I have to admit, dear reader, I think I may be losing it.
Don't ask me whether or not I managed to get out of town. I'm still here, clearly. Something keeps... holding me back. I live to write another day, but the days are getting short and I don't know how much longer I can stay here, safely.
With all due respect to the lovely residents of Rosier, this town is cursed.
I managed to corner the owner of the only bookstore in this town of maybe 1,000 people (if we're being generous), a shrunken half-blind old man with white hair down to his eyebrows and a stooping gait. Everything in his shop, including him, smells like mothballs and nutmeg. When I asked about the "creatures that come out at night" he shushed me loudly and led me to a more secluded part of the store where we couldn't be overheard.
He told me they were called WALKERS. Like zombies. Undead.
I know what you're thinking - "Wow, you really ARE losing it!" - but I swear on my mother, that that's what he said, with his whole chest and with strong vindication. Almost like he was expecting my first response to be laughter.
Nothing about this is funny, though, and I believe him wholly and completely.
Those things... their skin is singed and burned tar black, infinitely melting, leaving them in an endless loop of agony. Their voices are cut off here, on Earth, but ring loudly in Hell.
At least, that's what he told me.
I asked him where they came from (and why they're STALKING me) and he just waved one withered hand in the air and said "Fire."
Strange. Not Very Helpful.
They burn things when their people die...could that be it? Why would the residents want to cause their own haunting then? All these things do is cause fear.
If you ask me this town is hiding something huge. Don't get me wrong, I'd sell both my kidneys to get out of here. I've had no luck so far and everything is conspiring to have me burn too - but I can't just leave. My conscience won't let me.
You can't hear it, but I'm sighing. Deep, exhausted sighing. This trip has been long enough without adding more layers to it. It's dragging me down.
Carmen, if this reaches you, make me a cranberry cake in my honour.
- Red St Vincent, 19XX