By Cameron Miller
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Tuesday.
April 17, 1922.
New Journal. New Day.
I’m currently writing this on
the train ride back home. Apologies for any mistakes of messy writing. The ride
is rough. I wonder what wanders on the tracks at just the right time for these
bumps.
Been six years since I was
called from the restraints of the manor. Was not able to greet the new owners
when they moved in. Been four years since the war drums and guns stopped
firing. The silence was so much worse than the constant rifle fire and the
colorless stench of gas. Sometimes I wish the Grandest conflict had never
concluded. It was an experience most certainly. Stayed a little too long
overseas.
Been two weeks since my last
journal was destroyed. I lost several during the war without being given the
chance to give them their proper dues. But the last one was robbed from me. I
only ask for forgiveness for losing it. It must sting for a vagrant thief to be
writing in my sacred journal, but I assure you that every second in silence is
my penitence. And I have much to pay for.
Oh, I must apologize for this,
but it appears that I am near my station. I will write some more further
tonight. Wish we had more time now, but soon I will have more than enough for
the record. I await the warmth of the Bramblewood.
Wednesday.
April 18, 1922
I must apologize for the lack
of an update yesterday. The hours since I returned home have been hectic. I can
barely believe the sheer audacity of that man.
I write this rage in grasp and
every stroke of the pen may just break in twain. The manor’s exterior has
remained fairly similar to how it was when I left. Grey decaying wood covered
with the loving creeping touch of the Bramblewood vines. Fine wooden vines that
wrapped the manor from the ground to the roof. However, it seemed like none of
it had grown. Many years ago, the staff of the manor was tasked to keep the
Bramblewood growing, and I was tasked to survey them. My mind just guessed that
the Bramblewood had just reached maturity on the Manor walls.
Then I saw the men working on
the side of the manors. Men with hatchets and rakes were sliced apart from the
beloved Bramblewood from the east wall of the Manor. They were carrying pounds
of the poor plants. My heart dropped when I saw this horror.
I walked up to the men, greeted
them, and asked why they were committing their heinous acts. They just shrugged
me off and continued their work, ignoring my pleas for mercy. I kept yelling
and when one of them greeted me, he yelled at me. Told me to get off his case
and go talk to a “Baron Donner” inside if I had a complaint with their work. I
did consider punching him to a bloody pulp but restrained myself. Not the time
or place for that.
I walked into the manor’s
halls. I thought the destruction of the Bramblewood would be the worst part of
my day. I did not expect how much I would come to loathe Donner.
In these writings, I will not
be giving him the title of “Baron”. The past owners were far more worthy than
the title. They were kind, gentle, and respected the true wishes of the manor.
And they had apparently “passed peacefully” while I was away. Donner probably
laid a hatchet in their skulls to take over this glorious place.
This— demon in human form is an
infection in my beloved manor. The Baron’s face is constantly decorated with
smiles that cover up anger and hatred. Traveling the world during the war
taught me the difference between a real smile and a false one. There is not a
single inch of his tongue that does not spew out venom with his speech. None of
the other aids who lurked here while I still lived here are around anymore. He
claims that they left, but I know that it would be an idiotic move to even
consider walking away from this elegant manor. What does he take me for? A
rotten roach?!
Apologies once more, but the
desire to punch him straight in the face. What once was a group of the most
loyal butlers and servants is now filled with young and inexperienced hands. I
suspect these new aids were picked more for their appearance and prior
relations with this Baron than for any love for this sacred place!
Ugh. Apparently, the old owners
of this beautiful place left something in their will about leaving me the
Basement of the Manor. As I write this, I sit next to a blazing boiler on cold
concrete. The Baron has me working like he is trying to kill me from exhaustion.
He clearly hates my presence and my arguments against his vision of what this
place should be. The only light is a small window with pale moonlight glaring
through. Reminds me of when I was stationed overnight in the trenches. Sleeping
here is almost just as comfortable as here. Ha.
Thursday.
April 19, 1922.
Nothing major to report. Baron
is still a petty little nuisance. New Aids are mostly incompetent. There is one
that can make one sweet roast chicken. Some young lady named Sarah? I think
that’s what her name is. My hearing can be rather shot at times.
Overheard rumors of a secret
door in the basement. Impossible. I have known every single board and inch of
this manor for decades. Unless that Baron added some secret passages while I
was away, this is a complete lie.
Friday.
April 20, 1922.
Pretty sure the other aids hate
me already. I already hated them, so I guess it balances it all out. Maybe
being a 45-year-old Butler and Groundskeeper with already graying hairs and
weary eyes in a manor full of people who look like they have barely passed 24.
Wait. Am I 45?
Eh, it doesn't matter. Never
was good at tracking that kinda thing.
Talked with the young Sarah.
Well, apparently her name is Emily? Maybe I was talking to the wrong person?
Ugh, my head feels like I took a rain of bullets today. Sleeping on concrete
might be the death of me.
Interesting observation;
however, the Baron is married. Quite the surprise. Could’ve sworn I heard the
sounds of rotten cheating near the Master Bedroom. Add Cheater to that list of
things that filth is.
Going to start organizing a bed
of cardboard tonight. Cannot sleep on concrete anymore.
Saturday.
April 21, 1922.
I found the door. I know why
you two gave me this Basement. This is grand. I knew that the rotten Baron was
not the true ruler of this manor. My liege, I write this in my blood and swear
upon it: that man will suffer for what he has done to you.
Sunday.
April 22, 1922.
More sounds from near the
Master Bedroom tonight. Apparently, one of the lady aids had been visiting the
Baron in the dark hours.
Found her near the kitchen in the night.
Young lady was stealing my snacks. MY SNACKS I KEPT IN THE BRAMBLEWOOD.
Monday.
April 23, 1922.
That found that lady in a ditch
outside the Manor, covered in the Bramblewood. Police report that her blood was
drained. I always wondered what blood tastes like.
Police are all across the
mansion, taking statements from aids. Heard a few of those scum daring to say
that I was responsible. Made me want to throw them out of a window. Had to
restrain myself.
Police are taking the Baron
down to the station for some questioning. Or maybe he just wants to look at the
body. Maybe he fancies himself a detective. Can you imagine that? That poor,
pathetic man as a detective?
You, my liege, would make an
excellent detective though.
Tuesday.
April 24, 1922.
Baron came back today covered
in blood and screaming at the police. I bet he stabbed an officer. He says he
fell into a patch of Bramblewood and found another body. These accidents would
never happen under your careful watch.
More fingers are being pointed
at me. Going to hide away in the Manor’s basement. The Police are annoying like
mosquitos or bullets flying around. Stole a blanket from the Baron’s room. It’s
mine.
Update before I go to sleep.
Police claim they have a scrap of my clothing on one of the dead bodies.
Tomorrow's going to be unpleasant.
Wednesday.
April 25, 1922.
This may be the end, my liege.
I’ve barracked myself in the basement with a legion of cardboard walls. The
police keep breaking through with ease. If only I had taken some barbed wire
from the trenches. Cannot keep writing for too long. Gotta keep moving.
I’m going to move further into
the Basement towards you, my liege. You’ll protect me, right? You and your
Bramblewood will save me. I just know it.
Thursday…It
doesn’t matter anymore.
I knew you would come through
with me in the end, my liege. You and your Bramblewood form. The wood that made
up your flesh ripped them all apart. You sliced them apart when they came to
take me away. I have to keep the blood from dripping onto the page, heh.
How I adored watching you rip
them all apart, especially that Donner. I think I got some skin and blood on my
fine suit. It’s fine, my liege. These clothes won’t matter soon.
I give myself to you, true king
of this manor. I give myself to your eternal existence under this manner and
the nerves of yours we call the Bramblewood. I write this to honor your
existence. And now I shall join you into an eternal servitude under your reign.
And this world will one day learn of you when they find you again. And if
someone besides my liege is reading this, I thank you. In fact, I’m sure we’ll
be meeting each other soon enough.
About the Author
Cameron Miller loves creating things of the Bizarre, Strange, Comedic, Horrific, or whatever. He likes reading comics in his free time, learning about Mythology and Folklore, and drawing while occasionally going into writing. He currently hopes to go into a field of Library Sciences. Also He is currently hunting Mothman. This is a Warning to Mothman.
