By Blake Vaughn
Read by Ben Phillips
The following has been transcribed from a journal, the owner of which has since passed away. In accordance with his last wishes, it has not been altered from its original manuscript, save where deemed necessary for page formatting.
October 3, 1903
There are memories I bear which erupt from the formless black of dreams. I still awaken at night crying out for safety and, finding myself alone, I hide in sheets, attempting to assuage a cold shivering that refuses to leave my bones. I have given my account to countless others in desperation, but still I know not restful sleep. I pray that in this inked telling I may concretely free myself from this memory, though I admit any faith I once had has long since left me, abandoned me in that lake those eleven years ago, never to return. Korta Ves.