(From the pocket journal of Edgar Willard)308Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlDvqbuU4d6
Oct. 25, ‘50308Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyDsDXyGot8
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Mr. Beal has slept nearly all this day. His face is pallid and much thinner. I fear recurrence of his fever is inevitable.
While refreshing his water carafe I caught sight of two mailed letters to Mr. Tibbles in Florida. He plans to return to Christian’s Lot; ‘twill be the killing of him if I allow it! Dare I steal away to Ministers’ Corners and hire a buggy? I must, and yet what if he wakes? If I should return and find him gone again?308Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ87YCPPuSMb
The noises have begun in our walls again. Thank God he still sleeps! My mind shudders from the import of this.
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Later308Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuB3JLxqLrQ
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I brought him dinner on a tray. He plans on rising later, and despite his evasions, I know what he plans; yet I go to Ministers’ Corners. Several of the sleeping powders prescribed to him during his late illness remained with my things; he drank one with his tea, all-unknowing. He sleeps again.
To leave him with the Things that shamble behind our walls terrifies me; to let him continue even one more day within those walls terrifies me even more greatly. I have locked him in. 308Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLHAxCPmhTD
God grant that he should still be there, safe and sleeping, when I return with the buggy?
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Still later308Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7dUFW3WXxU
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Stoned me! Stone me like a wild and rabid dog! Monsters and fiends! These, that call themselves men! We are prisoners here----
The dogs have begun to gather.
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