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I don't know if it's me, Doug, anymore. As you no doubt remember from my previous entry Bluffington is no longer as I remember it. Everything outside is dark and I don't remember the last time I saw the sun. The silence in the house is oppressive. The air is heavy and collects in my lungs as moisture from a fog.
Every time I look up the bulbs appear to glow fainter and yellower. Three of them have burnt out in the lower floors. As you will remember, journal, Judy is locked in the basement. She was hammering on the door loudly and moaning in that once-human voice for hours, but now she has fallen silent. I dare not unlock the door. Once, and only once, I have tried listen at that portal; I heard a very faint but raspy breathing of a bloody throat and the touch of fingertips on the wooden door. Judy—or what was Judy—then slammed the door with what I presume were fists and released a cacophony of shrieking.
It took ten minutes for it to fall silent again and I cannot stand to provoke it again. Mom and Dad said they had to look for help and tried to make a run for it. I closed and bolted the door after them, as they had instructed, but still heard the screams—human and inhuman—from outside. I never heard the car's engine start. The cracking and slurping continued for an hour. I have tried to comfort myself with Porkchop's company, but eventually—for no reason I can decipher—he went mad, running in circles and foaming at the mouth, barking at every exit to the outside.
He continued his spiral into madness to where I felt the need to release him from this hell. I proceeded to loop my belt around his neck during the few moments he seems to sleep. It was a blessing to us both when he finally vomited up blood, whined once, and fell over dead. All the lights in the house suddenly went dead. Excuse my poor penmanship, journal, for I am writing in total darkness. I can hear faint murmuring sounds outside. Picking up the phone I hear nothing, no dial tone, such as it was in my previous entry.
My eyes are adjusting to the dark. Looking out the window, I can see black-on-black shapes writhing, human bodies controlled by something else. Their movements are lithe and flexible, as if unused to their own forms but unconcerned by the pain of twisting joints or tearing flesh. On the neighboring lawn I can see the fat, bloated form of Bud Dink, arms twisting in bizarre directions in deference to some obscene being, or deity, or something else beyond my comprehension.
I fear I am the only one in the town not yet affected, or dead. I can hear sounds now, what would be speech, but only come as illegible tonguing to my still sane (?) ears, but I can recognize voices. The crass baying of Roger. The shrill piping of Beebe. The... high, perfect singer's tones of Patti. My dear, sweet Patti, into this thing of evil and horror. I can only pray that the real you, Patti, has left to somewhere unreachable by this insidious influence.
"Honk Honk," I hear, echoing through the streets and over carefully manicured lawns. So he still retains something of him. Perhaps it was because it was first, that it started with him. Friendly Skeeter. Poor Skeeter. Damned, too-smart Skeeter with his perfect IQ scores. Damn him and his sudden obsession with those runes. He was the only one that could have done it. If I had killed him that day as I knew in my heart of hearts I should have, this all could have been avoided.
My Body trembles.
My mind quakes.
I hear a crash. The front doors, below me, are open. Suddenly sound fills the house. I hear what was Judy banging on the basement door again, screaming to be released even as her rescuers thunder up the stairs towards me. The revolver in my hand cannot stop them all, and I don't want to see what will come next anyway. I can feel what is coming will be worse than any hell that comes of death by one's own hand. You were the only friend able to comfort me in my last moments, journal.