May 12, 2006 (late)
After this, I absolutely promise I am going to sleep. For real. Exhaustion is slowly curling its fist around me, but, given the opportunity to excavate the pantry, surveillance room, guest bathroom, parlor, kitchen, and the locked attic, I set to work after much internal debate. A note about the parlor: I swear that the light switch keeps moving. Seriously. The surveillance room was in order (order meaning utter shambles—as I last saw it). The flickering screens were quite eerie. I would see a shadowy figure emerge from the static in the corner of my eye and a moment later it would disappear. I would hear footsteps and low murmurs somewhere distant, but the moment I paused, straining to make out the sound, only silence. The guest bathroom was still set up as a temporary bedroom, as I had organized it the previous eve, although the ebony-toned feline took a shining to my nest and set up residence on the pile of porch cushions and towels is had amassed. Upon my arrival, it lazily lifted its head, took a moment to leer at me, and returned to its slumber. The pantry was sporting little change, save for the addition of more journal entry shreddings…This brings up a point: once I give an exhaustive sweep of the area, all the pieces are gone. I come back, and there are more to uncover. Logically, this would mean that either someone (or perhaps some*thing*) is in possession of the entire diary, and when I leave a room, whoever it is scatters new treasures. I am guessing that this is the same overseeing force which magically forces upon me a wave of overwhelming vertigo whenever I attempt exploration of a room which I have been forbidden to enter. Or there's my other theory: I am simply not searching well enough. But if that's the case, then why am I only finding the pieces that match, instead of a hodgepodge of all sorts of scraps, each irrelevant to the other? It is most peculiar. The pantry was warm, which was a pleasant change from the chilly atmosphere of the rest of the house, and the small colony of bats was seemingly delighted to see me, expressed by shrilly squeaking upon my entrance. On the other hand, perhaps they were enraged at my arrival and were taking an opportunity to loudly curse at me in bat. The kitchen was still needing to be searched, and yielded food as well as the sought after diary scraps. Finally, I trudged on towards the attic. This lock was perhaps the most peculiar so far (and yet I seem to find myself saying that about each one I solve). I pointed an arrow, each with a different symbol, towards a miniaturized skull emblazoned with a matching number. This then allowed me to summon a small mechanical yodeler into a diorama. As the yodeler climbed higher, a hammer fell, which smashed open the head of a porcelain doll. The doll's head revealed a key. The attic is cold, dark, creepy, and full of I don't even want to begin to ponder what; it's so dark, it's a wonder I found all of the necessary paper scraps. I left, feeling no urge to linger. From what I could reconstruct of Emma's diary, By June 10, 1895, her ailment remains undiagnosed and she passes her time scanning the pages of medical encyclopedias for answers. On the bright side, she is now sure that she has not fallen ill of yellow fever, from which many have passed. Charles, though ever benevolent, has become withdrawn, and she hears the most peculiar sounds emanating from his workshop late at night. Emma spends the greater part of her time resting in the hope that perhaps it will assist in curing her malady. When she is not convalescing, she explores the manor. Although beautiful, she notes that Charles has filled it with "an absolute horde of varied nonessentials!" If my instinct is to be believed, this accounts for the clutter upon which I am constantly stumbling. How odd…