From the Journal of Jessup Hart Blackwell...

Friday, May 3, 1861
My brother is going to kill me.

Kill me or laugh at me—or something.

If he ever finds this book… this… Heavens I don't want to say journal. However, I suppose that’s what it is.

A book where I can write down my thoughts.

I'm sure not able to, nor have the capacity to, do it in life. In real life.

And if mother ever sees this... I shudder to think what she would do to me. This is my father's father's journal. I found it here last week in an old trunk shoved back in the loft of the barn. I find things to do so I don't have to go inside the house. I have my reasons. I suppose this is a safe place to share those reasons or talk about why. No one else is going to come up here and read it, but I know my feelings. So, why should I write them down?

Because my grandfather did.

Because I want to be in the house as little as possible.

Because I need to talk to someone.

Because there is something in me that I can't explain.

Something dark.