Sunday, February 24, 2013

Dragon Fire Frights: Missing Time

The following is my best attempt at putting into chronological order a decayed journal with the word read on it. What the author's real name is, I do not know. But it appears he was an aspiring journalist, in the late 19th century.

I have corrected errors in the transcription for legibility purposes. Photos were also discovered with the journal, and I have included some of them in this blog. Although, many have clearly faded through time, including the pages.

This journal was given to me as a gift from my father. I will be using it to record our journey down the Nile. This photograph is me with first mate, Gregor, on board my father's ship, The Antares. My father says the expedition is to secure a rare medicinal herb that grows just off its banks. But it seems like both he and the crew are hiding things from me.

It's been nearly a month since my previous entry. I became very sick and could not leave my cabin. I spent most of those days and nights simply writhing in pain and slipping in and out of consciousness.

On several, more lucid, occasions, I could overhear my father yelling at the crew. The men had refused to leave the ship after Gregor was killed by the beasts of the Nyungwe bogs. And god rest his soul; he was a good man and will be missed.

To stave off mutiny, it has been decided that we are to head back now. An outbreak of typhoid fever has dwindled the crew's numbers. Even I, not yet fully recovered, have been called to duty on deck. I hope we get back soon, I hate this horrible place. This was not the story I sought when I followed my father.

It has been weeks since the expedition, and I'm recovered and happy to be back in the civilized world. My father is furious over his recent failure. He spends most of his days sulking in his office. And at strange hours of the night, it sounds like he is in there with others. I want to help him, but he's just so distant now. I often wonder what he is up to.

Today, there was a big storm coming. The cloud formations looked strange, so I brought my new camera out to take a photograph of it; this has become, somewhat, of a hobby of mine. And when I looked up, I saw something bizarre: it was a floating dome surrounded by unusual glowing clouds. I managed to take a photograph, but right after, a haze veiled it, and the object vanished from my sight. Perhaps this is a new type of hot air ship?

It seems as if I'm experiencing lingering effects from the Nile sickness. I awoke believing yesterday was today and could not remember making that previous journal entry. I'm going to develop the film; it sounds like I saw something quite interesting.

Something is terribly wrong with me. My memory is broken. If it were not for this journal, I would have no clue what was happening. Luckily, it is instinctual for me to check here first for evidence. I might need a doctor.

My father is nowhere to be found. It looks like he left the office after searching through it for something.

Can't understand what is happening. Was one place a moment ago, and now I am in another. Before me I see a photograph which I must have taken and developed. It is of my father's office, however, something is there: something that shouldn't be. Oh god, help me. What is that?

I'm keeping the journal with me at all times, for my mind has been lost, and it is all I can do to survive for now.

A series of bright, flashing lights, through the window, woke me in the middle of the night. I stumbled in the dark to find the light valve. This journal was tied securely around my neck with instructions to read it. But I wished I hadn't. I don't know what to think about of all this. Nothing makes sense. As I write this, I can hear someone moving about in the darkness past my lamp's glow. I am too terrified to investigate.

The sun is up. I've left home to my uncle's. He's going to help me get a doctor. It's a strange thing feeling healthy, but having autobiographical text arguing the contrary. Also, no one knows where my father has gone or has spoken with him, in several days.

Back in my bed, again. There is a deep wound in my arm that has been crudely bandaged. Did I do this? A blood soaked towel lays on the floor with my hunting knife, next to a bottle of whiskey. I'll have to redress it. I'm going to check father's office for clues. I don't think his disappearance and my issues are mere coincidence. 

Whatever was usually done to me, did not work. I can remember yesterday. This photo was not taken by me, nor did I place it in this journal. These books look very old and decayed. I've never seen them before. And while I can no longer trust my own thoughts written here, finding them may stop this. I just want it to stop.

I found the books hidden behind a false backing panel, in my father's desk. They felt wrong to the touch, like they should not be. As I turned the pages, I gazed in absolute horror: between blocks of text that were of an unknown language, disgusting images of mutilations, orgies, demonic monstrosities, and ritual sacrifice were abundant. I was unnerved to the point of vomiting over myself. Father, what have you done?

I don't know how or why, but I can feel them coming for me. They are angry that I figured out their trick. But I will be good and forget. They need to know that I will be good and forget. I will be good and forget. I will be good and forget. I will be good and forg....

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