WtAF Eloise Journal

May 4th, 2014 (Episode One)

Session One (7/3/2014)
Dear Luther,
I fondly recall your journaling habits. Sitting in the library, the bay windows open to the night sky behind you, while you scribbled away, the room lit only by that damned green-shaded public library-style lamp you insisted on using. I'd bring you tea occasionally, and you only ever refused when you had a tumbler of whiskey already at hand.

I think I understand why you journaled the way you did. Was it your only means of keeping sane? Was it a confidant you could tell about the things you encountered, when you couldn't tell anyone else? There is a part of me that wishes you might have confided in me, but I know it would have done terrible things to our marriage, even if I had believed you. I'm grateful to you for compartmentalizing the horrors you saw so effectively, my love, for protecting me and our family as well as you did.

I do wonder whatever happened to your journals. After you died, I deliberately avoided looking for them, because I was afraid it might hurt too much. I wanted to remember you as the man I remembered, through the filter of my own experiences and feelings for you. I didn't want to see the flaws you saw in yourself, the petty insecurities and little jealousies and all the other things people tend to pour out onto the page. So it became a habit to forget about them.

But now, I have to wonder - what exactly was in those journals? And where might I find them? Is there information there that might help me better know this horrifying world? After fifty years, I'd assumed I knew how the world worked, but last night's revelations were eye opening, to say the least.

Yesterday afternoon, Robert hosted a barbeque, and of course the usual riot of people showed up. I made sure to see that we had far too much food, so that we could package some of it up and send home with some of our guests. Two of our guests were quite disturbed, however, and had clearly seen recent violence! Daniel is a young man from a difficult home life, whom we've sometimes assisted. He is friends with another bright young man, James - the young man who we helped sponsor a scholarship for once. The two of them were out for a night on the town then they encountered James' sister, Karol. They described a particularly unsettling encounter.

I'm not entirely sure how it transitioned from there, to be truthful. It seemed all very sudden: one minute we were discussing the police negligence in finding the poor child, and the next we were discussing vampires, with Robert giving us grave warnings, and them making plans to hunt the culprit down themselves!

It was all very surreal, Luther, and I'd had perhaps a little too much sangria with the barbeque. The next thing I knew, we were all paging through the library you left here, looking for information on these so-called "undead": where they might lair, what could harm them and a myriad other gruesome facts.

Session Two (7/16/2014)
It's no curiosity to me why I was so taken in by this research, my love. It's very simple: I miss you. Finding the answers to these questions, no matter how terribly strange they were, was comforting, because we were finding them in your own handwriting. Your notes and margin scribblings, scattered throughout these books, were the closest thing I'd had to the comfort of your presence, your solid intellect devising the answers to questions and problems. It was taken in by it. Even now, I recall the process with a small ache, because it felt like I was close to you one again in far too long.

Thankfully, Oz was a voice of reason. His concern that these young people were reacting from the pain of loss, a desire for revenge against someone who'd wronged and injured them, and even possibly a little hysteria - all well-founded. But since the police weren't doing anything about it, and it was plain that they were hell-bent on doing something themselves, what choice did I have? I love Josephine like a daughter, and I could never look Alexander Frost in the face again if I let anything happen to his son! I convinced Oz to come with us - I should drive, and remain on hand to dial 911, while he accompanied them to make sure nothing got out of hand.

Oh, if only.

A photo of Luther Danford, tucked into the journal

We stopped off at a hardware store to purchase some cans of bug spray, long-necked lighters a machete (God help us!), and then proceeded to try and find the monster. They first tracked his progress across rooftops - he seemed to have skills similar to Daniel's own athletics - but they lost the trail. On the way over, James had cleverly discovered a picture of the man we were seeking, and so we started canvassing the locals. Surely a man who can spring up fire escapes, carrying a young woman all the while is going to draw some attention! After a bit of asking (and a little money - you taught me that, if you remember), we discovered the building where he lived. (He'd apparently gained a reputation as "Super Whitey," and the young man who described him seemed very taken with his leaping prowess. Or that all might have been a drug metaphor of some kind. I can't always tell.)

I waited in the car while they went in. Oz was very hesitant to leave me there, but I assured him I'd have 911 almost dialed on my phone, the windows up and the doors locked. He insisted on leaving me with a can of mace, which was very sweet of him. I also kept a can of bug spray, because I'm much more experienced with that, thanks to the dankness of summer in our house sometimes. (Yes, we still have that problem with ants seeking water when it gets terribly hot.)

In truth, I don't really know what happened inside. I heard distinct gunshots, and immediately dialed 911. I told them someone had gone in, looking for the missing girl, and that there were gunshots. In short order though (and of course long before the police even hinted at showing their faces), they emerged with three girls! They were all in terrible condition, too: two of the girls (one of whom was James' sister Karol, thank God) were helping a third one out. Daniel came next, limping terribly, a stitch in his side that I'm sure must be an injury of some kind to his ribs. Finally, James and Josephine emerged, carrying Oz between them! I swear to you, my heart all but stopped when I saw that sweet boy, but they assured me he had just fainted, and I remembered his narcolepsy. If stress is what triggers it, I'm certain last night was enough to make him sleep for a week!

It was decided that I would drive the girls to the hospital. I'd made the 911 call, they had my phone's number, and so I made a statement to the police that I'd seen the girls emerging, injured, and insisted that I take them to the hospital immediately. I'm sure my name helped speed things along, but the fact that there was nothing else for the police to actually tend to with the situation sped them along even faster.

Luther, I saw some of the injuries those girls had. Not cuts - puncture wounds. In an arc, from a bite - horrible, jagged, red. God help us, one of the girls even died from the deprivation, and I held Karol's hand while she wept about the horrible man feeding on her.

I did not see the things that the others saw. But I saw enough. I know now a little bit of what you knew, Luther. And it scares me half to death.

I think I am a terrible hypocrite. You see, I am both grateful that you never shared this world with me, but also wish desperately that you were here for me to share it with. How can I simultaneously be thankful you never came to me for support against the burdens of this hunt, while also wishing you were here to help take some of the burden from me. I suppose I am fortunate that you always seemed to love me, despite those flaws, my Luther.

And so something begins, I think. I don't want to find more of these horrors. I don't want to be involved in this world. But you were - I know this now. You died thirteen years ago, and I've been through my mourning and recovery. But all of this opens those wounds up anew. I want to know more. I have to know more, because you were enmeshed in all of this monstrousness. I want to know the secret hero you were, the good you did. I want to know your legacy, Luther, even if I can tell no one of it.

I also admit here, and can tell no one else, but I have a secret fear. Seeing all of this has awakened a dread in me. I am afraid that your death was not simply an accident. Is that foolish of me? Is that the fancy of a widow who ought to have been done with her mourning a long time ago, looking for more meaning in her husband's death? Even if it is, I must know. Seeing how the police handled these situations - Karol's abduction and the trauma the young women went through - only to have them turn a blind eye...could they have been equally negligent and careless in investigating your death, Luther?

May 9th, 2014 (Downtime)

Downtime
Dear Luther,
I spent a few days recovering from everything that happened on the night of the 4th. I was so filled with adrenaline the night-of, and felt so brave, waiting alone in that alley, car at the ready to get us out of there.

The day after, I'm afraid I was something of a wreck. I stayed in bed most of the day. It was three pm before I had my first glass of wine, but that's no worthy accomplishment when you understand that I woke around noon. I heard little Miguel running around the floors above - the ones that are abandoned - and got out of bed just long enough to shout for him to leave that floor immediately. His mother Tina came running up, apologizing to me and scolding him. I just turned and went back into my room.

I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I was so cross, until I was back in bed and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I feel very lost without you here, Luther. I thought I'd grown accustomed to life without you, and I had: all the things I've learned to do without you. But this is new, and it's inexorably intertwined with you. Your handwriting is all throughout these books, guiding me like little whispers from you that have somehow become visible on a page. (I still love your handwriting. It's so bold, even if it gets hard to read when tiny and cramped.)

I spent the last four or so days mostly in bed, wandering down to the kitchen only in the dead of night to get another bottle of wine, a small plate of food, and another armful of books. Thank God for the elevator - I would never have made it back up the steps with all of those in hand, although I may have woken the Fowlers once or twice.

Speaking of whom, April Fowler has noticed, and she showed up at my room very early this morning (nine am or so!), with a plate full of excellent food. She came in, and collected up all of the wine bottles. She didn't say anything, but her look was clear: I've been overly indulgent these past few days, and so I shall stop. Writing this down is the first step in that.

Though I've been reading your books for days, it's been in a sort of drunken stupor. I think I was reading them mostly to frighten myself. Perhaps even to justify hiding in bed and at the bottom of a wine bottle at the same time. Enough of that, though. When sweet Mrs. Fowler is casting looks of askance at me for my indulgence, it's time to reset my priorities.

I've decided that I'm going to go down into your workshop. Soon, I think. Since we discovered not only the reality of the things out there, but also your involvement in them, I almost instinctively knew where your headquarters for such things was.

But I've been afraid, I admit. I don't know what I shall find down there, and I feel as though I can hardly handle what I've discovered already. Perhaps it is a fool's errand to add more to it! But how can I not? It isn't just the world out there that drives me - no indeed, if that were all, I should happily shut myself away in my house and never look out a window again!

No, there is a part of you down there, Luther. A part I don't know about, and I can't ignore it. I've only recently discovered that I don't didn't know you in the fullness of who you were, and I must know. It's almost like when we were courting, when we spent all that time finding out about one another. There was a part you left out about yourself, Luther. Is it greedy of me to want to know about that part, too?

Perhaps, but I feel as though it's all I have of you, and there is a part of me that refuses to not know. So, I will go down into that workshop.

May 12th, 2014 (Downtime)

Downtime
Dear Luther,
I've tried several times. To go into the workshop. But I just can't - I don't really know why. I've gone down the steps into the basement, and turned around and fled. I've made it as far as the door to your workshop, even putting my hand on the lock. My hand shook too badly to fit key into that lock.

It is perhaps a misfortune for the person I am that our wine cellar is so close to the basement entrance, and lies between your workshop and the stairs. I'm afraid my intentions of drinking less have withered in the face of what I'm trying to do.

I am trying, Luther. Please don't think me weak.

May 15th, 2014 (Downtime)

Downtime
Dear Luther,
I have called dear Oz, and he has agreed to go into the workshop with me. I shall probably call the others, as well. Having them there - their bravery, their interest, their drive - will surely steel me against my own tattered nerves. I can take courage from them, can I not?

I need to call them, and ask them to come over. I'm hesitating, though. I keep putting it off. I've lessened my wine drinking in the past few days, though I have tipped from your old whiskey supply to help me sleep at night these past few evenings.

Soon, my love. I'll know what's in there.