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*Below are the preserved pages of an old journal found in a decrepit, long-abandoned house. The entries date back several decades, detailing a strange and unsettling journey. Many pages are torn or too damaged to read in their entirety, but certain fragments have been preserved.*
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**First Entry**
**March 12, 1882**
I leave these words not for myself, but for you who may follow after. My mind is still sharp as I write, though I can feel the weight of it—the shadow of a creature that cannot die, who has taken my daughter, my only child, and left me in this wretched state. Her name was Lillian, her laughter like a bell in the early morning air. But now, her absence consumes me.
I watched Khalith, the creature of whispered tales, as he stole her life with a glint of indifference in his eyes. I could see that he wasn't like us—not human, not bound by time or mortality. I spoke his name that night as a curse, as a challenge, and he heard me. I have sworn I shall see him fall. I will find a way to end him, and if I fail, I shall leave behind the record, the map, so that someone else may try.
I write to gather my thoughts and mark each attempt, each failure. For if he is eternal, then my vengeance must be as well.
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**Second Entry**
**October 14, 1886**
Four years have gone by since that night, and in that time, I have pieced together what little there is known about him. Khalith is mentioned in fragments, scraps of old folk stories, the kind mothers whisper to frighten their children into obedience. I've traveled from village to village, gathering tales and listening to old women who remember only fragments of his legend. They say he is ageless, moving from one life to the next, like a shadow that never fades.
But something else emerged in my research: an idea that he might have once been human, long ago, before he became… whatever he is now. The tales hint that he fed on something more than mortal flesh—that he grows stronger by stealing life and hope and leaving only despair.
Tonight, I will try my first ritual, found in a dusty book bound in cracked leather. It promises to bind spirits, to weaken them if they cannot be killed. I have gathered all the ingredients, waited for the right moon. I feel a flicker of hope, though it feels blasphemous in this dark endeavor. I will record the results—if I am able.
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**Third Entry**
**November 23, 1893**
Seven years have passed since my last attempt. Seven long years. I nearly gave up after the ritual failed, after Khalith mocked me, his laughter echoing like an empty bell. He came again shortly after, appearing at my window in the dead of night, grinning as if to remind me of my powerlessness. He knows I can't hurt him. He toys with me as one does with a stray dog, letting me howl and claw, knowing it's in vain.
In my despair, I turned to the drink, seeking to drown him from my mind. But no matter how I try, he finds me in every shadow. I see him on the streets, standing just close enough to see his smirk. No one else sees him. He is my tormentor alone. I fear he takes delight in this, in watching me crumble.
I must try again. I have found a new lead—a story from the mountains, a place where people say they have bound evil spirits. Perhaps he can be contained, even if he cannot be killed.
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**Fourth Entry**
**April 15, 1904**
Eleven more years have slipped by, each one darker than the last. I am no closer to my goal. The people in town avoid me, call me mad. They say I wander, muttering his name, speaking to shadows. But I do not care for their opinions. I am marked, bound to him, and nothing in this world can sever that link.
I found another ritual in an ancient tome, this one promising a way to bind him to an object. It requires blood, pain, and darkness beyond anything I have known. I traveled to the cliffs at midnight, my hands wrapped in iron chains, and I called his name into the wind. And he came, not as a man but as something else, something dark and vast. His laughter was like thunder, mocking, cruel. He stepped beyond my circle, as if it were nothing, and he left me broken, my voice hoarse from the screaming.
I returned home, weak and defeated. But still, I write. These pages are my only strength now, my only tether to sanity. If there is a way to destroy him, it lies somewhere in these words.
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**Fifth Entry**
**September 9, 1911**
Nearly thirty years have passed since that night I swore my vengeance. I am an old man now, my body worn and broken, yet Khalith remains untouched, unchanged. Time does not touch him. His face, his voice, all remain as they were.
He visits less often now, but he makes sure I know he is near. In moments of silence, I feel his presence, like a chill that settles in my bones. I tried to leave town once, to escape his reach. I traveled far, to the mountains, to the coast, anywhere I thought he might not follow. But there he was, waiting in each place, watching with that cruel amusement.
My studies continue. I am no longer certain of my methods or my reasoning, but I write for those who may come after me. Perhaps I am cursed, doomed to this endless battle, but someone else may read these words and find the answer that I could not.
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**Sixth Entry**
**June 30, 1923**
Forty-one years. I have spent more than half my life haunted by this creature, by the unending shadow of Khalith. My health is failing; I feel my mind slipping, my thoughts scattering like ashes in the wind. And still, he watches, unchanged, untouched.
I have tried every weapon, every charm, every incantation. Iron, salt, fire—nothing holds him. The priests call me mad, the doctors say it is grief that drives me. But they do not see him. They do not know the way he moves through the shadows, the way his gaze pierces the soul.
I write this final record, not because I have hope, but because it is all I have left. These pages, worn and bloodstained, are my only legacy. They are the only proof that I fought, that I did not surrender to despair.
To you who reads these words, take heed. Do not speak his name. Do not look for him in the darkness. He is there, waiting, eternal as night itself.
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**Seventh Entry**
**December 12, 1930**
It has been forty-eight years since my daughter was taken. My body is frail now, hands twisted with age, but my mind… my mind is sharper than it has ever been, haunted still by the singular purpose that drives me. I have spent these years, decades, tracing his shadow across the world. I have crossed oceans, traveled deserts, climbed mountains in search of the knowledge that might end him.
I encountered a shaman in the mountains who spoke of creatures like Khalith—spirits bound by curses, condemned to wander. I begged him for answers, for some way to rid myself of this curse. He told me that such beings live on despair, that they attach to those who suffer most deeply, feeding off their grief. But he had no way to end him, no way to free me. All he offered was a bitter truth: Khalith's power grows with every year, every life he consumes. He is not bound by the same laws as we are. He is *becoming something else*, something darker, something that may soon be beyond even my understanding.
I have grown weary, weary of these travels, these dark places. Perhaps he can sense it. I have not seen him in months, but I feel him, lingering just beyond sight, waiting, as if he knows my strength is fading. *I will not let him win.*
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**Eighth Entry**
**June 19, 1942**
I am an old man now, nearly eighty. My life has become a prison of memories, each one marked by the shadow of his presence. People around me have grown and died, generations passing as I remain, untouched by peace. I remember their faces, but none of them remain—only him, only Khalith, unchanged, untouched.
I spoke his name last night, softly, like a prayer. I am ashamed to admit it, but I felt a perverse sense of comfort. He has been with me so long; it is as though he has become a part of me, like a scar I cannot shed. I wonder if he waits for me to surrender, for me to finally accept that I am his. But I will not give him that satisfaction. I would rather die in madness than let him see me fall.
These pages are my last resistance, my last act of defiance. I write to leave behind some trace of my battle, so that others may know the depths of his cruelty, the cold horror of his gaze. And perhaps, just perhaps, they will see something that I missed.
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**Ninth Entry**
**March 8, 1950**
It has been nearly seventy years since that fateful night. My body is failing; I am confined now to my room, barely able to move. The world around me has changed beyond recognition, and yet, he remains the same. I saw him last week, standing in the doorway, watching as I lay helpless in my bed. He said nothing, only smiled, that same cold, pitiless smile that I saw all those years ago.
It is his eyes that haunt me most. They are not human, but neither are they like any beast's. They are the eyes of something that should not exist, something that cannot die, cannot feel. They hold no trace of pity, only the endless patience of a creature that knows it will outlast all things.
I have tried to warn others, but they do not listen. They think me a lunatic, a relic. I no longer care what they think. My only hope is that someone will find these pages, that they will heed my words.
*He is eternal. He is deathless.*
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**Tenth Entry**
**October 23, 1965**
Eighty-three years. My mind is a fog now, each thought weighed down by his presence. I am no longer certain if I write these words for myself or for some imagined reader. I have grown too weary to care. But still, I write. It is the only thing that keeps me tethered to this world, the only thing that reminds me I am still a man, not a shadow.
He has begun to speak to me, his voice a whisper in the darkness. He tells me that he has watched me from the beginning, that he has savored every moment of my suffering. He speaks of my life as one speaks of a well-worn book, each page turned and savored, each failure a point of delight. He has seen it all, every tear, every scream, every futile attempt.
Perhaps this is his true power: not that he cannot die, but that he can make others *wish* for death, make them welcome despair as one welcomes sleep.
To you who reads this, I beg of you—*do not seek him*. Do not let his name pass your lips, for he will come, and he will see you, and you will be his.
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**Final Entry**
**January 1, 1972**
I can barely hold the pen now; my hands tremble, my sight fades. This will be my last entry. I am nearly ninety, and I have spent the better part of a century battling him, this thing that calls itself Khalith. My spirit is broken, my life wasted, my memories fractured.
But I write still. It is the last thing I have, this act of defiance. These pages are my soul, my last hope that someone, somewhere, will heed my warning. Perhaps in my failures, you will find the answer that I could not. Perhaps you will see the path that I could not follow.
To you, reader, I leave this final truth: Khalith cannot die, but he is not invincible. He feeds on despair, on the misery of those he haunts. He grows stronger with each life he consumes, each spirit he devours. But perhaps there is a way, a way I could not see, a weapon yet undiscovered.
Remember my words. Remember his name. But do not seek him. Do not call to him. For once he sees you, once he knows you, there is no escape.
And he will come.