Wednesday 29th October

What a steal. When I first saw the advertisement for this beautiful property I almost choked on my latte. Ordinarily the mortgage for a detached four bedroom mansion such as this would be way out of my ball park and I almost skipped past it without so much as a glance. Then I saw the asking price. My first instinct led me to believe it was some sort of a joke, either that or there would be small print explaining how it was in need of demolition. Nothing, it turned out that not only was it very much sturdy but it was also unoccupied and not part of some lengthy chain. This was ideal, Lori and the kids would be thrilled at relocating to a new neighborhood as they had never really settled in our current location. We’d been here for three years, five of us cramped into a two bedroom apartment in one of the least desirable parts of town. I was the only one happy there but even I admit to feeling a tad claustrophobic and queuing for your morning bowel movement is really no joke. This had both upstairs and downstairs latrines and even its own en suite in the master bedroom. Moreover, the grounds were wonderful and expansive, especially in late Autumn when the oaks strip off for Winter.

I pitched my offer a little lower than the asking price expecting to be outbid. I think that, in my mind, I didn’t feel worthy of such an ornate palace but, to my astonishment, it was accepted instantly and we were informed that moving in could be immediate if we so wished. We so did, three days later and I was up to my eyeballs in packing. It took two delivery vans to fit our wares, we don’t travel light you see. I have been collecting vintage gramophones ever since the compact disc revolution and, considering Ellie and Sammy are both in their teens, the wardrobes alone equated to half the plunder. Doesn’t appear that storage is going to pose any real quandary as the house has numerous strongholds. There’s also a cellar, a touch on the musky side but nothing a few sticks of incense and a lava lamp won’t fix. That was the clincher for me, every man needs a space where he can scurry away to, especially given that Timothy has just turned three and is only just going through the night. Sometimes I’m so exhausted when I retreat from my shitty job but haven’t got a wind down zone. I am between work at the present but have been assured that a man with my resume will have no issue finding work here. This gives me vital breathing space to work on my second novel.

My first book, Heretic’s Journal, sold just enough copies to provide this opportunity but I’m fully aware that you’re nobody until you write its successor. There’s such stigma attached, it’s make or break and, should it break me, then I will be forced into a lifetime of crunching figures. It’s a surprise to me that I haven’t misplaced my social skills in that time, seven years in Accounting is like a life sentence in itself, I went to one Christmas meal and felt like throwing myself beneath a passing tanker after enduring two hours of their excruciatingly dry anecdotes. I learned how to count on Sesame Street, just so happened I was rather adept with numerals. Whatever inspired me to list this profession as my dream vocation when others around me were planning trips to the moon or rock festivals in Memphis, I will never know. I think I wanted the easy way out, if I’m honest. Considering this is my journal, one for me and nobody else, I may as well be just that. Numbers posed no great challenge to me and I knew I could phone in a shift. The bosses gave me three day deadlines, I would have that shit sown in and and a half tops. The rest of the time I would work on The Tryst of Gomorrah and let them pay my ass for the privilege.

I say work on, that’s something of a white lie in itself. I haven’t developed that one past its title as yet. This is the inspirational change I needed to inspire myself. Now that I’m here, every afternoon when Lori gets the boy down for his afternoon siesta, I shall be down here firing off mind rounds. First things first, I need to fill it with my own stuff. Whoever lived here prior to us used it solely for hoarding shit and there are still a few boxes of that silage which I will need to relinquish before feeling fully like the master of my own cavern. Paraphernalia, my book shelf, a nice homely rug to tie the room together; that’s all it requires. I can listen to old vinyl, God I have enough of it. Seventeen crates, filled to overspill with everything from vintage Motown to European Death Metal. I would need to give them their order of course, chronological poses too lengthy and laborious a prospect so I guess I’ll plump for alphabetical. Decisions such as these are of fundamental urgency to a man in his late thirties. Working nine to five to keep a roof over our head sucks away just about all the brain fat if you don’t have your release valve. Mine is music, that and solitude. I’m just a simple man with similarly simple needs.

Amityville has a nice ring to it. I can see us being more than happy here, our own personal slice of an idyllic rural existence. Sure, it’s a fixer-upper and I’m hardly The Pink Panther when it comes to home improvements. But it has a white picket pence, a two-birth garage with remote activated door and a great lawn for barbecues. I can see it now, me burning sausages and burgers because I have a woefully short attention deficit and can’t keep my eyes off my neighbor’s wife’s delectable butt truffles; Lori attempting to win the neighborhood over with her macaroons, even though I broke a molar on one of those bastards last week and I’m fairly positive they were responsible for the death of the family pooch Lucky; Timothy strapped into his push chair looking bored beyond belief; and Ellie teaching Sammy what I hope isn’t the art of fellatio behind the tool shed. I’ll be watching her with the most gawkiest of eyes as the last boy she brought home was three cells short of brain dead, a real walking coma. My girl deserves better than some jumped-up little whelk with eyes far too close together for any father’s liking. I was actually glad we got out before he wormed his way into her uterus. He had date rape written all over his pitted face and, to rub salt in the already extensive wounds, was an arrogant little fuck to boot. Good riddance to bad trash.

Laid back, that’s me. I’ve never been an authoritarian, don’t believe in laying down Murphy’s Law and throwing my weight about, if I did then Lori would kick my ass straight out of my trousers. Neither do I influence things, faith in natural order keeps me from putting in my five cents worth and belief that even the most stubborn turds sink eventually. My main concern was Sammy, who is beyond impressionable and worships the very ground her older sister walks on. Looks like it’s another problem we can tick off the list now that we have found our dream house. Wow, did I just say that. Dream house. I guess Amityville is exactly that, the answer to our prayers at this point in our lives. I’m a staunch believer in fate, everything happens with distinct reasoning, and some things are just meant to be. I could have missed the ad in the local rag and still been none the wiser but, through a hand being lent by some higher order, we’re here now in a domicile most would only dream of inhabiting. Life is a bowl of glazed cherries right now, sex has picked up with Lori since I announced we’d be leaving our squalor. Timothy has his own room which means, with a little more of that fate stuff, he’ll finally start sleeping through and give us some much pleaded mommy/daddy time.

We met back at high school; she was the bashful sort, at least until I slid that ring on her finger. She stood out because she never attempted to, it was almost as though she had no clue as to how stunning she actually was. We both knew within a month of our courtship’s commencement that one day we would have our own family and neither of us were fazed by the responsibility. Sure, our relationship endured a few turbulent spells but since when has that not been the case? We always ended up talking within 24 hours, it would’ve been less but she’s as stubborn as an ox with a stitch that one. Invariably I would apologize; not because I was always in the wrong, mostly but not always, but because it represents the quickest route back to a simple life. I was never particularly argumentative, it seems like such hard work, and I’m averse to that. Now that we have moved into easy street, it appears as though everything is falling into place nicely. Tomorrow I fully intend on scouting the area for Intel, must find local convenience store, tavern, and beaten track to venture off. It may help inspire my prose, put a stop to this writer’s cramp which has plagued me for several months now.

If I have a weakness, and I have no doubt it is not alone, then it would be my tendency to internalize shit. As far as Lori is aware; I’m on the final act, not because I have given her a running commentary on my progress, but because she has never asked the question directly. “How’s it going darling?” That has been the height of her involvement thus far and “Great thanks baby” is the best way to stave off the Spanish Inquisition. She knows how vital this next project is for our collective future, but has no tolerance for fiction, especially anything which tackles the supernatural. This is why I enjoy my own space you see; while she is Keeping Up With The Kardashians, I’m watching Mrs Robinson roll down her stockings and applying her peach blossom face moisturizer but not to my cheeks. There is a certain ebb and flow to any sexual affiliation but, what doesn’t help matters, is that three quarters of her lingerie draw is briefs. We’re not talking of dainty lovelies decorated with little pink bows, these are dirty-white army issue belly hugging bloomers with nothing even faintly provocative about them.

I’m done evicting arachnids from my daddy vault for the evening, after all, it has been one helluva day. Timothy kept us up until four last night, then we were up at six to haul ass. I doubt there’s sufficient in the tank to spring clean and, to be honest, I have absolutely no desire to spend my first night here that way. A couple of glasses of Disaronno, Coke not Pepsi, and ice should do the trick. I’ll choose my audio with military precision, something like Floyd should suit the mood. I stocked up on hash as finding a local human dispensary is fourth on my to-do-list. Lori isn’t fond of me smoking it, says I’m absent minded and grouchy because of it, and I’m fully aware she is right. There’s a window down here, albeit rusted closed, and tomorrow’s first task will be to dislodge it from itself and give this dank little chamber an airing. I know that the boss will have me checking the pipes and generator tomorrow as this is far more vocal a set of foundations than the previous twenty year-old build. It hasn’t stopped creaking and groaning since we set foot inside but I understand that vintage fortifications such as these come with their own exclusive audio.

Speaking of character, it didn’t take me long to deduce that Amityville is something of a diva. I’ve watched The Money Pit more times than I care to remember so I know there will be a few tears and tantrums as it has to endure yet another bickering brood. However, it hit me rather hard and rather fast, immediately I felt the ideas for fiction begin to flourish, I feel as though our spiritual bonding will be most exquisite as these walls promise to have plenty of tales to tell of their own. It fascinates me, who lived here before us? There was no Intel provided on receipt of the paperwork and I kind of like it that way. It lends an air of ambiguity to proceedings and that is just what I need to channel my masterwork. I truly believe this is going to be the start of something beautiful you know. I’ll end there for now, got to get cracking on the old magnum opus and, besides, I can hear Lori calling me up to look at the plumbing. Apparently the kitchen faucet is backed up with thick black sludge. It’s just teething troubles; she will likely made a bigger deal of it than necessary, but Pink Floyd will soon have me chillin’ like a villain again so I ain’t sweating the program none. Our first night in our dream home, feels good to repeat that shit, Amityville it is both a pleasure and distinct honor to make your acquaintance. Now I’m sure I spotted a wrench around here somewhere.

Thursday 30th October

12.30 am

I’m not entirely sure how I’m able to write this tonight after the day that I’ve had. I didn’t catch a single wink last night; Timothy was particularly unsettled and his temperature was almost off the scale, Sammy had a nightmare which left her in floods of tears, and Lori is a light sleeper at the best of times but last night certainly wasn’t that. I caught a couple of hours when the girls went to their new school for induction, under normal circumstances I would have joined them but Lori’s better with that kind of shit than me and I just didn’t feel like I could face it today. Instead it gave me my own bonding time with our new abode and, after my catnap, I set to work on tidying up some of the shit I seem to have unwittingly adopted. I am actually rather fond of rooting through junk as one man’s shit is another’s candy. Most of it was in a state of disrepair or likely never functioned in the first place but I did unearth some curious items. First off was the most glorious water-painted mural, a little unnerving perhaps, but ideal for covering a large crack I discovered on the wall down here. Second was an antiquated music box which looks like it may fetch a fair price. Lastly was a rusty pickax which I have no use for but got me in the mood for writing at least.

Before I knew it I was in full flow; first chapter down, second, third. I couldn’t pinpoint where it was originating from but would imagine it was somewhere deep as I hardly had a single recollection of what I wrote by the time Lori returned home and shattered my stride. I figured it would wait until the kids go to bed, a little light reading by candle light as I also found plenty of those. I couldn’t put my finger on it but I found something about her really aggravating all afternoon, it was like she wanted to push all my buttons all at once. Maybe she was pissed off for me not attending the girls’ induction, who knows. She said it was fine so why then did it not feel that way when she came back? That is a huge bugbear of mine and, considering neither of us slumbered well last night, it was just a bad idea from the start. After a couple of hours I scurried back into my crawlspace and busted out some Nine Inch Nails as I know that gets under her skin. She reciprocated by cranking up whatever she was watching on Channel Zero. I think Mindy’s sleeping with Claude, while his girlfriend is having an abortion after being raped by Brett. Brett’s Mindy’s fella. What the actual fuck? These things are here to test us and today felt particularly ringer-esque as the only place which could offer any sanctuary was down here, in my little air-raid shelter.

I call it that but actually it has occurred to me that this would be the best place for me tonight. Tension in the bedroom is so utterly laborious, laying next to your spouse with lights out while you swallow your own face in anger, never an attractive proposition. One night down here would do me the world of good, a little alone time to contemplate my next chapter. I felt the urge to write for some reason, it’s never normally this free-flowing so I’m grateful for any accelerations in my productivity. The bizarre thing is, I didn’t even recap on what I had wrote earlier, just felt like I knew where to pick up from. For a good three hours I was totally absorbed into my fictional world and then I decided to come up for air, actually it was pretty much necessitated. The painting hadn’t stayed in position, all I can see now is that crack and it almost seems to have deepened. I think actually I may leave it where it is as the chink does have a certain rustic charm and, if you look at it lopsided it kind of resembles a welcoming smile. I’ve always been culpable of possessing an over-active imagination, shit that’s the whole reason I became a scribe. If I didn’t write some of my demons out then they would have engulfed me long ago. It’s the one thing that’s fine, the one thing nobody else can fuck with, the only thing that’s precious in this miserable excuse for a life.

I try to remain positive at all times but having my own getaway also brings great clarity. Reflection time isn’t all sweetness and light, sometimes it just helps you to realize how painfully fragmented you are. Why can’t I just be me, why does every day have to be an exercise in conformity, I didn’t sign up for this. Lori’s fine, I can’t complain really, it’s her cunt of a mother who really sucks my sockets dry. It is as though I entered a competition to win the most tyrannical in-law imaginable and walked away with the trophy. She is beyond redemption; a blackened wench from the farthest reaches of Wenchdonia, sent to this plane to torment my soul on a bi-daily basis. If there’s not a visit there’s a phone call and it consists of at least an hour of burdening her youngest with every single one of her neurotic fantasies. By the time the receiver is replaced, I’m next in line for a verbal assault and I don’t take kindly to acting as scapegoat. Every day is like a chess skirmish, I’m like a Russian when playing our little charade. She despises me and that just makes me want to level her more. I’m the dude that gets on with folk, never before have I had to deal with such vindictiveness.

Her father is a whole different ballgame, he’ll no doubt be the only other soul allowed into my little sandbox. He’s the long-suffering kind, looks ten years past his prime and steadily diminished from years of emotional abuse. Defibrillate him from his state of stupor and he is one priceless motherfucker, brimming with bottled vigor and keeper of many an old chestnut. Alas, they come as a two-piece. I purposely specified no visitors for the first week at least as that old battleaxe really makes my blood boil but Lori’s resolve isn’t as strong as mine and she ended up caving in to the old hag as she usually does. Tomorrow lunchtime we are to be blessed with her presence and, what’s more disconcerting, is that she’s coming solo as Frank is fleeing for a doctor’s appointment. Turns out that he would rather have two digits inserted into his rectum than spend the afternoon being downtrodden. I have no intention of surfacing until she’s gone and knowing the way she lingers like a fart in a Smart Car it won’t be a brief encounter. On a good day I desire only to bash her cranium in with a claw hammer until I reach pulp but, considering Lori and I haven’t cleared the air yet, my murderous intentions are best kept in solitary confinement.

I have already fitted my personal space with a deadbolt as she will no doubt come sniffing around here like a mangy mutt before too long. I’ll work on my novel in peace, drown out her whiny falsetto with some Pantera, until which point as she has moved on. Tomorrow night is Halloween and I have promised the girls I will assist them in carving Jack-o-lanterns although, considering I’m feeling less than hospitable right now, that will likely be an exercise in frustration also. Down here I can get inspired, churn out a few more chapters of my book, and avoid contact with everyone. I’ve stocked up on everything I will need to prevent having to return topside until then; it’s just me, myself and I for the foreseeable. I keep getting drawn back to that wall, something about it has me transfixed and I can’t put my finger on what that might be. I suspect there may be another room behind it, the brickwork doesn’t look the most sturdy, perhaps that pickax could be put to some use while I’m flying solo. Space is at a distinct premium and, besides, I’m convinced that behind it lays the answers to Amityville’s dark secret. Considering I’m writing fiction, it will doubtless provide the inspiration I’m searching for.

3.45 am

What a find. I’m glad I went with my gut as knocking that wall through has given me a splendid idea for my novel. It took me almost an hour to break through the fortifications and, I have to say, what I discovered provided exactly the kind of history which will help my cause no end. Inside was a shroud, wrapped up dirty linen, which evidently hasn’t seen the light of day in some time. I won’t be informing Lori of the bones which formed my welcome package, she will only overact, and she is already looking for excuses to pack up our stuff and return to Brooklyn. Human remains would no doubt tip the scales in her favor with regards to that particular argument and I’m determined not to give her an inch. Sure, it could be considered something of an omen, but superstition is a load of self-indulgent claptrap if you ask me. Folk clearly died within these walls, a bundle of ebony attests to as much, but my work is coming along leaps and bounds and nothing is going to knock me from my perch now that I finally have the solitude to actually make this happen. It’s my way or the highway on this occasion, time for papa bear to put his foot down after being a passenger for far too protracted a period.

Another four chapters in the bag. Still not got the vaguest inkling as to what I’ve been writing or whether the title still has any relevance but I do know this: it’s my best work. I was planning on reading some before I rest up but instead I decided to sit in my new cubbyhole for a while, soak up the dark energy which is unquestionably responsible for my productivity spurt. I think I discerned Lori tapping away at the door like an inquisitive fishwife but she isn’t setting one pinky in my cellar. If she’s expecting an apology for my late night deconstruction then she has a lengthy wait on her hands. I’m digging my heels in, it has taken this long for me to feel like the man of the house and I’m not about to relinquish that shit without considerable melee. I’m aching for an excuse right now to let my frustration show and can’t be held responsible for my actions if she continues to push. The deadbolt should supply her with all the discouragement she needs to stay the hell out of my business.

That ornate music box is a work of art. It seems to have inhabited a mind of its own and keeps chiming entirely of its own accord, despite not being wound. I’ve grown rather accustomed to the jingle, some may consider it a little ominous but I find it relaxing. I have even forsaken my 75’s for the time being as I’m more than happy sitting here, becoming enchanted by its charming chime, and rocking gently back and forth to stave off the cold. I’ve got numerous moth-eaten blankets to keep me warm should they be required although, the longer I spend down here, the more impervious I become to the chill. Hearing voices in your head is nothing to be alarmed about when your inner monologue is as convoluted as mine. It merely provides another running commentary and its suggestions, whilst not what you would call socially acceptable, are no harm to anyone so long as I keep them to myself. I’m sure every man imagines life without his brood at some point, it doesn’t mean we have to act on our impulse. I’ll hoard the Intel, for the weekend at least, that should give me enough time to finish what I have started here. Every great piece of literature has its own exclusive back-story, I’m positive that Stephen King has harbored iniquitous thoughts from time to time. It goes with the territory.

6.15 am

Going to get my head down for an hour or so as I need to be fresh for the long day ahead. Sleep deprivation tends to mess with my well-being and I have much work ahead if I’m going to make headway on my pièce de résistance. It’s funny how time flies when you’re in the zone, the whole evening appears to have passed in a heartbeat. Shit, one can really lose themselves in such comforting confines. I can already hear the fracas upstairs; Sammy is bleating on about her night terrors, Timothy is inconsolable once again, and Annie is having one of her pre-menstrual hissy fits. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, resurfacing now would invariably end in me getting it in the ear from Lori and she should know never to prod a sleepwalker. I don’t know how much more of her shit I can stomach before flipping, all I ask for is a little lone time to find my inner center. I am beginning to realign and fast learning the art of stubbornness. I have my shit on lockdown, papa’s got a brand new bag, and it’s time to stamp some much needed authority on the Eccleston household. I can see it all coming to a head tomorrow but it’s not like it hasn’t been on the cards. I’ll construct my argument after a short nap, doesn’t seem necessary to make my makeshift bed up, I’ll just stay here in my cranny for now.

Friday 31st October

3.15 pm

I’ve had it with that meddlesome bitch. Just as forecast, her brief stay has extended into a full-blown holiday and she even bought along a priest to bless the house after blowing a few bumps in the night totally out of proportion. Reverend O’Leary is little more than a doom monger, this portly prick picked up on the dark energy the moment he wiped his loafers on our mat and began harping on about evil residency or some bloated bullshit like that. Apparently he is from another chapel as the local clergy have long since given up trying to make sense of this building and its supposed curse. I heard him blathering on and, when Lori asked me to introduce myself, I made use of that deaf ear I have learned to adopt and let them get on with it. Edith made excuses for me, as she does, in an attempt to conceal her true feelings. I have her number, reverse psychology may seem to serve her well, but it will all come out in the wash. I keep getting these urges, to start with they were faint, but each time I hear her acidic tones it just makes we want to stroll up there and tear her eyeballs straight from their sockets. I’m sure I noticed a swing ball post amongst the mess down here, that’s a game that I could play in solitude and batting her piss-stained orbs around all afternoon could act as the perfect stress relief. I’d hit them hard so as to tangle those suckers up.

With all the high drama playing out feet above my pulsating head, it has been hard to reclaim my mojo. However, I still managed to graft away for a good half hour while she was raiding the clearly labeled food from my fucking fridge. Of all the things she could have chosen to fill her fat cheeks with, she had to pick my prime rib. If she cared one iota about her daughter then she wouldn’t have her stood at a grill when she hasn’t slept in days but she doesn’t give a flying Frisbee about anything other than getting one-up on me and draining her daughter’s resolve enough to gift me the irritation. I want to cut her, all I can think of right now is how deep I could bury the hatchet. I already know she is staying overnight as she complained about her bunions and didn’t think the drive back would be a wise idea. I disagree, I think it would have been plenty wise to leave before I fertilize my lawn with her remains. Actually, strike that, she’d suck any moisture out of the ground and I’d be left with a barren wasteland. Maybe the crevice in the wall would supply a more snug fit for her dead duck feathers, I could seal her into her own mausoleum, then piss in the crack every time I get that tweak in my bladder. I’m sure if I aimed the jet well enough I could ricochet my urine into her hollow sockets.

Of course, luring her down here would pose something of a conundrum. If I am to state my discord then I think a good old family meeting is in order. Everyone round a table, no holds barred, gripes laid out and nothing held back whatsoever. Show me a pustule that doesn’t ultimately crown in a head and I’ll gladly lance it to prove you wrong. I’m the man of this house, while she is fast asleep later, likely hanging by her crooked toes in the closet, I’ll be fucking her daughter’s asshole in the next room and making her scream my name for dear life. What am I thinking, she needn’t unpack her opportunistically prepared suitcase as she won’t be needing a tumbler for her dentures on this occasion. I have a woven basket to catch every last one of those rancid tombstones and the Tooth Fairy can go jump if she thinks she’s getting her grubby mittens on them. I’ll grind them with my pestle and mortar and use them as sawdust for my stools. I want her to eat my shit you see, I’ve been hoarding my feces all day like a cunning squirrel as all three on-site lavatories are out of my current jurisdiction. Everything happens for a reason.

I’ll sit down this evening after my dinner date and peruse my novel. It’s coming along fantastically, if I really knuckle down I may have it finished by dawn, and I’m ever so curious to see the path it has taken. I just know it is plutonium, the energy has been flowing ever since I first slid the bolt across. I was beginning to ponder whether I had lost my touch you know, what a difference three days can make. I owe that all to Amityville. Never before have I felt so utterly uncorked, no second thinking when I’m in my element and barely any first thoughts either. I’m a passenger, this excites me infinitely as it is as though I am telling somebody else’s hard luck tale, channeling from the greats of horror folklore. None of them have it all figured out, they are along for the ride, and know how to roll with the punches. I am absolutely assured of one thing, whatever is being churned is the work of genius. In years to come, my work will be lined up on some musky second hand bookstore shelf and that’s the kind of digs I fully intend on my fiction cohabiting. It matters not whether it’s successful anymore as money is superfluous to requirements now. All the cash in the world won’t bring my family back.

I’m going to go upstairs now. First I shall be taking that corroded pickax to my mother-in-laws midriff, it must be an injury she can live with for enough time to see the reds of my eyes and realize what she has brought upon herself. Second thoughts, Lori doesn’t deserve to see her own flesh and blood getting disemboweled, she may be an irritant but she’s still my wife. I’ll kill her first, one swing straight to the head case should grant a sufficiently swift release and it’s unlikely Edith will be able to shuffle her replaced hip joint far by the time I retract my sharp edge and relocate it. I’ll drag her carcass down here before the kids become privy and have a little playtime with her before furnishing the fissure with her epidermis. Her skin is all about the elasticity so, with a little elbow grease, I should be able to insulate the space and maybe have enough surplus to craft a new skin for my tablet. They say keep you enemies close, well under my nose is right where I can keep a beady eye on that cunt. I haven’t decided what to do with Ellie, Sammy and Timothy yet; a stern talking to should suffice but who knows what could transpire if they choose to rub me the wrong way. Daddy has had a long day, lots of high drama to cope with, and I have told the girls time and fucking time again to tidy their rooms. Even Timothy’s incessant blubbering is getting my goat right now. I think I just discerned my final nerve unraveling. Game time.

11.55pm

This will be my final entry. Call it my epitaph as, after tonight, I don’t think the sun will be shining much longer. I’m sat here as I scribe this, for once fully aware of my actions, clarity has been restored and I think I have the ending to my parable. I’ve been sat in this same spot for the last three hours, have barely moved a muscle. In that time I have read and reread my prose and I have to say I was somewhat perplexed to discover that the journal I have been writing since moving day is, to this point, word for word the exact same as what is within those bindings. I had no idea art could imitate life so symmetrically, but once you begin to question yourself as a writer, you’re bound for a slippery slope. By remaining true, real, clear and sincere in what I have wrote, I have finally put paid to my hesitant endeavor once and for all. My most personal work by a long chalk then? Absolutely, this is insight into the darkest reaches of my imagination, only ever fantasy, I would never actually harm another soul. I guess it has helped to write out my infuriation, rather than bottling as is customary. Better out than in after all.

I guess drawing from experience was the only way to wrestle this out but it hasn’t been without its drawbacks. My wish was for solitude and it has been provided. I can’t hear a single peep from upstairs so, by my estimations, they have traveled back to Brooklyn and left me to my own devices. I didn’t see this coming but, even if I’m had, I’m not convinced I would have prevented it. I have no intention of starting another, how would I ever be able to top this anyhow? Instead I shall sit and reminisce over happier times and bask in my own glory for finally writing my epilogue. I always felt a strong connection to these particular fixtures and fittings, something about Amityville just cried home to me and I doubt I will ever leave this place now. I have everything I need to thrive, that music box is of great comfort to me and I have re-homed my favorite painting beside the hole in the wall. I think I may go and sit in there now, while I ponder what to do next. The truth is that I’m feeling pretty lethargic, it feels as though I may well have served my purpose, suppose it couldn’t hurt to kick back while I await feedback.

My audience seem pleased with my endeavor. Praise has been almost unanimous although they did hint that the ending could do with some work. They are pushing for a slight reconstruction, closure is the word that they used. Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Right now it is too sketchy, they aren’t best pleased with the amount of restraint I have used and wish to finalize the tale. I am to be sent on a scavenger hunt of sorts, to the tool shed to be precise where, if their memory serves, there is a singular flask of rat poison which has never had its seal broken. I have absolutely no idea that I’m writing this, auto-pilot has been activated as they don’t trust me to get this done. I’m not offended in the slightest, I actually feel rather honored to have my own ghost writer. Tying things up never was my strong point, I have come too far to let my head rule my heart. My blackened heart.

12.20am

I have done as was asked of me. I have my refreshments and even stopped to glance over my handiwork. Very impressive even if I do say so myself, who would have thought that a severed windpipe would emit so much fluid? Timothy won’t be crying, not tonight, he’s out for the duration. Lori finally got to catch up on some well deserved shut-eye, although considering I sliced off both her eyelids, I guess that is only figurative. My special girls are dead to the world too. The real kicker has been Edith. What a resplendent draught excluder she provides, this room has warmed up no end since stripping the marrow from her bad bones. I hollowed out her skullcap and it looks like it will hold at least a liter of my tonic. I’ll need to plug up her eye sockets so as not to waste a single drop, I’ve earned this tipple after such a committed display. It’s highly noxious, a few mouthfuls swilled should do the trick. By the time the crippling stomach pain kicks in and I remember once more exactly where I am and what I have just done, it will matter not. By then I will be at one with Amityville, inexplicably joined.

I’m positive that a place with this much character won’t remain on the market for long, somebody else will soon have their carpet slippers at my door and the decor will likely change to accommodate their individual style. They will attempt to put their stamp on it but, beneath the garish emulsion and obligatory family portraits, the walls will still breathe. You can paint it shocking pink from roof to foundations and it’ll still be Amityville. Every house has its whispered secrets, but not many have the voice to vocalize their intent. I still maintain it was a steal, should it suit then I’m sure another family will become very much at home here. Sometimes you just know instantly that you’ll see out the rest of your days someplace. I knew, it was fated from the moment I turned the key. Family begins at home and it’s only right that it should end there also. I shall leave my final draft right here, alongside the music box, for the next occupant to stumble onto. I think they will find it a most enlightening read.

Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014