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Sunday, 29 September 2013

The final entry of Alistair Hill

The Journal of Alistair Hill, the night of November 17th 1908.

It is with uncertain graveness and anxiety I recall events that took place no less than 3 hours ago. On my way home from work at the University I encountered an individual in the Northmore Cemetery who struck me as peculiar and lacking poise. It is only now I regret such a cavalier and brash assumption. This figure, of unkempt dress and rigid mobility, was icy pale and his breathing seemed strained. I specialise in English literature and most educated men would deem my medical knowledge lacking, yet I approached the man and offered any assistance that may be required.
He turned to face me, his expression pained yet unaware. I barely had time to register this before he clutched my arm, lower his head, and tore into my arm without hesitation. An immense pain enveloped me, far more than one would expect from such a bite. It was a burning and acidic sensation that, even as I forced him off, only increased in vigour.
I called a warning, but he did not relent and immediately tried to grab me again. I pushed him off, and withdrew my revolver from my coat pocket. He paid it no notice and did not concede his attack. In a panic, and delirious from my wound, I fired at his chest. I heard the shot, I saw the impact and hole in shirt, but it did not impede him in the slightest. Terrified, I fired again. Two more shots to the chest that seemed as pitiful as the first. With no other course, I fled and headed home, a hand covering the hole in my arm.
I am no stranger to bites, as was the unfortunate implications of my tenure as orderly at the sanatorium during my earlier years. Those bites were always, savage, defensive reactions of uncontrolled minds, the teeth would barely break the skin as they were never fully intended. But this- this festering wound buried into my arm is from a man who was aware of nothing but planting his teeth into my flesh. For him it was a biological imperative, it was an act of pure instinct with no regret nor hesitation.
Even now, the wound has regressed into one of worse severity than it should be, it is as if it is alive, breathing hate and vitriol into my blood and even my conscious.
I am being besieged by savage and horrifying notions that present themselves with nothing but clarity and utmost rationality. It is only in my flickering moments of self-awareness that I can attest to how incorporeal and detestable they are, but it is only a matter of time before I feel disgust at myself for combating them! I have the urge, no, the need to hurt others, to bite them as that man had me. I feel as if feeding on the flesh of breathing men is the only thing that matters to me, that it will sate these nightmarish commands. To me it is like arguing against breathing or any action that is self sustaining, even now I feel revulsion as I write this, but I endeavour to record this alteration.
I feel there is no cure to this, nor any recourse I can take that shall remove this affliction. I...feel as if I shall become like that phantom in the cemetery. I am not sure if this is intoxicated speculation that harbours such notion, but I cannot deny the terrifying weight that such a notion has on me.
I have realised I cannot end my life. It's with sombre irony that whilst I had no problems with firing my gun at that beast in the graveyard, when I felt the metal against my own temple I could only recoil like a child. I was never a strong man, and this is one final mockery on my behalf. I did not marry, and my social circle was more professional than one built on friendship. I am alone, as I have been always. But it is only now I feel it. The cold steel and sickly sensation of isolation.
I shall head to the basement and wait. I will lock the door behind me and I will close myself to the world. I pray I shall write here again, I pray this entry shall not serve as my epitaph.

"What's that Sir?"
The inspector turned to the voice behind him.
"It's Hill's journal, the last entry was three nights ago. He claims to have been, attacked by some madman in the cemetery. Bitten even."
He closed the journal and placed a finger to his temple.
"He writes that he started to feel some changes, something inhuman and sick, almost as if he was losing his sense of humanity. I've no idea if it's overwrought hyperbole, but he writes with a sense of strict decorum, he truly believed it. The last part says he locked himself in the basement-"
The other officer spoke.
"That's what I was just about bring up Sir. The Basement door was open, chunks of wood missing. It was opened from the inside, crudely."

"How so? A weapon? A piece of pipe perhaps?"
"No, the wood's been gouged out, there's blood on the chunks." The officer stepped forward, his eyes wide.
"He used his hands Sir."
The inspector let loose a heavy breath.
"Right, get some men down here. I...I don't know why, but this worries me more than it should."
"And Hill Sir? Where would he be?"
The Inspector turned to the Journal on the desk and was silent for a few seconds.

"I have no idea."

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