The Diary: When a Nightmare Becomes Reality (IC)

It starts on a day that you just want to vent; a day that you wish you had somewhere to channel everything you’ve been holding back; a day you hope for a diary. Your wish comes true, but at a price. Little do you realize that you’ve entered something that makes all your imagined chaos a reality. The signs leading to the inevitable are brushed off as mild paranoia or schizophrenia; nightmares plaguing some, their master haunting the others. Even you don’t see it for what it really is. Those who could help you at all are no longer around to explain.

But have no fear, it doesn’t start right away. Your supposed insanity starts showing up little by little; each person taking everything differently- but it all started with the same thing.

Those who write in the Diary for the first time may notice other entries in the beginning; all assuming that they were made before they had come into possession of this Diary, but they’re wrong- dead wrong. These entries were made earlier that day or the day before by people with similar looking journals in gloomy situations. By the time one would come around for their second entry, they’d see that something was wrong- another had written in the diary after them. But how was that possible? Some of these people were on the other side of the world, yet there it was.

It’s all possible, it’s happened many times and will continue to happen until the secrets are out in the open. Teenagers trying to cope with some of the toughest issues they’ve ever faced are communicating through a Diary. Some are skeptical, yet those without stability often go for it immediately.

You may be wondering how a Diary could hold such potential, or you might be going one step further to be thinking about their creation, or what would happen when these side effects hit their peak. The few who have learned about the nature of the Diary and survived have dreaded what would happen to the poor souls who fell victim to the Diary Master, an unknown calling himself “The Wandering Nightmare”. Although his name isn’t necessarily fearsome, his abilities and intellect aren’t anything to joke about. The creation of the Diaries was a simple domino for the Nightmare- his plot known by few.

The side effects of the Diary- something that increases in intensity over time- are due to a chemical inserted into the binding of the books that flows through the veins of the pages and into the body of any close enough to inhale the fumes it releases. Constant exposure can turn the effects into permanent plagues, eventually capturing the free will of the writer for the Nightmare. For those attempting to avoid the Diaries at all cost, that wouldn’t be recommended. The chemical, to be referenced now as Britonic Acid, is highly addictive. Escape can only be found through sleep or death, two routes that shouldn’t be experimented with. Britonic Acid also finds its ways of sneaking the Diary into your life where it hadn’t been before.

Oh, but what’s this? A vial full of a metallic violet-red liquid has found its way into your life. It never seems to be more than five inches away from your recently acquired journal and smells of rust. You wouldn’t dare taste it, but something inside you begs you to keep the fluid.

………………………………................

Summary:

You are a teenager who’s going through a tough time. You find a diary. People have already written in this diary, but you brush any weird feelings away because they can’t write anything there now. You’re wrong. By the time you go back for your next entry, someone else has written after your initial writing. At first, you think it’s a trick, or you’re seeing things. Then you start to realize that you and several others are actually communicating through this Diary; this addicting, unexplainably haunting Diary. You start getting nightmares, seeing things, second guessing your judgment about everything you were once sure of, and hearing a voice in your head that makes you wish you could leave your consciousness behind. Then you notice the vial (to figure out about this vial, read the last paragraph of my larger explanation). It’s up to you to figure out what’s going on here and save your sanity before you blow your brains out.
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Alrighty... so sorry for the wait... I'll get up Arianna's post in a bit... for now, I'll have a small excerpt from the Nightmare as I shall be controlling him and adding little bits and pieces of his situation all over the place.

..............

The pacing of the room had become dreadfully repetitive, his head swimming with his recollection of those times; back when he was naïve and far from being able to finish off the people who had made a mockery of his purpose.

Sure he was the ruler of The Edge. Sure, most of his subjects had forgotten the incidents; but he hadn’t. No, those memories were brought up every few seconds, his suffering living throughout the years only to embed itself in his consciousness once again.

But now, now he had a plan. Usually never the one for schemes, he felt quite pleased with himself, a twisted grin the only clue into this emotion. However, even this expression was hidden by a long black cloak. Most who knew him only knew of this to be part of his costume, his true appearance rumored to be uglier than he would let on, but he knew this to be a lie. No, he didn’t want them to see his face, his violet eyes the only things he could not hide. For, if they did, they’d know the face of their conqueror, the face of the one to push them on. There was no way he could allow that to happen. Once his identity was to be compromised, his way of living would turn to shambles.

The skies flashed yellow, a sign that he had a visitor; an unwelcome visitor who needed to be “welcomed” in the way of the Edge. He walked, or rather levitated, to the window, the local market operating beneath it. Lake Echo’s waters were clouded with murky bulbs full of a thick milk-like material. There were few places in which the liquid of the lake could be seen, a color crossed between a dark metallic gray and a burgundy color only a few shades lighter than what could be known as blood.

“Your majesty?” Interrupted a butler dressed as if he were the maitre d at a French restaurant, or at least the stereo type of one as such.

He nodded to the man, annoyed by the fact that his thoughts were disbanded from something that hadn’t even knocked. In a venomous tone, he added, “Yes?”

“The hermit is here.” The butler announced.

An expression of surprise crossed the face of His Majesty. He hadn’t quite expected the hermit, especially not now. “Well, send him in.”

“Actually, sir,” the butler shook, not wanting to correct his master, “this is the female hermit. You know, the one who lives nearest to the Southern Lake Echo?”

“Eris? Why would she be here?”

“I don’t know, sire.”

“Send her in immediately. She’s bound to have something… interesting to say,” His Majesty responded, a twisted twinkle in his eyes.

…………………..


A few minutes later, a woman in stained but whole clothing entered the chamber, a basket with several vials of liquid within it. He knew not what was inside, nor how it was to work, but there was always some catch when Eris was involved. He stood to greet the woman, sticking out a fully fleshed hand before him to grasp the frail one of her own; skeletal in essence but still strong. How could a woman of her poverty level be so strong?

But there was no time to start pondering such a mystery of life for her sultry voice had started its hymn of sorrow, “Your Majesty must get morale or thy peasants will repent. Your Majesty must get them back on his side. Your Majesty must not fall from his pedestal. Your Majesty must keep history from restarting. Your Majesty must get morale or they peasants will repent. Your Majesty must get them back on his side. Your Majesty must not fall from his pedestal. Your Majesty must keep history from restarting…” and she continued, her voice not sounding similar to anything he had heard from her before.

What had possessed her to say such blasphemy? There were none to take over his empire, none at all. Any who dared get to close without his consent was immediately taken into custody, any who took a breath with the air of rebellion were executed; any who dared defy his orders were sentenced to the Horrors. No base was left uncovered and he was completely safe. Yet, Eris had never been wrong before. As the chosen Oracle, he had made sure of the accuracy of her predictions. Yet, there must’ve been some fault in her words, something that made all that she said a lie, a prophecy of some other empire far away or a foretelling of something not nearly as serious. Yes, that must be it- for there was no other explanation.

“Eris, stop.” He bellowed, unsure as to how venomous he had wanted to sound in this situation.

She looked blankly in his direction, more towards a vase that sat on a table beneath a window on the other side of the room than towards him. Her senseless chanting had stopped, her expression looking completely missing, dumbfounded and mad alike.

Ken was cooped up in his room, with nothing but a covered window and a desk, papers defiling it every which way. He didn't look his best, unshaven and clearly malnourished, the man's been in the same room for a week. Currently, he was sitting on the bed, staring at the digital clock at sat on the table next to his bed. There was utter, insane silence, until the door to his room began to rattle, a few rough knocks and the sound of his friends on the other side.

"Ken!" They had called out, while the dark-haired man simply sat there. Eventually, he moved, stood slowly and sauntered over towards the door, cracking it open. His friends stood in awe of what they saw was left of his friend. "C'mon buddy, you gotta get out of that room," Englishmen were his friends, living here to teach English to rich Greek kids. One of them placed a reassuring hand on Ken's shoulder. "There's a party out at the beach, You wanna come?"

"No," was Ken's answer.

"I don't care, you're coming," His friends tugging him out of the room and down his stairs to face the brightly lit kitchen and every other room save for his bedroom. They would get him out of the house if it was the last thing they did. This depression kept hitting Ken once every year, around the time his wife died.

A couple of hours later, the four friends were heading down to the beach where a crowd of people were either dancing or spending time walking around the beach. At sunset, the area was beautiful, but also depressing if one didn't have a couple to spend the evening with. Eventually, while his friends were hitting up numbers from a few bikini-clad girls, Ken wandered off. Away from the crowd, away from the noise. He walked far enough so that the only thing he could hear was the waves crashing and the muffled sound of voices of the party, as well as the music.

What he came across was a dark cave, too dark now that the sun has set, it wasn't deep, he could see the other end of it. There were cigarette buds littering it, a few empty bottle of alcohol, and what's that in the corner? Slowly, kicking up sand, Ken approached what looked like an old book. He bent over, lifted it up and brushed the sand off the thing, gazing at the simple brown leather cover. Slowly, he unlatched the hook to open it, and looked down at the several pages of written work. He didn't read it in the cave, it was too dark, he just looked it open, flipped through it, re-hooked it and tucked it in between his arm.

Ken was about to leave the dark dwelling until he saw something glimmering in the other corner. Some sort of vial filled with a liquid. It looked far more surreal than a typical party night at the beach. So Ken just left the little glass in the corner and left with the book in his arms. When he returned, his buddies were all at the bar, drinking it up, so he decided to join them. No one ever took notice of the old book he found, no interest in garbage found at the beach, but Ken had a feeling this wasn't just any book or journal. He'd have to read it when he got home, and home was the only thing on his mind right now. Too bad, his friends weren't allowing him to leave.

((I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this done, but here it is.))

Marietta

"...And to my youngest and most beloved treasure, my only granddaughter, Marietta Nicolya Dulviar Kiepersol Rosewood, I leave my entire worth. Your Abrella and I did agree that the abbey would be better held in your sweet hands, and the Dulviar wines will never lose its spirit with your everlasting love.”

Eyes wide in disbelieve…all of them that encircled the wide screen projecting Horacio’s immortal face. Her breathing intensified at all the mixed reactions to her late grandfather’s announcement through his video will: Marietta, only eighteen of age and barely managing her own whirlwind life, is now heiress to the Dulviar Italina Estate Wineries in Orbetello, Italy; and all of their sister estates around the world. This also included her Abrello’s shares of her own family’s wineries - The Kiepersol - Rosewood Vineyards in Tyler, Texas.

Her parents were ecstatic, viewing the proceedings via e-video conference, and her Abrella Locendia, smiled brightly beside her with eyes deep and resonating – a splitting image of her own. Marietta dropped her eyes, still damp with sorrowful tears. Flipping through the file folder before her holding her copy of the will in written form, she’d found that particular passage – the one under her name – and gasped upon rereading silently several times. The papers dropped loosely from her limp hands, feathering onto the heavily lacquered cherry wood table before her, in the office of her newly acquired library.

Her Italian grandfather Horacio, God blessed his soul, loved fine books and fine wine, which was why he held such a remarkable winery, and had a rather exclusive collection of masterpieces. A few he’d published himself, but others he’d obtained - just because. All of this – every bit of it, was what Marrose grown to love as well, since they were the only things held in her heart with meaning. Now, at his passing, she lost her philosophy instructor, her favorite bookworm, and the only person in her family that allowed underage drinking - with care.

Abrello, Abrella; music and wine and books and sand; was why she’d never complained when her parents shipped her away to Orbetello every waking moment. Their business kept her mom constantly away, and the Marines claimed her father like their half-blooded stepchild. She’s spent so much of her early development and childhood surrounded by the salty sprays of the lagoons surrounding the estate. She’d even forgotten that she was also native to the U.S., and that hideous East Texas drawl was lost to pronounce rolling R’s. She’s attended more grades in Italy than America, spoke fluent Italian like a native, had more friends here, went of trips with them, had beach parties; just like any other teenager in The States would… But, back in Tyler – it just wasn’t the same. There, she was always sickly. The heavily pollen atmosphere in Texas affected her allergies severely, threatening to cause an asthmatic attack; another reason why she loved Italy.

Marrose loved Italy…loved her grandfather, but this was taking that love way too literally. She felt very uncomfortable receiving such a large portion of his hard working, more than her two older brothers combined, or any other grandchild of his. She could still feel their eyes upon her, wide in disbelief, and anger, jealousy - with vengeance.

“She’s only eighteen. The world hasn’t gotten a hold of her by its teeth yet! How can she handle running a company of this magnitude?”

Her older brother Darwin, a chemical engineer student at NYU, showed his greediness for the bright lights and worldly fame fueled this rant. “She hasn’t graduated, hadn’t started college, never worked - or managed – a decent job in her life. There’s no way she can manage such a global corpora…”

“She will be under me!” Locendia tucking her closer under her wing felt the stares as well. It was the most uncomfortable moment in Marietta’s life, even in her Abrella's arms; she was scared. It’s just – she’s never heard such a heavy tone from her soft-spoken grandmother before. And the fire in her eyes – evaporating the pools of tears pooled in her eyelids. “She will be under my tutelage, as well as under the watchful eye of our loyal partners. You remember the Salvatore and the Selosse Families?”

Darwin sighed, sitting back in his chair with crossed arms. He knew she was never going to be alone in this venture; but she still felt that he, his older brother, Kendal, or even the only other grandchild, their much older cousin Donovan Dulviar, would be a better candidate for this. But, arguing would not change anything now.

Locendia slowly stood to her feet, showing just how taxing this last week had been on her 82 year old form. “Now, let’s continue these proceedings quickly, and with no more interruptions.” A sharp glance towards the young men in the room guaranteed there would be no more debates. “Dinner will be complete soon, and I know we all need a moment to relax.”

*****

When the reading of the will was over, and everyone had left to attend to themselves for a moment, Marietta finally had time to mourn in peace. Eventually, after crying over her new inheritance, lying on the Persian rug under Horacio’s desk, she dried her eyes and stood up. She feared what this blessing would cause her family. Her brothers, they both looked at her as the spoiled brat who gained anything she wanted, always traveling where ever she wants to go – which was all a lie. She was the youngest of the three. It was easier for their parents to send her to Italy while Kendal and Darwin remained home helping with the estate and staying with the Wine Master’s family. It wasn’t her fault that her parents babied her. It was all due to her asthma. But their hateful glances and greed infested attacks were not going to force her into despair. No, she would not give up so easily. That’s one thing Horacio taught her was to not let the bad outweigh the good; and even if it did, not to take it to heart for it would drown her.

She climbed the circling staircase to the third balcony, finding her favorite reading hideaway. She slipped her slender form between a wall full of books, and a cut-a-way holding a cherry wood stand with the bust of Shakespeare. Behind it stood a red curtain, and beyond that, a hidden door. Horatio presented this hidden office to her on her 16th birthday, when once again her parents were sent off to wars - Desert Shield and the global stock markets. Here, she secured her favorite books, the ones she tends to reread over, and over again just to release herself from the life she wish was different; and her special paintings of the landscapes she has always called home.

The room was small, only fitting for a nursery, but it held nicely a small daybed, shelves, a lounger, an easel and a small, oval table, and a roll-top writing desk. The small oval window indicated that this room sat on the upper west tower of the estate, the Solace. It was just right for her to read, sleep, daydream, write, draw...

The light flashed on, giving the room a lovely golden glow, and her favorite stuffed animals seem to perk up when it touched their glass irises. Marrose smiled. It was nice to see their comforting smiles on such a dismal day. She turned around to cross the room towards her desk, but something on her day table caught her eye. A hand-bounded, crimson colored book laid there. It did not tell her anything of its contents by first sight, like most books do. Its cover was bare. She moved closer, and suddenly the most delicate script of gold seemed to land upon it, speaking the word, Diary.

Marietta lifted the journal carefully, wondering how it landed there in the first place. The only person who knew about her secret was her grandfather. She opened the cover to the first page, with the notion that Horatio had left this for her before he passed – a handwritten note to find expressing so she’d thought she would find...

The page was empty.

She released her held breath and sat down on her lounger. That would have been too easy, she thought. Her finger caressed the backing of the book, and fell over the spine. A cooling touch came to her when she found a gold pen settled in the inside of the spine. She pulled it out carefully, and crossed her legs upon the couch. She really did not have anything to say, still a bit perplex about who placed it there; nevertheless, she needed it right now.

Her fingers held the pen tightly as she released the only thoughts running through her mind that day...

"Abrello died......... I miss him already."
M.

A tear fell onto the page, soaking into the parchment as if its dehydration needed the added boost. Sharply wiping her eyes, she forced her emotions back. Horacio did not want tears or sorrowful words displayed at his death, just laughter and memories of their happier days before the cancer. She did not want to break her promise, his last wish for her. Marietta softly placed a hand upon the page to smooth the tear away, avoiding blemishing her damp ink.

((Bump
Posted...sorry for the wait...
and anything else.))

By the time Ken had actually stumbled through his door, he wasn't sober, but alert enough to still remember he had a strange finding in his hands. He set the journal on a little table next to the door, then leaned forward, pressing his drunk forehead to the wall as he haphazardly tugged his arms out of his jacket, then pushed himself off the wall and carelessly threw the jacket into the closet. His place was a mess, no pets to warm the home, no neatness to make it comfortable. It seemed he just lived and worked without doing much anything else. Before he wandered throughout the rooms, he grabbed and tucked the journal between his arm and ribs, made his way into the bedroom where his makeshift table stood and made himself comfortable in the creaking chair.

Now then, he switched on the light, set the journal on the surface of the table and stared at it. It was worn, it was an antique, it was interesting. He opened it up, and his eyes fell on the brief writing.

"Abrello died......... I miss him already."
M.

He didn't know how long it's been there, it seemed slightly stained with something. It was sad really, someone had lost this journal without filling up the pages. It seemed the only thing they managed to get down was that their Grandfather died. Yes, Ken knew Italian and a few other languages. So why not add on his own dilemma underneath it, make it a journal of the dead. He chuckled cynically at his own thoughts.

"Giselle, my wife, died... I've missed her these past four years."
K.

He wrote, and as if he couldn't believe he actually wrote that, he slammed the journal shut and pushed it aside, stumbling up from his chair. Ken wandered over to the fridge and whipped it open, heavy-lidded gaze immediately widened at the sight of a strange purple vial he remembers seeing out where he found the journal. That's weird. He closed the fridge out of the sheer shock of it, then opened it up again, and it was gone. Ahh, his intoxicated mind was playing tricks on him.

Marietta

Marietta softly placed a hand upon the page to smooth the tear away, avoiding blemishing her damp ink. When her hand removed from the paper, something strange was developing where the tear once stood. First, it seemed as if the parchment was once marked by invisible ink, and the wetness from her salty tear exposed it, but the longer she watched, the darker the spot became. Soon, like magic, words appeared across the page under what she has just written.

"Giselle, my wife, died... I've missed her these past four years."
K.

Marrose’s hands hopped from the book as she sharply stood up, her chair flying harshly to the floor behind her. She reread the script, shaking her head in amazement, and total shock.

What IS this?

She inched her way back to her oval table and her hand reached out to touch the bounded pages once more, this time with more detail. Flipping the book over in her palms she saw no indication that this was a trick. It was just an old, well cared for diary. Nothing sticking out from the back to well ink into it, no markings on the pages after the one written on….nothing.

She sat down again, placing the diary before her and lifting the pen. She could test to see what it would do if she responded. With a cheesy smile across her lips, Marrose started to write.

“Like it will actually speak at will; well, grandfather loved parlor tricks.”

What happen to her?

Her pen stopped roughly, and a giggle exploded from her belly. "Ha, good ol’ Horacio; even in the end, he's full of laughs."

What a trick?

“AH, I need a break. This is crazy.”

Marietta scratched out her silly question with two simple strokes and closed the diary. She slammed the pen down on its cover, and pushed the book back, watching it slide to the opposite side of the table. She stood up to stretch, feeling way too tired for the mid-day, so she decided to take a nap. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and called Locendia.

“Mi Abrella, I’m in my study… I’m going to rest for a while.”

“Okay, you rest well little Libellula. I’ll call you if anyone returns.”

Marrose closed her cell and laid down on her daybed. She closed her eyes and visions of her loving Abrello filled her mind…their days in the orchards or vineyards, sampling the fruits, or releasing ladybugs. She remembered picking flowers with him to dress up Locendia’s dinner table for the night, or flying kites in a rowboat in the lake out back. Horacio always had something different to try, just to see if it would work. Well, kites and rowboats didn’t work so well, but it was fun.

Suddenly, the diary cut into her memories, waking her up with a start. She didn’t have time to fall fully asleep, and already her curiosity about the strange book was invading, but she wanted…she needed to understand it. Was it from grandfather? Was it a gag gift? Why would anyone send her something like that on the day of the will reading? And why would there be a appearance of words about the death of some person named Giselle? She has never heard of a Giselle, or knew about someone by that name dying four years ago…Horacio, perhaps, but that’s not the point. How did that diary get into her secret, private reading room?

Standing up, she stretched across the room, picking the disturbing diary back up, and returning to her bed. She found the first page, still marked with the first two statements, just the same as before. She started to write.

There is no logic that tells me to believe this, that a book can just write whatever it wants on its own; but I’m curious…Are you the book, or a spirit in disguise?

The television in Ken's bedroom was showing white noise and the man was currently in his bed, snoring. It was perhaps one of the first times he had actually been able to fall asleep. His dreamless state was a breath of fresh air for the man, otherwise he would have to suffer nightmares of his wife's death. The terrible childbirth, he could still remember the senseless doctor's face. With a long sigh, Ken opened up his eyes, rolled onto his other side and just laid there. The clock showed 4:23 AM, still too early. His insomnia was back.

Getting up from his bed, he rubbed his eyes, struggled to stand and strode over to the television, switching it off. Suddenly the place became very quiet. Turning on the only light in his bedroom, which was the table lamp, he glanced down at the journal. Maybe if he did some self-searching writing, he'd feel better, and be able to fall asleep. He sat down at the table, opened up the journal and glanced down at the first page. There was writing he hadn't expected to find.

What happen to her?

There is no logic that tells me to believe this, that a book can just write whatever it wants on its own; but I’m curious…Are you the book, or a spirit in disguise?

It was unbelievable. Ken rubbed his eyes vigorously, and continued to reread those words as if he'd look away and they'd disappear. No one could have gotten into his apartment and written in his book. He was a light sleeper and very alert of his surroundings. He had found something genuine, a journal that responds. With disbelief still plaguing his mind as well as grogginess, he picked up his pen and began responding. Maybe the book will give him insight. But why was it calling him the book.

I'm not a book, I'm Ken Gargaus. How is this possible? I am currently sitting in my chair, striken with disbelief. Last night, I wrote of my wife's death, closed the journal and set it aside, this early morning, I find that someone or something has written in it. No logic tells me to believe this either. Maybe I'm dreaming, maybe I'm imagining.

You see, whoever you are, I'm not a happy person. Maybe this is my hallucinating escape. But I will go along with this...

What's your name? Who ARE you?

He chose to not answer the striken out question, he didn't want to talk about his wife's death or how it happened.

Marietta

An entry, not written in her hand, flashed on the page, totally shocking Marrose - the book flew from her hands. In her panic a small attack jolted her breathing. She started to gasp in short catches of breath, feeling slightly dizzy. Marietta sat down and quickly retrieved the inhaler hidden in her bedside table drawer. Two quick puffs sustained her breathing once again, and she quickly lifted her feet and tucked herself under her quilt.

"How can I be writing to other people - through a diary? That's nonsense, pure and simple."

The diary was possessed. Why would Horacio leave her something like THAT!? She planned to just leave it there, locked in her secret room. Marietta stood up, quickly crossed the room to her door, and opened it...but she stopped short. Her body turned and she found herself looking at the diary lying under the lounger. It was almost like the thing was calling her...beaconing for her to pick it up again. Before she knew what she was doing, she had carried herself to the lounger, lifted the book, and was sitting down, reading it again.

I'm not a book, I'm Ken Gargaus. How is this possible? I am currently sitting in my chair, stricken with disbelief. Last night, I wrote of my wife's death, closed the journal and set it aside, this early morning, I find that someone or something has written in it. No logic tells me to believe this either. Maybe I'm dreaming, maybe I'm imagining.

You see, whoever you are, I'm not a happy person. Maybe this is my hallucinating escape. But I will go along with this...

What's your name? Who ARE you?

Awestruck, strangely intrigued, and totally creeped out, Marrose raised her pen to answered back to - “Ken”.

So, you are a real person. I still think I'm hallucinating too. I've been under a lot of stress this past week. Well, I guess I can just get into this. It's like having a penpal, ya know, and I have a lot of those.

Marrose relaxed and decided to go with the flow. She needed to vent anyway.

Well, I'm Marietta Rosewood. Everyone just calls me Marrose. I'm 18, I live in Tyler, Texas, but mostly I live with my grandparents in Orbetello, Italy, which is where I am now. My grandfather, Horacio Dulviar just passed away. He was the CEO of Dulviar Italian Wines...which I've now inherited. My two older brothers and cousin feels that I don’t deserve this, and their right. They are the better candidates.

She stopped, she had written too much. She didn't want to go that far, especially with a total strangers - who may just be nothing more than her imagination working overtime. No matter, it did feel real good to get those thoughts off her mind.

And I was the one who asked about your loss, but I didn’t know I was actually asking a real person. I truly thought my abrello had given me a trick diary – if there’s such. I’m dearly sorry for prying.

She silenced the pen, placing it on top of the closed diary settled on the lounger, and calmly walked away.

As Marrose headed down the winding stairs, she continued to stop in her stride, wanting to head back up, but she did not know as to why. All she left there was the book, she had no need to keep it with her - yet she wanted to go get it. Forcing herself out the library doors, she followed the lengthy Italian hall rug to the kitchen to find Augustine's wife, Helenia, the Head Chef. Marrose was rather parched and hungry; a snack would do her good.

While she walked, her thumbs unknowingly maintained a rhythmic rotation across her fingertips, massaging them as if they missed a lingering touch.

"Marietta, are you okay? Is there something wrong with your hands?"

Helenia stepped to the young mistress of the house, placing her oven mittens down on the marble countertop to collect her hands for inspection. Marrose pulled slowly away, "No. I'm alright. Just tired, I guess."

In the back of her mind she was thinking about the mysterious diary, rather than the idea of sampling Helenia's gourmet pastries that sat hot and cooling on the counter beside her. She shook her head at the thought of disregarding sampling for such a silly thing. To ignore her altered thinking, she grabbed a soft sweet bread roll, and proceeded to pop in her mouth.

"Ahem! Not before dinner. You know that. Now, go wash up. Everything will be ready soon, and Madame Dulviar does not favor your absence, nor your tardiness."

"I know. Yea, I'm going."

Marrose returned, not to her room to wash up and prepare for her meal, but to her private sanctuary to grab the diary once again.

((Sorry this took so long to post... tons of distractions...

AND, I will edit and add the rest of the post, I just need to finish the rest of the post.

EDIT: Rawrr has left the site indefinitely, so I might just close this down...))


The dream came to an abrupt execution, her light nap ending after two hours on the lumpy cloth couch. Olive irises drifted to the illuminated clock across the room; it was almost half-past three. Arianna Wrighte needed to do some more unpacking before her shift began at six.

She groaned before throwing her legs over the side, her hands cupped around her face. Arra looked around the barren room, stacks of cardboard boxes inhabiting the corner nearest the windows. But nothing was more monotonous than going through box upon box of knickknacks one had forgotten and would forget once more. To Arra, this part of the move was torture; there was, however, no stopping now. At least she could put those mindless hours of Interior Decorating classes to use- she could prove Danielle wrong.

Danielle, Arra’s younger sister, always had their parents on her side. They chastised her for taking Home Ec instead of Advanced Placement classes, criticized her choice of choir over chemistry, and frowned upon every non-academic activity outside of the house. Yet, this allowed her adventurous spirit to take over; to make her crave change and new surroundings. Once she hit eighteen, her parents had decided that they had enough of her nonsense and Arra had been kicked out, only to move in with her best friend, Leah Christopher. This most recent move was so that Leah could have her spare bedroom back for visiting family members,

Arra had gotten no further than tearing open the top box when the boredom consumed her once more. Then, the impulse hit her; a longing to get out of the poor quality home. Upon purchasing the home, Arra had obsessively researched the area, mostly for hiring businesses as an hour long drive really didn’t suit her, especially returning to the neighborhood around one in the morning. But, she had flagged a specific location; and old Victorian Tudor on her very street. There were a lot of legends going around about the house, though the hype had died down as of recently, instantly, her decision was made to explore it, There wasn’t anything better to do, and that house had a magnetic quality she felt was impossible to refuse.

No lights were turned of, the scissors were left atop the discarded tape from the box; the door slammed as Arra did her best to look as inconspicuous as possible. However, it was odd to see a teenager leave her house with her hair that mussed up. Plus, the way she was bouding towards the house in the middle of the street made everything take a different light- one that Arra was sure could start many awkward conversations. It took her all of fie minutes to reach the front door. There were bullet holes burst through the highest part of the splintered wood. She jiggled the door knob; locked. Apparently no one could go inside, even if they wanted to. But why? It was only a house, what could it possibly do? This thought alone exhilarated Arra. She HAD to get in now, her curiosity might not be able to contain itself any longer.

She walked along the paneled siding of the house and eventually came upon a window. She couldn’t see through it. Obviously, the windows hadn’t been cleaned for awhile. She saw no way to break in at this point, sighed, then moved onto the next opening, not expecting any result to come from it.

No luck. It too was locked and quite possible dirtier than the pervious. She shivered, a gust of wind gracing the area with its cooling presence soon afterwards. That was odd, she thought, Doesn’t the wind come before I shiver? But she was abruptly brought back to her physical body as she heard a squeak. She accompanied it with a gasp and a jump at least a foot into the air.

A door that Arra had yet to noticed had opened, the screen behind the glass door viciously ripped. Arra, for the first time since embarking on this miniature adventure, felt scared. She moved cautiously towards the open door, expecting one of the elementary school neighbors to jump out. The air that escaped the house smelled of rust and a light sulfuric deposit. It was thicker and had an odd calming presence to it that Arra would’ve found alarming if she had been merely witnessing this process instead of being a victim of it.

Arra continued it, vaguely aware of the multitudes of dust that amassed everywhere. She noted the small footprints in the dust and assumed that some rodents had access to this house. The furniture was ancient, every piece of it. The kitchen had an icebox instead of a refrigerator, as well as a gas stove with two burners, both rusted to the core.

In the corner of what she assumed was the living room was a record player, the needle scratching nothing but air. The middle of the room inhabited a paisley easy chair with a corresponding couch; pillows and all. The coffee table was devoid of the clutter that normally existed on any family’s table, but instead sported a single translucent lavender vase that contained but one decomposing yellow tulip stuck in the neck.

Above her started a sound that usually signified humans; music. Intrigued, she strained her ears to hear the notes that, judging on the quality, resonated from another record player. Arra spotted the staircase and started her ascent towards the source of the sound, wincing with every screech that came from the old wooden stairs. She stopped on the second floor, searching for any other signs that she wasn’t alone in this supposedly abandoned house. No evidence was found, just the record player. No footprints, just the old jazz music that reminded Arra of her grandparents. No open windows, just the blood red cloth that rested beneath the record player to protect the oak table.

She took a few steps closer to the record player, mostly to determine what song had been playing and, more importantly, for how long the needle had been moving towards the center. This must’ve been a trick, something that one of the neighbors would’ve done to scare anyone who happened to ponder inside of one of the creepiest locations in the area. Much to her surprise, her foot landed on something she hadn’t expected to find. There was a book on the scratched up hardwood floor. It was oddly out of place. The rest of the house was very neat and tidy if one could discount the dust that had built up over the years of little to no inhabitance. All of the books she had seen so far were on the bookshelf and arranged by author, anything else was out of her line of vision, thus assumed to be put away. Yet, this book was sitting on the ground where animals could reach it and it could be stepped on by ignorant teenagers.

Arra lifted it, not sure of what to expect. The movements were slow, almost as if there were insects nesting under the book and she’d be disturbing their way of life by moving their only shelter. But there was nothing. The burgundy leather bound book felt slightly heavy, and the pages were stained with a scarlet red color that shifted to black wherever the stain was thicker. On the cover was a bronze imprint of the word “Diary” in a cursive-like font, yet was much more legible. She did a quick flip through of the journal, noting that there were a few entries that she was sure she would have to read through.

She stuffed the book into her brown leather jacket’s pocket and moved the needle from the record player, hoping to notify whatever was in the house that she was still there. But her actions had already notified an unpleasant party, pre-teens. To be more exact, they lived across the street from Arra, all three of the boys. She heard their rushed footsteps moving across the fancy floors of the living room and towards the aching stairs that had made her own climbing a pain to her eardrums.

“This is so COOL!” she heard from downstairs.

“We have to tell Jake about this!” came another voice.

“Yeah!” agreed the third, though he sounded unenthusiastic, as if he really didn’t want to be trespassing.

Determined not to get caught, even by young boys who probably wouldn’t turn her in for fear of getting in trouble themselves, Arra went towards the closest window and hoped that there was a ledge or a roof between stories that she could escape to. There was no way that she was going to jump 15 feet to the ground.

As luck would have it, there was another roof below the window. She could hear the squeaking up the stairs, but, like herself, the boys had started to move slower to see if they could silence the traitorous balustrade. Arra brought one denim covered leg through the window, soon followed by the other. Her hands gripped onto the plastic coated wood that surrounded the rectangular window. It was going to be a squeeze to get the rest of her out of the house, especially since she was pressed for time- although that was a motivation within itself.

She dropped; dropped onto the burnt sienna shingles that lined the fragile home. It was quiet, as quiet as she could make it. If she was lucky, none of the neighbors on the street would see her escape from the building. But luck really wasn’t accepting her pleas today, nor was it being the merciful body that she had hoped for upon starting her unpacking adventure that morning. Arra grasped the edge of her support and lowered herself until she was only a few feet above the ground. Upon her release, a part of the sea foam baby doll t-shirt she had been wearing got caught on a hook used for holding up tools. A few inches got ripped off, and Arra knew better than to sit there and let it remain. With the fabric grasped in hand, Arra decided not to go back to her home, but to grab a cup of coffee before leaving for work; hopefully her last day of work in that godforsaken town.

((I'm still here, if this is still going to move. Still waiting on Rawrr to respond.

Cleverly Disguised Bump :D))

((Just edited that last post. Rawrr is on indefinite leave... I'm gonna post this on WH around the weekend. Three people already dropped out, so I think that's it for The Diary.))