I spent most of today wandering through the asylum. It is far larger than I expected it to be. Perhaps other buildings were added to it. There is also the distinct possibility that these are from a time and place different from my own. The separation between the worlds and realities is thin in the Hollow. It is what makes the borders of Cross so fluid. Where else but in Cross can you see and smell the Atlantic from the observatory at our branch of Miskatonic University in the morning, and see nothing but rolling farms in the afternoon?
Close to dinner time, I made a heartrending discovery, a collection of photographs. Hundreds of them. Some date as far back as the 1880s. A few of those photographed I recognize. Others, I never knew.
I gathered up several dozen that felt off when I touched them and carried them with me to the room which I have claimed as my own. I spread the photos out on my bedroll, fixed my meal, and waited.
I did not wait long.
A girl by the name of Mallory Pembleton appeared in the doorway, and by the chill which proceeded her, I knew she was among the dead. She asked for entrance, and I gave it willingly. I am not here to fight. All I wish for are answers, and to see if any remain living.
Mallory is a young girl of seven, and she died quickly when a priest threw her against a wall, the blow so powerful it stopped her heart.
She killed him a few months later by pushing him out an upper floor window. Mallory is an exceptionally well-spoken child, and I enjoyed my conversation with her. Before she left, she warned of others in the buildings who are far from pleasant.
I thanked her and told her she was welcome to visit me at any time, either in the building or at my home.
She smiled, thanked me, and disappeared into the darkness.
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