The Cemetery - X

Part 1

Amelia

March 5^th, 1817

The events from which I am about to lay out these words occurred over six months ago in and around my home village of Westknell, as well as the cemetery therein. I have been instructed by my therapist a great man by the name of Geoffrey Starcross, to write down my experience and express this darkness in a way that best relieves me of my current pain. My brain has been swelling with fever for almost as long as the incident has plagued my memory and I hope that putting these words to paper will resolved the issues.

                This is not an indictment of my brother’s soul, as I’m sure he was not the perpetrator of these events, but I must still write an apology forthwith for him at the outset. I love you my dear brother and I write these words not only for my own well-being but so that your spirit might rest peacefully if indeed it is also plagued by some darkness. You left this life all too soon and I plan to place these words as well as my drawings in the alcove I left in your burial statute. I will not be the one to place these gifts there, I have already arranged it to be done by the good doctor. Once the ink has dried it will be whisked from my new home in Buxton. I’m sorry once again for not being able to venture to your grave myself my dear brother but circumstances, as I’m about to lay out, have been rather precarious.

                I hope for the sake of those that must rest in that place do not endure the same hardships as we have. I hope that it is an isolated incident, some punishment laid upon us and us alone for some past transgression. Furthermore, should anyone read this, my steward, some grave-robber, a curious caretaker, please do not disturb this grave. I don’t hold much to superstitions but from my recent experience I hold to this, the dead should stay where they lay, in peace for eternity, lest we condemn ourselves to everlasting torment.

                Also, regarding the portrait of sorts that I include with these words, I must remark. I have never been an artist, nor do I seek to become one after this day. My therapist, a learned man, has told me of therapy that stems from abstract means, such as drawing. I began to draw what I saw in my minds eye and the images have disturbed me. He instructed me to keep drawing until the images left my mind. In his words, they would transfer themselves from one place to the other ridding me of their visage. After this most recent picture I’ve found I can’t recall what I had drawn before. I don’t even dare a glimpse at it for fear it will repopulate my mind. Again, I hope that the image doesn’t hold the entity from which I was assailed, for if some prying eyes do come upon this text and this portrait, I do not wish that they become assailed in turn simply from spying on a poor drawing from a brain fevered woman.

                As I have not seen the picture since I last touched charcoal, my medium of choice, to paper I only refer to the look given by the doctor when I showed him my images. His brow furrowed rather starkly at the sight of it but he made no comment. He simply folded it and placed it back in the envelope from which I dispensed it to him. He has left me now to my task of writing. I will begin forthwith, and I feel that I should begin my dissemination prior to the loss of my brother or at least that’s what my heart tells me. If worse comes to worse and my brain fever persists, I will jump forward to the time of oppression.

                Though I wish not to relive those days Dr. Starcross tells me that I must endure reliving the horrors of the past to move forward. I do hope he is right in this.

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