I cannot bring myself to write any more of the War of the Rebellion, and the reason for this is simple: I buried the last of my comrades from that fight today.
Zeke Chambers was 89 years old, and he blew his brains out with his grandson’s pistol this morning.
The ghosts of our brethren who fell during that war found him at last, and they have called him home to Hell.
They have come for me as well, and as I sit here, in my private library, down in the lowest section of my home, they wait for me. I’ve had a bit to drink. Perhaps more than my usual, and – to be honest – more than I should.
For hours, the dead have been whispering for me to follow them, and I’ve had about enough of it.
They’re watching me as I write this. I suspect they are foolish enough to believe it is some half-hearted suicide note.
No, I’m far too vain for suicide.
When I finish this bourbon, I’m going to stand up, and I am going to remind them why I am nearly 300 years old.
I am loathed to suffer fools, and anyone – living or dead – who believes they can convince me to do something I have no desire to do, well, that person’s a fool.
I have a book at hand, bound in human skin, and written in the Danish runes. In this fine work, there are a plethora of spells, many of which will help me bind the dead in this room. I merely need to pick an item to bind them.
They’ve raised their voices now, and they’re complaining. One of them, Custer, is going on about the dog I stole.
Well, there’s the last of the bourbon.
The bottle is empty. Shame to let it go to waste.
I wonder, how many ghosts could I fit inside the damned thing?
Heh. I suppose it would be good to find out.
Duncan Blood, March 31st, 1934
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