I feel that I must write down there thoughe in fear that if I so not, I will be forced to insanity trying to contemplate them.
It was a night more awful than mine eyes had ever seen. The rain came down in torrents, and the fog was like some utterly gigantic creature, trying to consume all it could reach its gangling arms out to. It was on this horrid night of nights that I of all places was traveling on an old barren road towards Twaine Harte. It was a road that many times before had I traveled. I knew every hill, every curve. Although I possesed this knowledge, I was barely able to navigate through the dense fog. It was almost as if the road were alive, a beast out for the blood of any living who were so unlucky as to travel it. Every turn was unrecognizeable. About to give up in my insane like desperation, I spotted the horror. It was a house upon the hill. I would have been overjoyed, had I not known for a fact that no houses were placed upon the hillsides along that road. The possibility of a wrong turn raced through my thoughts, but reasoning proved this to be wrong in turn also. The last fork having been only a mile out of the last towne, and I know I had made it right. I do not know what made me continue on the read to the accursed place. It was more of an old castle, with its stone blocks and high towers, and not so much of a house. Even before I reached it, I could smell the rot and decay. My blurred mind saw the stone, dripping with algae and slime, too corroded for human repair.
It seemed to be hours, while I am positive that only minutes had passed as I drove up to the mighty horror that even now proceeds to haunt my nights and torture my dreams. It must have been the desperation of being so lost and tired that forced me to escape the warmth of my car and proceed to knock upon the door of wood, which had been encarven with many evil things of times passed. Things that my mind could not, and will never be able to comprehend. I do not know how long I waited for that door to be opened. I do not even remember how it was opened, only that by some means I entered that region of ultimate terror. The faces and things that I saw there claim no recollection in my tired mind. Only do I remember, two people, if their forms can be called those of people. Their faces being so horrible that if they were to come back into the mind that drives me, would they surely pound it into never ceasing madness. All my weary soul can recall, is the larger beast, it’s eating of some horrid food that I do not know, not wish to know the origin of, driving its frenzy into some madness which was not fit for any to see. I was led, by something I do not know or understand, to a reclused room in one of the many high, unlit towers of that hell-house. It was so cold that I was forced to climb into the great bed with all of my clithing still upon my body. Somehow, and in some way that I cannot imagine, I managed to force my conscious into the dark folds of sleep.