Ralph. He can listen and think about who could have really been the attacker. Though, of course, my position will still remain a secret from him.Recently, the gold harvest in the mine has been poor. I will now be investigating this as well. It could be poor productivity amongst the miners, or we could be in the wrong spot. Time will tell all. I have decided to hold off on writing any more for a few days, so that I may have something of substance to write about. Until that time comes, that''s all for now.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. 4 May 23rd, 1869 Things have progressed significantly since my previous entry. I will attempt to boil it down in a reasonable manner. I''ve become better aquainted with Benjamin, to the point where he invited me to his home for dinner a few nights ago. I gained better information from him with fewer ears around to listen. As it turns out, he was friends with Mitch Pents when he was still working in the mines. Mr. Pents will soon be fired from his position if he does not return. Benjamin did have some interesting things to tell me about him, though. He told me the story of why Mitch is refusing to enter the mines. All of this is alleged, as it comes from the perspective of a scared, uneducated man. Mitch has said that it was some kind of beast that attacked Ralph. He spoke of a rancid smelling beast that flashed with golden light out of the corner of his eye. A beast that made ear splitting screeches as it tore into Ralph. I believe that by this description, it was likely an incident involving explosives of some kind. It wouldn''t be so far-fetched to assume that another miner set off firecrackers to take the attention off himself, while he turned Ralph''s own knife and axe on him. I proposed this theory to Benjamin, and he agreed. I have a feeling he has an idea of who could be the culprit, but I don¡¯t dare ask him yet. That will be for a later conversation. I have a suspect in mind as well. Benjamin did not have much of an opinion on the lack of gold in the mines recently. He talked some of the ¡°idiotic higher-ups digging in the wrong place,¡± which I found to be rather rude. Otherwise it was a very casual dinner. Since my last entry, much has happened in the mines. Some miners found a strange liquid coating the wall of a tunnel. They thought it was a mucous of some kind, but it was just condensation. The rumours of a beast within the mine are still running rampant. I''ve gathered further intel on what legends these made-up creatures stem from. Some believe there are vengeful, savage spirits roaming the tunnels, looking to seek revenge for battles fought long ago. Others believe it''s a beast from the forest, cursed to suffer below the earth. I believe that it is falling rocks and groaning scaffolding.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The nasty fellow called Joe has taken a serious dislike to me. I don¡¯t think he''s intelligent enough to figure out who I truly am, but I must take every precaution nonetheless. He throws scowls between strikes with his pickaxe, and he spits at anyone who looks at him whenever he can get the chance. He''s rather disgusting, and I believe his mother never taught him to wash, if he even had a mother at all. She surely would have taught him better if he had. He''s currently my number one suspect for Ralph''s attacker, and some of the more sensible miners seem to agree. Folks avoid the man like the plague, and I have eavesdropped on talk that does not reflect well on him. It takes no stretch of the imagination to think that he would beat a man senseless over small matters. My Father has been rather impatient with this entire ordeal. He only sees a direct, rough approach to getting the truth out of these men, while I prefer a more subtle technique. He doesn''t understand that the miners have their own code of honour, and he underestimates their stupidity when it comes to detective work. They would rather blame a fictional beast than do the real work to find the criminal. Whether that is a result of stupidity or laziness I do not know. I have held off my Father''s pressing for now, but time is of the essence. I must act quickly, but without alarming the miners. It has proven to be a delicate balance, but I am a talented man. I do hope to be finished with this mission soon. I truly despise the shack that I have been put up in. The wind constantly whistles, and tree branches scrape at the ivy on the walls. It creates a horrific sound in the dead of night. The ivy is overgrown, and nearly bursting through gaps in the windows. The house becomes unbearably hot and cold, constantly transitioning from one to another in the span of one night. Things fall off of every surface and roll about due to the lean of the entire building. Not even pictures will stay on the walls. I truly despise it, and I long to return to the luxuries of my normal residence. Until next time. 5 May 25th, 1869 A rather disturbing discovery has been made in the mines. Near the end of a shift, a group of men discovered a severed limb lying in a pool of sticky, rank liquid. The limb was gnarled and bent. There''s no telling what animal it could have come from. If I hadn''t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn¡¯t have believed the descriptions people were telling. It had claws, and it was a shiny, goldish colour. There didn''t appear to be a paw pad, and it seemed strangely... reptilian, in a way. I don''t know another way to describe it. There''s been some outcry among the miners since the limb was found. The ones who believed there was a beast all along are demanding the higher-ups listen and investigate. The few sensible men, calling it a hoax and ridiculing others who believe. Work has ground to a screeching halt, and Father could not be more irked. To be frank I''m quite shaken. I don''t know what the limb could have come from, or how one might craft such a limb, if it is indeed fake. There was a trail of slime oozing down the corridor in the mine that the limb was found in. Myself, Ben, and a few other men were inclined to follow it as far as we could. As we went further, the liquid began to dry into a strange crystalline formation. It was the colour of pure gold. I''ve never seen such a substance in my entire life. It was quite similar to processed gold, but in a much more primal shape, and it seemed to have something... electric about it. Since I''m in constant communication with Father on these matters, I knew to report it up the chain of command, and we''re now having some miners take samples of this strange material. As to where the trail led, it was a complete dead end. It appeared to stop completely in a patch of overturned soil, perhaps 40 feet from where the limb was located. Benjamin, ever so sensibly, was immediately sure that it was a hoax. He and I, along with a few others, quickly banded together to report the incident. We asked for a search of all personal items and living quarters to be conducted. If anyone has any materials leftover from making such a prop, it will be found, and they will be terminated. It''s likely that whoever did this was also Ralph''s attacker. They must want to draw attention away from themselves. I personally contacted Father as well, and the search was conducted the same day. Mining operations were paused, and the search took the rest of the day. It is not often that the security employees get to be out and about in such a way. They were enthusiastic to say the least, and we had a few minor beatings, and some rather rough handling of personal effects. Nothing that needs to be reported, mind you. The miners don''t own anything of great value, so the damages are irrelevant. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.The search turned up one possible lead. Joe was found with a freshly killed deer carcass that was missing a leg. He will be interrogated further, but so far he has claimed that he hunted the deer legally for meat, and that he gave the missing leg to his dog. It''s a very convenient story. The gun he used to hunt the deer is brand new, so it can¡¯t be confirmed that he''s a regular hunter. He could have bought it for the sole purpose of creating the beast limb prop. He''s in holding for now, and I expect the security men will make him talk more tomorrow... One way or another. Ben is rather adamant that Joe is the culprit. I have to agree with him that it seems the most likely answer. He''s been loud with his opinions in the mines though, which isn¡¯t usually a good move. Everyone knows he despises Joe, and those that aren''t on his side are rather nasty towards him. It''s never good to stir conflict among men like these. They''re so lowly as to fight amongst themselves like dogs, and over such trivial matters. I will write again soon, and share what I''ve learned after Joe''s interrogation. 6 May 28th, 1869 Joe has been in holding for a few days now. His story hasn¡¯t changed. The security men are beginning to doubt his involvement in the incident with the false limb. They¡¯ve subjected him to their worst- mental and physical punishment. As his story hasn¡¯t changed, it seems unlikely that he''s the culprit. He''s a nasty, snarly man, but he''s not of any particular strength or substance. If it came down to it, I don¡¯t believe he would be able to hold out on us after such intense interrogation measures. Benjamin is convinced it was him though. I¡¯m realising how much Benjamin dislikes, and even hates Joe. I wonder if they had any incidents or quarrels in the past. Hopefully these are things I can find out with time. It will be a few more days until Joe is released. He needs some time to heal from his physical wounds before re-entering the public, and having a few days in solitary confinement might just nudge him over the edge if he is indeed the culprit. In other news, there has been a strange discovery regarding the crystal substance found in the tunnels. We had a few men collect samples of it to be analyzed. All the men who came in direct skin contact with the crystals have developed a sudden rash. They are under quarantine in the infirmary until it resolves. Regular work has continued in the mine, directly from Father''s orders. He won''t have a mine full of men that doesn''t function, so it''s back to work, like it or not. The majority of the crystal has been disposed of in a remote area of the property. Nobody should touch it there, and nobody wants to anyway after the rash problem. The affected miners are being monitored by our nurses and doctors. We''ll see how they fare over the next coming days. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.I had a strange conversation with Benjamin recently. We came onto the subject of Joe and his possible involvement in the hoax. Benjamin became extremely heated in our talking, and he tore into Joe rather harshly. I''ve never seen him so angry. He was talking about how Joe ¡°doesn¡¯t know what he''s messing with,¡± and how he''s on the brink of causing disaster. I asked what he meant, and he said he just meant that Joe''s attitude with work in the mines was hazardous. His nasty demeanour certainly ruffles feathers, and nobody has Joe''s back down there. It''s a cesspool of careless and malicious mistakes. The other miners could very well be out to get him. As I said earlier, Benjamin''s dislike for Joe is becoming ever apparent. I''m hoping that it''s just an old rivalry that''s been stirred up with the recent drama, and not something that will be escalated. I''d hate to get a good fellow like Benjamin in any trouble. I''ll have to start keeping closer tabs on everyone, even Benjamin. If any more news arises concerning the limb, Joe''s interrogation, or the rash, I will be sure to document it here. 7 May 30th, 1869 There is much of interest to be written about today. Ralph is awake. He''s been in a coma for many days now, after being attacked and injured gravely in the mines. By the grace of God our doctors were able to revive him. He is still critically wounded, but now that he''s awake, he will likely live. Sadly, it is unlikely that he will ever be the same as he was. He''ll have a nasty limp at the very best. How unfortunate. I wonder how he will support his family and children now. It would have been better for his wife if he''d perished. She could at least remarry someone who could provide for her. Ralph is not yet in any condition to speak or be interrogated on who attacked him. Father gets me all the info from his doctors, so I know how to proceed in my investigation. He''s eating and following commands, but he hasn''t been able to sit up or speak yet. Hopefully he will recover enough soon to be able to clear this whole story up. It has crossed my mind that he may be afflicted with amnesia after his ordeal, but we will cross that bridge when we get to it. In other news from our doctors, the miners affected by the golden crystals are not improving. Their treatments for the rash it caused have been useless. I''ve heard that it¡¯s getting worse. Father is massively concerned about this, because he needs the miners to be mining. They are useless if they aren¡¯t making us money. Along with the rash, they''ve developed a horrible cough. The doctors will continue to monitor them, and thankfully it doesn''t appear to be contagious so far. We shouldn¡¯t have any other miners fall ill, since the rest of the crystal was disposed of. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.Joe has also recovered well from the beating he received during his interrogation. We''re in the process of releasing him from holding. We''ve learned as much as we can from him, so now it''s time to let him crawl home like a mangy dog. We''re not firing him from the company, because once he heals he''ll still make an adequate vessel for use in the mines. He won¡¯t be charged for any crimes, unless Ralph says he was the attacker, once he is able. Benjamin has cooled down since his outburst. Usually he is calm and sensible, and thankfully he seems to be staying that way. All the rumours and talk about recent events has the men easily riled up. I did recently hear one slightly concerning thing from Benjamin. Several miners, including himself, are taking some ¡®security¡¯ measures for themselves. They''re stockpiling weapons, guns, and ammunition. Benjamin said that in all the chaos that''s been happening recently, it''s necessary to have the measures to defend their homes. They think that the other miners and town bums will be inclined to steal or deface things in all the chaos. That the higher-ups in the company aren¡¯t looking at them with everything else going on, so there''s a window of opportunity for crime. The last thing we need right now is skirmishes amongst the miners, but it''s of little concern. I know everything that there is to know about this company, and I know that we have it handled. All will be revealed soon. 8 June 5th 1869 I have had a most horrific week. Everything has fallen into shambles, and I grow to despise this town more every second. I haven''t had a wink of sleep in days, because there''s been a massive storm moving through the area. There¡¯s been nothing but sweaty, humid days where the air hangs thick and heavy, broken only by torrential downpour. The thunder shakes the windows and roars off the hills. The rain hasn''t lifted the heat, so it lays in putrid puddles of mud and flies. The town reeks of rot and mildew. I despise it here. The mines have produced little gold this week. Father has been breathing down my neck, threatening me through letters. He thinks I should have made more progress by now. I know he is exerted from the stress of running our company, but he has no idea how hard it is actually having boots on the ground. I don¡¯t belong here in the mud, I belong in the city with him, running the company together. If we don¡¯t improve the situation in the town, or the lack of gold in the mines lately, I¡¯m afraid there will be dire consequences. The town won¡¯t be able to be here without the mines. If there''s no more town, there''s no more money to be made from its inhabitants. The sickness amongst the miners has grown. I believe it¡¯s from the weather. The disgusting heat and clouds of flies must be spreading infection and illness. The rashes they suffered have devolved into open wounds, and their breathing worsens by the day. A pass by the infirmary building is followed by the sounds of laboured, hacking breaths, and the stench of sickness and infection. If this strange condition is contagious, it could be catastrophic for the entire town. We¡¯ve taken as strict quarantine measures as we can, but it has proven to be difficult when the infirmary is little more than a robust tent. We aren''t equipped to deal with mass illness. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.The miners never help the situation, of course. They¡¯re too stupid to understand that they¡¯re putting more than themselves at risk if they break quarantine. They either don''t know or don¡¯t care that they could be spreading a mystery disease around, so they slack in their caution around the ill. We¡¯ve appointed guards around the infirmary to prevent any unwanted visits from concerned friends or family. It is for their own good, but they are not happy. I hope I can escape this heaping scat pile of a town, and return to the city with Father soon. Once this weather clears up, perhaps I will be able to finally put the nail in the coffin on this entire ordeal. I will never understand how these miners can be so idiotic and petty, and I wish to never be among them again. I struggle to even call them men, because to me they are worth less than a good hunting dog. 9 June 7th, 1869 The condition of the town has stayed much the same. The ill miners still show no improvement, and they¡¯ve started to become delirious. Before, they were only afflicted with the nasty wounds from the rash, but now when one passes by the infirmary, they are followed by howls and shrieks of addled minds. At the very least it seems to not yet be contagious. Everyday I pray to God that it remains that way. Whichever way it goes, I hope the ill men either recover or die soon, so their cries will cease penetrating my bedroom at night. All the families of the ill are becoming restless as well. They''re wondering when their husbands and fathers will be cured, and complaining about their welfare rations being too little, leaving children hungry. None of that is any of my problem. As I see it, they should be able to provide for themselves or they can die. It would be less for me to worry about that way. In better news, Ralph¡¯s condition is improving. He¡¯s been moved back to his own house, to avoid the sickness. He¡¯s speaking now in short intervals, when his strength allows. I feel badly for the poor fellow. He¡¯s become rather jumpy, and has a strange look about him, like he¡¯s expecting to be attacked again. Benjamin knows him quite well, so I''ve been tagging along during visits, just to hang back and see what I can learn. We won''t yet have him interrogated about his attack, but as soon as his strength allows he¡¯ll be questioned.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. I¡¯ve been having some rather strange encounters with the local wildlife recently. The passing weather has still not let up, so the entire town is a deluge of slimy mud. A bear wandered into town and sat on my doorstep for hours. I¡¯ve seen deer standing up on their hind legs, and clouds of bugs coating my windows. Sometimes I feel as though the entire countryside is pitted against me. My job is difficult enough without all these pests coming around and bothering me. I¡¯ve begun to carry a handgun for my own safety, should any nasty creatures attempt to do me harm. Many other men are also carrying weapons with them. I''m not sure if it''s because of conflicts with other men, or fear of the strange animal¡¯s behaviour. I haven''t heard anyone else mention anything about the animals, so I''m keeping that detail to myself for now. Benjamin has been tense lately due to Joe¡¯s return to work. He¡¯s not back in full capacity, but he¡¯s doing what he can. He¡¯s in an especially bad mood lately, but I don''t blame him. It¡¯s horrid here, and he¡¯s just being honest. Benjamin and Joe have gotten into a few arguments in the mines, over petty things like who gets the best tools, and who gets to take an early lunch. I¡¯ve been wondering lately what it is in their past that makes them hate each other so. I¡¯ll ask Benjamin about it soon, and hopefully he¡¯ll trust me enough to confide in me. 10 June 12th, 1869 There has been a death. One of the men who was infected with the rash passed away. His delirium got the better of him. His doctors say there was nothing to be done, he was too far gone. Near the end, his temperature flew sky high, and he succumbed to his illness. He went out screaming and pleading wordlessly with some unseen horror. Everyone heard. At least the man was unmarried. He had a rather large house for a single person, so it''s really a good thing that he¡¯s gone. We can move in another family that''s better suited to the home. A nice large family of working stock would be good for us. Lots of stupid little children to grow up into stupid workers is what we want. The education in the town is dismal for that exact reason. Raise them dumb, and they¡¯ll do anything you say. Father is... enraged. He¡¯s been speaking of my incopetency, harassing me through letters. Saying I should have wrapped up by now, when I¡¯ve barely started. He doesn''t understand how much it takes to become known and trusted in the town. There are many men with suspicious mannerisms, and constant rumours. Each day it becomes more difficult for everyone to continue work, and more people consider leaving to take their chances elsewhere. The workers don''t see that they wouldn''t be wanted anywhere else. They¡¯re already bottom of the barrel scum, and they¡¯re audacious enough to entertain the idea that they could make a life for themselves in the bigger towns and cities. I know cities, so I know that these people belong out here in the dirt and mud, squirming with the grubs and maggots that they so resemble. I just wish the weather would let up. It''s been raining and raining for such a long time, I¡¯ve forgotten the warmth of the sun. Everywhere is absolutely slicked with mud, and some of the mineshafts are hidden underwater. We already had enough problems with the recent lack of gold, and we don''t need them added to by the loss of certain passages underground. I¡¯m beginning to have suspicions that the miners could be stealing gold. I don¡¯t yet know how they could pull it off, but it would certainly explain the slump in our mining success recently. I¡¯ve asked Father to up the security around the entire town, and especially the mine entrances. If anyone is trying to sneak down there illegally, there will be severe consequences. Hopefully upping our security will help everyone fall in line. Taking a severe approach to discipline and order is the only way. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.My cabin has been even more dismal than usual as of late. The rain has flooded the cellar, so the whole place has an odour of wetness and rot. I think the ground is shifting from erosion, because my decorations have been falling off of walls and rolling off tables. Every time I try to close a door or open a window, something gets stuck because it¡¯s all so crookedly built. I despise shabby handiwork, almost as much as I despise the sounds of the animals at night. They¡¯re ravenous and savage. Coyotes yip and howl, and I can always hear them tearing some tiny animal apart, limb from limb. Some nights it sounds like it''s on my doorstep, it''s so close. And to top it all off, some kind of nocturnal bird has been screeching its lungs out lately. If I didn''t know better, I¡¯d think it was a banshee. Constantly droning and flapping in the background. I really ought to get myself a shotgun to take it down myself. At least then I might find some peace, and at the very least, it would make an interesting decoration over my fireplace. 11 June 16th, 1869 The rains have finally, finally stopped. The sun came out, and upon seeing a blue sky I was tempted to cry like a little boy. I didn¡¯t, of course, but it was a most joyous moment. The townspeople were starting to think that the endless rain was a curse. It really shouldn¡¯t surprise me anymore how stupid they are. Each time they come up with another wild tale about the earth¡¯s strange secrets, it boggles me even more than the last. The ground will take a while to dry, but it¡¯s still better than constant downpour. The mines have become quite unstable from all the mud, and we¡¯ve had a few broken legs and trapped men from collapses. There''s always another body to replace a broken one, however, so it''s no trouble. The injured men just receive treatment in their homes, because the infirmary is still occupied by the men afflicted with the rash. There¡¯s been little improvement in their condition, so I hope that perhaps drier weather will ease their symptoms. My time in the mines has been ever so boring. Since the scandal with Joe, everyone has been rather standoffish. I converse with Benjamin at every opportunity, but he too has seemed closed off. It has been utterly fruitless work, and if I don¡¯t soon pry some interesting information out of this dump, I fear that Father will disown me. The company is already running low on funds. We had to cut all the miner¡¯s pay, just so that we could keep our summer house in Newfoundland. Of course the miners are talking about their pay cut, but it shouldn¡¯t really matter to them. They were already born dirt poor, so what''s an extra few dollars to them anyway? It''s much better spent on us high class people. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.Now that the weather is improving, I can''t help but feel that all my efforts will soon pay off. Soon enough, Ralph will be capable of telling us everything that happened. Someone will go to jail, and I¡¯ll personally make sure that they rot for a long, long time. Whoever is responsible for my great inconvenience in coming here, and living like this, is sure to pay a great toll. I can¡¯t wait to see him thrown behind bars for life. There have been more serious skirmishes among the miners. A few knife fights here and there. Maybe the sun will improve their moods as well. I just want to know what they even have to fight over. Whose wife is uglier? Whose children are more sickly? Nothing they have is worth defending, so why bother at all? It just wastes hospital supplies that could be used on better men. I suppose they fight like stray dogs do; simply because they have nothing else. Nothing else to do, to be. One could expect nothing else, because they¡¯re so lowly and dishonourable as to scrap over spare pieces of meat in an alleyway. A dog can''t change its nature in the end. 12 June 22nd 1869 For lack of a better expression: all hell has broken loose. Where do I even start... my mind and body ache from the exertion of simply writing this. 3 dead. 6 injured. These numbers will likely raise before the sun rises next. The town is in complete pandemonium. Town hall is burnt to the ground. I will try to document the events of the last few days, if I can possibly put it all into words. I have never seen such incredible, palpable chaos in my entire life. First, the sun came. I rejoiced in the end of the rains, but I would have preferred they continued than this. The ground dried up unexpectedly quickly, which was nice. And then it dried up some more. The birds started singing again, but I can hear them now, coughing and screeching from the heat. The ground is cracked and dusty, the sun is relentless, the rivers are empty. We are in a terrible drought, the likes of which I have never seen. The entire world seems to be parched beyond repair, the very leaves on the trees hanging limp and thirsty. Stray animals have come into town in search of water and food. They¡¯ve become unusually aggressive and strong from their despair to find something to eat. So there have been attacks. One man hanging onto life by a thread is in the infirmary, nearly torn apart by a swarm of coyotes. A few more with bites from foxes, and one with a broken arm from a bear attack. Luckily, someone was nearby to shoot it before it devoured the poor man whole. And what''s more, these were not normal animals. Anyone could see that they were strange, sickly. I hope in my deepest soul that they weren''t rabid. Though they are just working men, I wouldn''t wish that fate on any poor soul in this world. The air around the infirmary is heavy and sweet with sickness. The remaining men with the rash are deteriorating greatly, and they are not expected to survive. One more died last night. It seems that the dry, hot air worsened their condition quite terribly. Slowly, each of their skin tightened, and cracked, and festered to nearly nothing. They lay in beds, nothing more than heaving masses of exposed tissue and flesh rotted away. The screams. I don''t even want to write about them. In what little words they have left, they use to beg for death, and in my opinion it is cruel not to deliver it. There is no chance for them, poor, poor souls as they are. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.The grave of the first man who succumbed to the rash has been disturbed. The stone demolished, and the grave dug out. I don¡¯t know what sick, evil bastard would do such a thing. He was buried with nothing. He had nothing. He lived with nothing. And still, in death, he doesn''t even have a grave. Normally, I would want to prosecute a gravedigger for such a crime, but even that is close to the last thing on my mind. With everything else happening, it seems insignificant. The mines, the mines. The water was too much for them, and now the soil above tightened and cracked with the drought. We have lost many, many passages. In the town you can feel the ground tremble and quake every time another goes down. A few men have been buried forever. God help their souls. Their families sob in the streets, on the porches of their homes. No solace will come for them. I can''t think, I can''t speak. I''m hidden in my cabin, and I fear for my life. We cannot dig new mine passages. The underground has been reduced to a heaving mass of clay and wet, wet earth. Crushing rocks. Death, death, death. Nothing but death stalks this forsaken town, these forsaken people. All is lost. There are riots. Town hall burns even now, I can still see residual flames licking through my window. I see nothing but despair in the greasy, slicked glass. Men are running about, guns drawn, torches ablaze. Women and children are locked inside or otherwise have fled. I can hear them chanting, chanting for my head and my Father¡¯s. Gunshots ring out, and it doesn''t matter anymore if the world were to run wet with rain or with my own blood. There is nothing left, nothing left. Each second passes with more screams, more fire. The police have fled, they cannot contain an army of anger. They fear not for their jobs now, but for their lives. In this moment I have never known less. All my years of education, all my wealth gives me nothing. I can only hope that the fires will go out. I can hardly blame the men for rioting. They don¡¯t know any better, they don¡¯t know who to fight against. They don''t understand that I''ve done them no wrong. They can''t see what this company has given them: a home, safety, wages. Of course, exactly the kind of men who would come to a place like this are the ones who would call for blood without knowing whose to spill. No civility could ever be expected. I won''t forget this anytime soon. I know that even in the ashes of greatness, each will get what he deserves. The time of judgement waits for no man. 13 June 23rd, 1869 The town is in ruin, and most of the miners have dispersed. Even the town guards and police betrayed us. The few who remain are enemies, not friends. They¡¯re stalking about the burnt shell of town hall, still hot and smoking from the fires. Those nasty slugs who call themselves men are pacing around in the ashes, chatting endlessly about their delusions of honour and truth. They speak of returning things to the way they were before the company ¡®ruined everything¡¯. We made the town great, and they¡¯ve gone and stamped it all to dust. Things have calmed down a little, and I¡¯ve been skirting through the town in search of a means to contact Father. He¡¯ll come and whip them so hard they forget what ease and comfort feels like when he hears of this. Those flea ridden peasants don''t even understand that there was no Deloro before us. My Father, the brave and cunning man he is, founded this town. He saw the rich, fruitful lands and put them to good use. They¡¯re walking on my land, spitting on my name. It''s all mine! They''re mine! Everything would be sitting and rotting, useless and wasted if it weren''t for ME! You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.I dare not reveal myself from the shadows until aid comes from the city. The barbarians are armed with fire and steel, and they are set on slashing and burning the world away. I went past the infirmary, and was met with nothing but silence. Even the odours of sickness have faded away. Whether those demented criminals have done something with the remaining bodies, or if some rabid animal has stolen them away, I am grateful for the end of their suffering. Upon inspection of the mine entrances, I realised how bad the damage was. They¡¯re fully sealed, and I doubt much is left of the lower tunnels, either. There are sinkholes and collapsed, muddy voids studding the roads. The same deep, cold scent as the crystal gunk spreads from the sinkhole sludge. I¡¯ve been keeping a great distance from that mess. At least I shouldn''t have to descend into the mines again anytime soon. I suspect that once Father comes, the leftover traitors will either have dispersed, or will be imprisoned. I¡¯m off to look for some kind of contact with the city, so that I can send for Father to come and remove me from this mess. I hope he will see what a mistake it was, ever sending me here in the first place. 14 June 25th, 1869 Father has come and I am ruined. Ruined, ruined. There is no saving me, for I''ve dashed away all hopes of there being decent men in the world. A few days ago I came across a mailboy and his horse coming from the city, as I thought I would. He seemed rather scared to see the town in its current condition. I don''t blame him. I sent him away with a letter to my Father, explaining the situation, and I told him to hurry, as there is not a minute to spare. He took off quickly, for the state of disaster and emergency is quite evident. This lifted my spirits, because I thought I was one step closer to getting out of here. How wrong I was. Father came, and he brought news of two things. The first: Ralph has finally spoken. It seems rather trivial now, the things he has to say. So much has happened since that initial attack. It seems like a lifetime ago. He did have some interesting things to say, but nothing of much use at this point. He hasn''t much memory of the actual events, just peculiar flashes and feelings. The doctors said it''s not unusual to have amnesia surrounding traumatising events. I''ll paraphrase his story: I saw a strange light, like a flash. I saw my own face, reflected and distorted through scarlet and silver. Heat, scorching heat. Like the Devil Himself used my bones for matchsticks. I smelled metal and blood. My outsides froze over and my insides boiled until there was nothing left. The Devil was here. Evidently, Ralph does not believe it was another man who attacked him. He can hardly be blamed, and he¡¯s been through enough. There¡¯s no need now to push him for any more info. His story sounds like the delusions of a desperate, injured man. It¡¯s sad, really. Who knows if he¡¯ll ever be the same. I surely won''t. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.Father¡¯s second piece of news is about me. I have never been delivered worse information in my life. He¡¯s done with me. Done with me. The town is gone, or going. It will be gone soon. He¡¯s gone. Gone without me. He disowned me, and called me a disgrace, an embarrassment, a failure, worthless, unworthy. He said that sending me here was his true test for me. It was all a setup. He said that I have always been subpar, and this was my last chance, and I failed. I was supposed to find the attacker, and I was supposed to restore order to the town. This was my mission, and all I did was make everything worse. I cost him the town and his dignity. I made the company look foolish. And he left me here at the edge of the road, looking after his carriage as he drove away. I have nowhere to go and not a penny to my name. There''s nobody left in town. They all dispersed before he arrived. I don''t have enough food or water to make it to the next town on foot. Nobody will be coming down the road to Deloro anymore. There is leftover food and shelter here, so I will remain. For how long, I don''t know. For now I am huddled in one of the few standing buildings. There are dry, scratchy blankets and pasty, stale crackers. I hate myself and the world more than any man ever has. If life is determined to choke me, I¡¯ll take God with me on my way Down. 15 July 2nd, 1869...? I¡¯ve been having dreams. The mail boy comes. He brings me thorns instead of ink and paper. I knock him down, but he¡¯s gone before I touch his skin. The town is sinking, and in its place a great fence of poison barbs arises. The sunlight grows dimmer with each breath. The darkness is alive. The barbs are pointed inwards. What are they keeping in? Each leaf is edged with strange light, and something is singing. Screaming? Singing, screaming, singing. It¡¯s so hot. How did I get here? A dry, dusty clearing opens up ahead. I walk and find the remains of town hall. Wind blows dirty ashes into my face. Not ashes. Not ashes. Insects. In my mouth, in my eyes. Each tiny foot as hot as a stovetop. I feel the tiny eyes staring at me, and I stare back. These are the eyes of dead men. Each one hating me more than it loves itself. I don¡¯t scream. It¡¯s too late already. I fall to my knees and the Earth melts away. She knows what¡¯s Hers, and She will always take it. The forest cackles as I descend. Water. Cold, clear, blue-green-purple-any-colour-you-want water. Do I have any skin left? Am I dissolving, enveloped in Her deathly kiss? Singing. Louder now, so that there is nothing else. The last of me slides away into that terrible, ghoulish voice. The barbs are pointed inwards. Obviously I am not well. No mail boy has really come, and no strange happenings are truly afoot. These are the subconcious thoughts of a man deeply betrayed. Someone more artistic than me could surely decode some practical meaning from these images, but I haven''t time for that. I spend my days wandering the streets looking for food and drink. I patrol the road into town in case some curious folk end up near enough to aid me. Nobody has come. To eat, I¡¯ve mostly found dry goods in abandoned pantries. Crackers, soups, and other bland peasant¡¯s food. Some potatoes. I have enough food for a week, maybe two. This is obviously a problem. It''s surely not enough to get me out of here. It''s simply too far to walk. Any gardens that I may have scrounged something from were trampled and destroyed along with the rest of town. Some good things I happened to find are a gun and a knife. Someone must have dropped them in the street during the riots. No ammunition of course, but I¡¯d still rather have the gun in my possession than on the streets. Perhaps I could manage to kill some wild game with the knife, if I get so lucky. If only I had some wire, I could set a snare. In the meantime, I must strictly ration my food. I¡¯ll gladly come close to starving if it means getting out of here. For water, rainwater has been sufficient so far, but I must search for a stream or spring for a more reliable supply. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.In my wandering around town, I¡¯ve noticed some rapid deterioration of the buildings. It''s strange how quickly the wooden boards will sink back into the mud. I suppose the ground is quite unstable from the weather changes, so sinkholes could be to blame. Unlike in my dreams, the ashes from town hall have mostly blown away. There''s nothing left but deep, damp soil where it once stood. It''s a shame that nobody will be using this land anymore. The forest is already growing back in. Grass is overgrown everywhere, and brambles are creeping across the streets. It may just be me, but it seems like there are more trees than before. Some saplings here and there, and they cast darker shadows. The leaves are a deep, dark green that almost shines when the sun hits it. The kind of green you could just drown in. The larger forests are so dense. I guess I never really looked at them before. There are so many noises that come from the forests. Sometimes far away, sometimes close. The trees hiss and whisper in the wind. Sometimes the coyotes and foxes get loud, fighting over some carcass or the other. There''s not many birds though. No songs. Sometimes I think that I hear men talking or yelling in the distance. It''s a strange feeling, wishing for someone to come save you and dreading their appearance all at once. You never know who is a friend and who is a foe. Never. Not even family, not even decent men. Not scholars, not politicians, not soldiers, chefs, men, women, slaves. Anyone might turn your words and stab your back. All people really want is to watch blood flow while they say that they did all they could. Everyone wants a hero, needs a hero, is a hero. Nobody knows how to be one, though. You can try your best to do what¡¯s right, but in the end, someone is going to hate you. Someone is going to think you¡¯re the scourge of the Earth. Someday, someone is going to look you in the eye and really see, really see. What will you say to them then? Will you stare back? Will you see them? Will you fall into yourself? Whatever you think, there''s only one truth. And nobody will ever know what it is. The screams from the woods mean nothing in the end. Each man out there is on his own. It''s between Him, God, and the Devil. Try as you might, a part of Each Of Us belongs in Hell. That¡¯s the nature of man. Whether pieces of me or my whole self will find their way down, I don''t know. I don''t think I¡¯ll be there anymore to see it happen. The creatures out there are beyond rights, laws, money, power. It is their only born purpose to exist as a wild extension of the forest, that which cannot tear or kill by itself. 16 July ? 1869 I¡¯ve been watching the trees. I sit at the edge of the forest and I stare. The little shack I had been hiding in fell over. So now I watch the trees. I think they want me to watch. They cast shade for me to sit in, they hide me from prying eyes. It''s quite nice to watch trees. You should try it sometime. Some are deep green and dark brown, and they stand solid, handsome, and valiant. You couldn''t touch that tree with a blade if you wanted to. Some trees are pale and slender. They have silvery leaves and they sway, they dance in the wind. Some are twisted and gnarled, and their leaves are mottled, near black. Don''t talk too loud around that kind of tree. You never know which ones are listening, waiting. The trees are growing, I can see them. The grass has already grown around my legs, up to my chest. Ivy tendrils are creeping across paths and up trunks, and sometimes I hear a house or building collapse under their pulling, squeezing, tangled weight. Most of the town is ivy. Dark green with little, wee pink flowers. They¡¯re quite lovely. What isn''t ivy is any combination of fungus, flower, sapling, moss. It''s rich, it''s deep, it''s unnaturally natural. You haven''t seen such a fertile, ripe place. You can smell the growing things, like a pie on a windowsill. It slaps you right in the face with aroma. The colours of all this are stunningly vibrant. I stared at a tree for so long that I saw each little vein in its leaves and crook in its bark. You''ve never seen such a tree. Sometimes I think I see little birds made of leaves and flowers dancing in the crown of the forest. Cut throat vermillion, blinding yellow, and the deepest, darkest, most mysterious emerald. I think the dehydration may be getting to me. I can¡¯t bother to get up though, not now. Not when there¡¯s so much to look at. No colours like these have ever been seen by any man. Not in all the histories of all the countries of all the world. I like to watch the little birds. They¡¯re so far away, but I see them as well as if they were perched on my hand. They haven¡¯t sung yet. The only sound is the rustling of tree branches in the wind. I¡¯m beginning to think that there was never any other sound, ever. Just wind, just trees. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.I ran out of ink. You may be wondering, how am I writing if I¡¯ve no ink? It¡¯s simple really. You see, I have a quill, and the quill has a pointed end. For now, my ink is borne of my flesh. All you have to do is take the pointed end, and you press it into your skin. Anywhere is fine. You press, and you press, and you press some more, and the point of the quill stabs and tears. And then, there¡¯s a wonderful spout of delightful red ink. You have to use a lot, but it doesn''t run out. There''s always more. You just have to keep tearing away. Eventually, you may find that the ink won¡¯t stop coming anymore. It''s really quite convenient, but take care not to stain your pages with too much ink. Oh, and don''t worry. It stops hurting once you see the eyes in the forest. 17 July/August ? 1869 I hear talking. Not from people, though. The bushes that have grown up around me are far too thick for any sound to carry. The town is gone now. The forest has swallowed it up like a bitter pill, and now the memory of it is fading. The parasites have died, and the ailment is no more. The bushes that have risen are thick and suffocating. Their branches are deep scarlet, and their leaves are near black. They have wicked, curved barbs, threatening anything that dares to get too close. The barbs, it seems, are pointed at me. I can¡¯t quite make out what the voices are saying. Sometimes it¡¯s all I can hear, and sometimes it''s barely there. It''s always present, never clear. Maybe it''s a song. It has a certain intonation, ups and downs, but it¡¯s not a sound you or I could make. I¡¯ve never heard a sound like it, but it makes me feel as if there will never be another sound again. It¡¯s louder at night. Somehow, the stars pierce the thick canopy that has grown above me. The voices seem to like the stars. They get faster, wilder at night. It never repeats the same way twice, but it''s more predictable in the day. Everything is more excited at night. The leaves flip and sway, the moss glows, and the forest comes alive with vibrations. Maybe it''s from the bugs. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.I¡¯ve found a solution to my struggle with nightmares. I¡¯ve elected to simply not sleep. It''s very effective. The days and nights all blend together, into one big stream of time spent watching trees. It gives me more time to listen to the voices. I¡¯m not hungry or thirsty anymore, and I¡¯m never too hot or cold. Every day the noises and voices grow a little louder, and a little closer. Maybe soon I¡¯ll catch a glimpse of what makes them. It must be some kind of animal. Why would there be any other people around? The town seems so long ago now. It feels like a dream, like it may never have been there at all. Perhaps this massive, strange forest is all that ever was here. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear someone saying that something isn''t right. This isn''t how it''s supposed to be. But that voice is getting quieter and quieter, while the voices from the forest draw closer, louder, closer. 18 THEY WEREN''T DREAMS I should have known. They all tried to tell me. Why didn¡¯t I listen? They said there were things in the mines, things in the forest. I thought it was all a heap of rubbish, but now I know I was wrong, wrong, wrong. There are things that bite and scratch, tear and claw. There are things that see your insides, but they don¡¯t even have eyes. There are things that will chase you to the end of the world, and hold back exactly enough that you think you¡¯ve escaped. That is when they pounce. You can try to keep your head up, your eyes open, but you¡¯ll never even get a tiny glimpse before it''s too late. They come from the sky, they come from the trees, they come from the Earth. She will send exactly what She knows will undo you. She will take you apart, piece by piece, just to hear you scream. She will put you back together, forever changed, forever maimed. There¡¯s not one thing you can do about it. Not once She decides you¡¯ve gone too far. I could have listened, I could have seen the signs. A strange animal here, a storm, a drought. Noises from the forest, noises from the mine tunnels. Pictures falling off of walls, plates flying from tables. An uneasy feeling pushed aside. Men becoming rowdy, becoming anxious, becoming dangerous. These are the things you have to look for, and I mean really look. Look with your eyes, heart, soul. Look long and hard at yourself before you become your own downfall. Look deep at the signs, because the Earth warns, warns, warns, and then She snaps. And then there''s nothing left. You can try to cut the ivy tendrils away to reveal the meat and bones of what you lost, but it will only come back thicker. It will choke away anything it needs to, to keep living, and it''s ALL YOUR FAULT. You did this. Live with it.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. You finally use your senses and see what you¡¯ve done. You see how you¡¯ve burnt everything to the ground. You see the bruises and scars you left behind. Each dark spot and red line will come back to you, traced in the skin on your face, sliced into your flesh, ground into your bones. You will fall, shattered, under the weight of your crimes. Each breath will tear the life out of your soul, and you¡¯ll deserve it. You will know, and She will know. When everything is gone, you might think that it''s over. It¡¯s never over, though. Someone will always have more to pay. Even if everyone else escapes, the one who remains pays the debts. They stack up, up, up. It¡¯s the nature of man to take, and take, and take some more. It''s madness, in a way, when the things we need are easily shared. It''s greed, money, power that are manufactured. Every wrong step you take has a consequence. Will you rise to meet it? Or will you beg the stars for mercy? 19 I¡¯ve found that I have suddenly come to my senses. I don''t know how long I sat in the grass for. Why would I do that? I could have at least spent my time walking the road, hoping for rescue. Instead I find myself only shaken from my stupor when I came face to face with a devil. I¡¯ve been trying to run away, flee, but the woods are so deep and thick that I¡¯ve only gotten myself more lost. The voices are everywhere, and I can''t see the sky anymore. I hear rustling in the bushes and I see glaring red eyes everywhere I look. There is no use in naming the devils I have seen. If they have a name, I would not dare to use it in fear of drawing one near. It was the size of a massive buck, and it was evil and terrible. It had slimy golden skin, and terrible, curled, barbed horns. It had a thin, razor-blade tail, whipping around, dripping with poison. Its claws were long, wickedly sharp, and curved enough to pluck your heart right out of your chest. Its teeth were as jagged as a saw blade, curling between its scaly lips. And it touched me. I was drifting so far away in my mind, I let it get close enough to me that its flickering, forked tongue grazed my eyelids. Its saliva is sticky as taffy, and burns like acid. I¡¯m desperately hoping that the burning will subside, that my eyes won''t be affected. Its smell was like that of the strange crystals we found in the mines long ago, but fresh. Strong. I fearIf you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. my life is truly in danger. I don''t even know what month it is, or how much time has passed. When I saw that Thing right in front of me, I bolted. I don''t know which direction I came from, but now I¡¯m surrounded by shadows, flickers, whispers. The sun is gone. Every step I take is marred by twisted roots and scraping thorns. The forest itself is hunting me, every leaf and sprig and shred of bark turned razor sharp. I¡¯m being stalked as I write. I can hear their slow, meticulous footsteps and feel the vibration of their hearts, beating faster every second in anticipation of their kill. Blood is running from my hands and arms, my flesh torn from my dash through the thickets. I¡¯m cowering between the roots of a great black tree, and even the insects of the forest are nearing me in a steady march. I can feel it. The exposure to the elements is finally wearing on me. Between hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and blood loss, I fear this may be the end for me. Each second my enemies draw closer while I lose more and more strength. Somewhere in the distance I still hear that wretched, terrible song. Nobody will look for me. Not Father, no-one. I¡¯ll remain here forever, torn apart by the evils lurking deep in the world. And I¡¯m the one that drew them out. 20 I¡¯m still alive somehow. I don¡¯t know how long they¡¯ve been hunting me, but I feel I''ve been running for years. Beasts track me through the bushes day and night, and I can hear them always just behind me. I¡¯m cowering behind a bush to rest for a moment as I write, but I can still hear them breathing, sniffing me out like bloodhounds. Sometimes I catch glimpses of their eyes shining through the thorns, and they are filled with blood and hate. My hand is drooling blood from being stabbed by my quill, but I have no other choice. I''m still writing in the hope that maybe someday, someone will find this journal and learn something from it. It won''t be long now, anyway, so why would I need the blood for anything else? The forest itself is determined to end me. I''ve almost forgotten what the sun looks like, for the choke and tangle of plants that''s crushing inwards on me. The more I run, the more I trip and get snared by vicious, bladed vines and roots. Clouds of insects invade my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my lungs. Their touch burns like embers flying from a campfire, and their buzzing is in tune with the constant drone of that terrible song. I¡¯m beginning to understand it, though it has no words. It¡¯s announcing the glee of the hunt. It¡¯s excited, chasing me deeper into these hellish woods, knowing what the end result will be. It wants my blood, and with every drop that hits the mossy floor it grows louder, stronger. Even the trees have joined in the song, and I can hear them whisper with every swish of the wind. It is the end. The temperature swings wildly from suffocatingly humid to frigid in a matter of minutes. One minute I''m slicked with mud and the next I''m coughing up dust. I''ll be drenched with sweat, and then crackling with slimy frost in a matter of seconds. The woods themselves are a predator, hunting me. Since that golden devil creature touched me, I¡¯ve grown more devilish myself. My skin has been reduced to a saggy, slimy linen draped over my bones. It¡¯s transparent, every vein and tendon visibly pulsing and sliding beneath. Any touch feels like hot iron, and my clothes tattered away long ago. Any man who saw me now would surely shoot me in fear and disgust, and I would thank him for it. I caught a glimpse of myself in a greasy puddle, and I would have thrown up if anything was in my stomach. My eyes are bulging, sickly green, and leaking with blood that dribbles down my face in rivulets. Sunken cheeks, so thin that you can see the teeth right through the skin. A mess of mashed tissues and stretched muscle, all tangled together in one disgusting, pussy, rotten heap of monstrous flesh. I think I might melt away into nothing but leftover bones. Even if I had food, I couldn''t eat it. Any touch is torture, and I fear it would fall right through me. I hope I die soon. It would be for the better. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.The only thing I have to think about is my past. There won¡¯t be a future, and the present is unthinkable. I remember being just a small boy, living at Father¡¯s estate. I remember how he never really loved me. I was never good enough for him, and I think he would have preferred to have daughters. Someone to be there, to sit pretty and be admired. He had to put effort into me, so I could go and become a competent man out in the world. But that was never what he wanted. Maybe it was because I killed my mother. My act of entering the world took her out of it, and I don''t think he ever forgave me. I''ve never even seen a picture of her, you know. He erased her, because he couldn''t stand losing her. And he erased me too. He¡¯ll tell everyone at home that he never had a son, and they¡¯ll just go along with it. He never wanted one anyway, and he made that ever so clear to me. He would always be hidden away in that big old house, in his secret rooms. I was never to ask about what he did in those rooms. One day, I picked the lock while he was out. I can''t believe I had forgotten about this until now. It was a massive room, with strange stained glass designs, and a high arched ceiling. There were gargoyles high up in each corner, and the carpet was a deep scarlet, soft and rich. In the middle of the room laid a cage. And there was a demon in the cage. It looked at me with eyes of hardened steel, deep and sharp like a blade. The room smelt of gunpowder and acid. Its glittering silver body and wicked talons crushed against the bars of the cage, and they shuddered under its weight. The room was littered with old, musty parchment with ancient sigils and writing. The demon looked at me, and I could feel it in my mind. It wanted me dead, it wanted my Father dead, and it wanted all men purged of this world. It never spoke, but it asked me to open the cage. I took a step towards it, entranced, and then the door behind me flung open. Father seized me by the collar. I can hear the way he roared at me. I can feel each bruise he left on my face, my back, my ribs. I can feel the sting of his first slap, and I can hear my own boyish cries in that hallway as he left. Father tampered with things beyond his knowledge or control, and he raised a son to pay his price. My blood is on his hands, and his soul is awaiting a fate even worse than my own. 21 Mitch, Joe. The men who died of the rash, or in the mines. Men torn apart by sickly animals. Men. Decent men, even. Unlucky men. They lived modestly, but they had enough. House, food, drink, companions. How could one ask for more? I¡¯ve seen luxury, and I''ve seen hopelessness. And now I know that nobody asks for the hand they¡¯re dealt, whether it¡®s privileged or poor. We just have to do the best with what we have. Maybe if I had thought of that earlier, I would have fallen upon a better fate. If anyone deserves a better fate, it was those men. I think they''re dead. I can hear their voices joined in the forest¡¯s song. They want me dead, too. Rightfully so. The way I treated those men, saw myself as better than them. They never deserved it. They slaved away in the mines just so they could stay alive and eat. I pitched them against the Earth Herself, in the name of money and power. Their sins are on my soul, and they know it. They want me dead so they can go to heaven. I am their unfinished business. Sometimes if I look into a puddle to see my reflection, I see their eyes staring back at me. Eyes of men who know they¡¯ve been wronged and deceived. These are eyes that see the deepest part of you and laugh at how shallow it is. The leftovers of those men hunt me along with the beasts of this forest. They egg them on, and they show the beasts how a man thinks. They''re telling the beasts how to hunt me, and I barely want to run anymore. I should just give up and let them get me. I know it''s going to happen eventually anyway. It¡¯s funny how things come back around. Once upon a time I would have been happy to never think of those men again. I wanted to leave them all behind, go back to the city. I would have sneered in glee at the thought of them down in the mines while I was out in a glamourous chariot. Now I''m glad to think they¡¯re still out there in the world, if not in a human form. I get the feeling now that they always knew who I was. I was a terrible undercover miner. I knew none of their slang, and I turned my nose up at their food and drinks. I was a pansy to work with in the mines, and my hands were soft and blistered easily. No wonder I never learned much about them. They would have seen right through me on first glance. Now they''re dead because of me. I¡¯m drenched in their blood and plagued with their cries for mercy. Condemned by their eyes, hunted by their shadows, assaulted by their whispers, and cursed with their memory. They''re still here, and they won''t stop marching forward with every beast, bug, and creature in this forest. Not until I¡¯m cast far below with the fire and the demon from my Father¡¯s room. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.I do wonder what happened to poor Benjamin. I haven''t seen his eyes or heard a whispered promise of revenge from him. His shadow isn''t here. Perhaps he¡¯s still alive. He always was a smart fellow, sharp as a tack. He had weapons to defend himself. Maybe he escaped before the town was consumed by the forest. Where he would have gone, I don''t know, but he knew his way about the country well. He was a true outdoorsman, and an honourable man at the core. Without him, it¡¯s likely that I wouldn''t have learned anything at all from the other miners. He was kind to me, even when all I ever wanted was to use him for what he knew. I hope he lived, but if he did die, I hope he made it to heaven. I¡¯m lucky to have found some time to write this down. I¡¯ve lost the beasts on my trail for the moment, but I can hear them in the distance. I can hear the song telling them how to find me, and I can feel the forest drink away my blood. The blood I''m using to write this has turned a sickly silver-green. I can see my bones through my skin, and I can see my organs shrivelling away into dark spots of rot. I don''t even know if I have eyes anymore. My skin is sliced and torn beyond repair, and each cut oozes with sticky acid. The soles of my feet are torn away from running, running, running. I am beyond food, rest, or sleep, but I will continue on. I will run until my legs disintegrate and dissolve into murky pond water. I will run until my lungs wear through my ribcage, even if every puff of air escapes through the holes. I will run even if I am just a collection of cracked, dusty bones and raw, exposed nerves. I will run. If the beasts had wanted to catch me, they surely could have by now. I¡¯ve been reduced to a sickly, decomposing corpse of a creature. I can barely see where I¡¯m going. Chunks of flesh have rotted away from my body, and the deathly white bone gleams through. I am slow and tired. But they¡¯re driving me on. Herding me further and further into the forest. They won¡¯t let me die until they decide to. I just want it to be over. Each step takes more life from me, and I can feel myself fading. At least for now I can rest a moment. There¡¯s a glowing light up ahead, and it''s not from the sun. The beasts are taking their time in catching up. It seems we have nearly arrived at the place they plan to end me. It feels like it has been years, and now I¡¯m going home. I¡¯m singing my part in the song, and it is finally complete. 22 I''m standing ankle deep in a massive pond. These are my last moments. My final act is to write this last chapter. If you ever read this, here is your warning: The Earth is not yours. She is divine. She has always been here. And She doesn¡¯t need us. It started with the glow up ahead. I walked on with the beasts not chasing me, but beside me now. My final escort. We all knew what was coming. We marched together, beast with beast. I cannot call myself a man any longer. The glow grew stronger and brighter, until it was like a blue daylight washed over the forest. Singing the whole way. Each moss and fungus glows and dances now as I stand in the water. We¡¯re at the centre of the Earth. The banks of the ponds are lined with the creatures from the deep. There are the dragon-esque ones, with glittering silver and gold skin, flicking tongues, and wicked claws. There are small birds perched in the tree branches, and they¡¯re painted colours that you¡¯ve never dreamed of. There are beetles and centipedes on every leaf, clicking and buzzing with anticipation. Their wings reflect every thought and emotion. The water stands still as glass, and as soon as I took my first step into it, I knew I''d never leave it again. It holds me by the ankles, smooth as silk but firm as iron. This is the end. In each creature I see a man I''ve wronged. One with Mitch¡¯s eyes, one with Joe¡¯s grimace. Ones with patterned skin like the rash that killed so many. They stand, solemn and unforgiving. But in a way, they aren''t cruel. They''re wild. We marched together to the edge of the pond, singing the song that now fills my ears and my mind. It told me to go in the water, and so I did. I feel the Earth here, stronger than anywhere else. The pond is Her heart, and I''m standing in Her blood. I can feel it absorbing into my veins, slowly taking over what''s left of my body. It stings and burns more than any acid, but it also relieves me. I am bathed in the Earth¡¯s essence, Her life blood, and Her power. It is too much for any mortal to touch without dissolving, and even now I can feel pieces of myself stripping away under Her touch. She¡¯s taking me home, and She¡¯s taking away my sins, my pain. I¡¯m seeing through the end I was destined ever since I first saw the beast my father held captive in our house. That beast stands here now, taller than the rest. It looks me in the eye with no anger or malice. Just peace. It knows how I¡¯ve suffered, being in a cage for so long. I will be set free of my broken body, and sent to go back among the grasses, the creatures, and the Earth. I wonder what I¡¯ll get to be next. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.The water is up to my chest now. It''s filling my lungs and pumping straight through my heart. All of my poisoned blood leaked away long ago. Everything always was leading up to this point, and it is finally here, coming to life in my death. The pool is the deepest, blue-purple colour you¡¯ve ever seen. It sparkles with starlight, and it ripples with knowlege and power coming from deep below. Soon my hands will dissolve away and I will write no more. Ink flows freely from the tip of my quill, needing no source. It''s bleeding out across the page in every colour of a sunrise. I found Benjamin. He¡¯s there, in the crowd. He¡¯s magnificent. Wearing a thick velvet cloak of deepest greens. The pattern seems to flicker and flip like leaves in the wind before a storm. He has a gold circlet round his forehead, and his hair is long and braided through with flowers and moss. His skin is tan and radiant, and his eyes shine into my soul like a beam of heavenly light. The beasts, creatures, insects, and birds are gathered around him like he¡¯s a great king. He¡¯s holding a massive, carved staff, and he¡¯s conducting the song like a master of the musical arts. He has been here forever, protecting the Earth. He will be here forever, always. The water is up to my neck now. I''m holding the journal above my head to keep it from getting wet. Soon I¡¯ll toss it clear of the water, for someone else to find someday. Maybe they¡¯ll learn from my mistakes. Maybe it''s not too late for all of us. It''s not too late to try. Stop using the Earth, stop consuming mindlessly. Remember to give back to the soil from which you sprung, and remember how far down your roots have to grow. She might let you suck up all the air and tear up the flowers and grass for now, but someday the price will be paid. It could be your children, their children who pay for it. She will bring fire and brimstone, and it will be a long, awful fight. Each step and breath will kill them a little more. And they can cry out for someone, anyone to help, but if She decides to end us all, there isn''t a thing that can be done about it. The Earth doesn''t need us, and if we continue to destroy Her, She will take us all down and remain in the aftermath, laughing. She bore us, but She will strike us from Her side if we force Her hand. I saw a strange light, like a flash. I saw my own face, reflected and distorted through scarlet and silver. Heat, scorching heat. Like the Devil Himself used my bones for matchsticks. I smelled metal and blood. My outsides froze over and my insides boiled until there was nothing left. The Devil was here It''s time now. Wake up and do something before it''s too late.