Cherryvale, KS

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 the faint sweetness of rot, and I find it strangely comforting. There is life in decay — a kind of promise whispered only to those willing to listen.

At the hotel, I catch my reflection in the glass behind the bar, and something looks back that feels familiar but not mine. My smile lingers a moment too long. My eyes catch the lamplight differently now — the gold deepens, darkens. A patron crossed himself today when I brushed his hand collecting his coin. He said my touch was cold.

Perhaps it was.

The night comes quicker these days, as if drawn to me. The candles flicker even when the windows are closed, and the air tastes faintly of iron. I used to fear the darkness — now I think it listens.