By Steve Carvajal

October 5th, 1879

I’m home again and everything is fine. The doctors have pronounced me fit as a fiddle, and we’re ready to get on with our lives. Martha has been so kind and patient through my long and arduous recovery. I am so glad that we are together again and I can run my fingers through her golden hair. I am feeling better than I have in years.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 8th, 1879

Martha’s mother doesn’t trust me. I see her looking at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. She has tried to drive a wedge between us for years and I suppose it would be foolish of me to think things could be different now. Nevertheless, Martha and I are blissfully happy. Her mother was always very cruel to her and Martha calls me her knight in shining armor who came to rescue her from her wicked step-mother. Although the old witch is truly her mother by birth, Martha likes to call her that nonetheless. Stepmother. I ask Martha why she hates her mother so, but she smiles and speaks of other things.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 12th, 1879

She’s laughing at us. I know she is, I can hear her through the window in the dead of night. She comes to visit unannounced several times a week and I can hear her snickering under her breath, watching me to see when I’ll get sick again, but she is wrong, and cruel and I know why Martha has nightmares about her. I know why Martha is so fragile and weak: So much abuse my darling has been exposed to. Too much for one heart to bear. But we will get through this together.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 17th, 1879

Cruel wicked stepmother! Her evil knows no bounds and Martha cannot take the strain. She is such a gentle soul. But as she weakens, my resolve grows. I am having the dreams again. I was sure that they were gone for good, but I was mistaken. They are, however, different this time. I can see her plotting against us. I can see her evil rising from her like the stench of rotting flesh rising up to cloud the air. I see her all night as I sleep and when I wake I am tired and wan. While I am awake I catch glimpses of her peaking into our windows. I know her black and shriveled heart plots against us.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 23rd, 1879

My sweet Martha cannot go on. Her mother still comes to visit her almost daily now, ranting at her, asking her what’s wrong with her, what’s wrong with me, as if she doesn’t know, and Martha just shakes her head no and cries. She can’t sleep, and she eats little and looks as if she will just waste away. Her beautiful golden hair grows thin and loses its luster. My Martha shouldn’t have to cry while I, her knight, her hero, sits and watches and remains silent. Shame on me! Shame!

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 28th, 1879

All is ready. I’ve done it all in the storage room in back with no windows. I sat there in silence, working in the dark through the night while Martha finally, mercifully slept. I kept my mind purposely blank so the old crow of a woman couldn’t hear me thinking

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 29th, 1879

It was so easy. I knew if I remained calm and rational I could defeat her. I just imagined her as the animal of which she most reminds me: an old turkey hen. Yes, you see, it was easy to wring her wrinkled turkey neck while her weak wings flapped against me ineffectually. So easy to pluck her feathers, cut her up as the butchers do down at the market. How pitifully easy to dispatch such feeble prey and scatter her flesh through the fields for the crows to feast on, and then bury her bones in the field next to the old scarecrow. Now Martha and I can get on with our lives. Now we can finally be happy.

-Lord Byron Whitmore

October 31st, 1879

She’s back! I don’t know how but she’s back! I hear her all the time. I hear her cackling and raking her nails down the inside of my mind. I hear her. I hear…No! No! Noooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!

London Times November 1st, 1879

Mrs. Martha Whitmore was found running through the streets near her home wearing the clothes of her deceased husband, Lord Byron Whitmore. She was Screaming “NO, get out, NO!” Her hands and clothes were caked in dried dirt and blood as she rolled on the ground, tearing her short hair out by the roots. Lord Whitmore died three years ago of consumption and Mrs Whitmore was left unstable and placed in the protective custody of the London Sanitarium by her mother who has not been reached for comment. In fact her home was found in severe disorder and police believe foul play may have be connected with her absence.
Mrs. Whitmore had just been released from the sanitarium less than a month ago. According to the doctors in residence at the sanitarium, to whose care she has been returned, Mrs. Whitmore is locked in a delusional state of denial. After leaving the sanitarium previously, she cut off her hair and assumed the person of Lord Whitmore. She kept a porcelain doll with flowing golden hair with her at all times that she has given her own name of Martha and speaks to it constantly when when she is not shreiking over the voices she hears in her head.

Look for updates in future issues as more information becomes available.

Tags: Steve Carvajal, horror

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