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Journal Entry – November 1, 1871 The book hums again. I hear it when the house falls still — that low vibration, soft as breath pressed against the ear. It follows me now, even outside these walls. This morning I walked to town for lamp oil and flour. The streets were already muddy from the night’s rain, wagon wheels cutting deep ruts that glistened in the pale sun. At Adams Hardware , Baxter was fixing a hinge behind the counter, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. I smiled and

Journal Entry – November 1, 1871 The storm broke before dawn. The streets ran thick with mud, streaked by horse tracks and the color of old blood. I hadn’t slept. The coins still whisper when I move them, though I’ve stopped listening. When I reached for my satchel this morning, something new was inside — folded neatly beneath the clasped leather, pressed flat like a secret waiting to be found. At first, I thought it was one of the old notes I’d kept from my travels. But the

Journal Entry – October 30, 1871 The eye no longer sleeps. It watches even when the candle burns out. This morning, I found the pouch on the windowsill, though I swear I left it beneath the floorboards. The coins lay arranged in a perfect circle — every mark facing inward, all but one. The half-eye glared up at me, the etched pupil now darkened with something that wasn’t shadow. When I blinked, it gleamed wetly, as though freshly carved. The mirror across the room fogged, tho

Journal Entry – October 29, 1871 The coins are fewer tonight. I counted them again by candlelight — six where there should have been seven. One gone, without sound or thief. Only a faint hollow on the bar where it once lay, as if the wood itself remembered the weight. Baxter Adams stopped by this afternoon, sleeves rolled and jaw tight. He said he’d heard something strange near the hotel before sunrise — metal against earth, like someone working a shovel in wet clay. He tried

Journal Entry – October 28, 1871 The last of the men stumbled out with the rain, leaving only the echo of their laughter and the stale perfume of whiskey. I wiped down the bar in silence, watching the candle burn low, the wick curling like a dying thing. The storm outside had softened to a whisper, but the air inside still trembled — as if waiting. That’s when he arrived. Not the stranger — not quite. This one wore the look of a man carrying someone else’s message. His hat dr

Journal Entry – October 27, 1871 He speaks now. Not through sound — through suggestion.  Words that bloom inside my mind like smoke. I can feel them settle behind my eyes before I understand their meaning. Last night, the mirror shuddered in its frame, and the frost receded — not melting, but retreating, as if something on the other side no longer needed to hide. His outline stood sharper than ever, and when I reached toward him, the surface gave way like water. He asked for

Journal Entry – October 20, 1871 Sleep refused me again. When I finally drifted off, I woke to find the clasp not on the table where I left it, but on the pillow beside me — open, the lining pulsing faintly as if something beneath it breathed. The mark on my palm glowed like it remembered his touch. I can hear him when the room goes still. Not footsteps, not breath — but something quieter, threaded into the hum of the walls, as though the wood itself repeats his name. Every t

Journal Entry – October 19, 1871 He’s back. I knew it the moment the lamplight dimmed without warning, as if the flame itself bowed to an unseen hand. The air changed — thickened — and the scent of rain-soaked wool crept through the cracks of my door. That same scent from the night of the storm. The stranger. I found him standing in the hallway outside my room, hat in hand, eyes like river stones — smooth, unreadable, reflecting nothing. He said he’d left something behind. I

Journal Entry – October 20, 1871 Cherryvale, Kansas The wind woke me before dawn, a thin, reedy whine slipping through the cracks like a voice searching for shape. The room was still — too still — and for a moment I thought it was only the storm returning. But the sound was coming from beneath the floor. A whisper. Soft. Threaded with breath. It rose and fell like someone murmuring through cloth — words just beyond comprehension. I lit the lamp and watched the shadows crawl a

Journal Entry – October 21, 1871 (The Whisper and the Mark) The clasp will not quiet. I found it again this morning where I’d left it—on the small table near the window—but the light from the curtain made it shimmer like something alive. I reached for it without thinking. The moment my skin met the metal, the mark on my palm answered. A soft heat first, then a pulse, as though the two shared a single breath. It isn’t just a trinket. It’s listening. When I close my hand around

Journal Entry – October 19, 1871 The man from the storm left this morning, though I could still smell the rain on him long after he’d gone. He said little — men rarely do when they fear what they can’t name. But I watched his hands as he packed. They shook, just enough for truth to tremble through his calm. When he settled his account, he placed a small leather pouch on the counter instead of coin. I knew before I opened it that it wasn’t payment in any honest sense. Inside w

Journal Entry – October 17, 1871 The book no longer hums — it breathes. When I touched it last night, the air in the room thickened, as though every shadow leaned closer to listen. The candlelight wavered, but not from any draft I could feel. I spoke aloud, softly at first, words that were not my own but came unbidden — syllables that curled and folded like smoke. The room seemed to answer. The flame stilled. The hum deepened, slower now, pulsing beneath my skin rather than t

Journal Entry – October 14, 1871 I waited until morning to touch it. The satchel sat on the bar all night, untouched, though I could feel it watching me. Every so often it let out the faintest hum — not a sound exactly, but a pressure, like when thunder rolls far away and the air forgets how to breathe. At dawn, I unlatched it. Inside was only a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth, bound tight with black twine. The knot was perfect, deliberate. I almost didn’t want to break it.

Journal Entry – October 13, 1871 The storm came without warning — no wind, no scent of rain to herald it. One moment the air was still, and the next it was trembling. I had been closing the shutters at the hotel when the first bolt struck, white and clean, splitting the sky in two. The thunder that followed rattled the bottles behind the bar and made the lamps flicker like they feared the dark. By the time the stranger arrived, every man inside had turned his chair toward the

Journal Entry – October 14, 1871 I stopped into the hardware store this morning under the pretense of needing a new latch for the back door. Truth was, I only wanted a closer look at Baxter Adams . The bell above the door gave a nervous little ring as I entered, and there he was — sleeves rolled up, sawdust clinging to his forearms, eyes that tried to be steady but told another story. The Adams family has the kind of goodness that begs to be tested. Baxter most of all. He gre

Journal Entry – October 11, 1871 Something stirred beneath the soil last night. I heard it while I slept — a slow, deliberate shifting, like breath through damp cloth. I woke with my pulse keeping time to it. Even now, the rhythm lingers in my chest, steady as a drumbeat in the earth. The land around Cherryvale is restless. I can feel it each morning when I walk toward town, the ground soft underfoot as though it remembers every grave that has ever been dug. The air carries t

Journal Entry – October 10, 1871 My first day behind the bar has proven more revealing than I expected. The men here drink like it’s...

Journal Entry – October 9, 1871 The road into Cherryvale is little more than a vein of mud and clay, slick from last night’s rain. I...

Journal Entry – October 7, 1871 The air clings like wet gauze, thick with the rot of leaves and the slow decay of something unseen...

Journal Entry – October 6, 1871 The chill in the air carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves; a hint of smoke wafts from...