July 18, 1920

Mr. Tregaskis held out far longer than I liked.

It took until a little before sunrise this morning before I was finally able to force the door. Tregaskis fired at me with the proverbial elephant gun, which I am pleased to say missed me entirely.

I did reprimand him, rather forcefully, for his actions. He suffered for several hours before I asked him any questions. I think it was my silence more than the torture which eventually persuaded him to answer.

He gleefully told me about his organization and the person above him. She was Eloise Senter, and she was older than the country itself. Since I too am older than the country, I was not particularly impressed. I did not share my age with Tregaskis. Instead, I focused on logistical questions. Number of troops, active followers, silent supporters, politicians, and the like.

He refused to answer specifics regarding politicians until three in the afternoon after I had amputated both arms at the elbow. It was at that point he realized he was going to die. Whether painfully and slowly, or quickly, were in his control.

And that was the only aspect of his life in which he still maintained control.

I jotted down all the information he gave to me, and when it was all said and done, he asked that he be shot in the head.

I shot him through his groin and left him screaming in his chair.

My friends hadn’t enjoyed a choice in the way they died. Why should he?

I set fire to every building on his vast estate before I left.

I hope he burned.

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July 16, 1920

I am not nearly as foolhardy as I was in my youth, though, at times, this doesn’t say much about me. I am pleased to say that this day, I did not play the part of the fool.

Before returning to Tregaskis’ estate, I stopped off at Coffin Farm and spoke with an old friend of mine: Rebekah Coffin. She was undeniably the finest shooter I knew, and I was pleased beyond words when she agreed to accompany me on my task.

We left shortly after the destruction of the undead guard, gathering supplies and weapons as we went. There was little time to spare.

By noon, we were back at Tregaskis’ estate, and by one she was in position to protect me. With her at my back, I advanced upon the building. I knocked on the door and shot the man who answered. From outside the heavy walls of the main building, I heard the steady, careful firing of Rebekah, and I knew that a man died with every shot she fired.

I made my way deeper into the house, killing everyone I met. As I ascended the stairs to the second floor, I heard Tregaskis ushered to another room. Where he hoped to hide, or how firmly he believed in the prowess of the hunters, I didn’t know.

I lost track of the number of times I reloaded the pistols, or of the number of men whose bodies I stepped over. In the basement, I knew, I would find the undead. That would be for later when I would stake them all and burn their corpses.

When I reached Tregaskis’ room, I found it guarded, and I killed the two men, pumping six shots into each. It took me a moment to realize they were more than mere men.

Like men, however, they died.

Soon, Rebekah and I had the floor secure, and we began the laborious process of prying Tregaskis out of his room. He was like a tick, bloated, and hidden behind the walls.

But we had plenty of time when it came to digging him out.

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July 15, 1920

I took him shortly after dusk when he was blood-sated and lazy, full of himself and his own supremacy.

Vampires are tremendously strong unless you’ve thrown salt in front of them to count, and then blown them backward with large caliber slugs. I stuffed his mouth with garlic, bound him in chains, and slipped away before his friends could find us.

In the back of a truck, I chained him down, gutted him and filled his blood-soaked innards with as much garlic as I could. With him immobilized, but still moaning, I took the undead creature on a long and unpleasant journey back to my property, where I loaded him onto a boat and brought him to one of my small islands where there was little more than sand and moonlight.

Once on the island, I removed the garlic from his mouth with several well-placed rounds. When he had healed enough to talk and had finished a seemingly endless tirade of threats, I blinded him and shoved garlic into the sockets.

It took him three hours to finally talk but talk he did.

He told me of the guards at Tregaskis’ estate, both the living and the undead. He told me of Tregaskis’ promises to feed the undead well once his organization had some control over local politics. When I pressed the vampire for more information, he stated he knew nothing else.

I didn’t believe him, of course, and I told him as much. He laughed and said the night was long, and that sooner or later, he would be strong enough to attack.

He tried to speak again, but I shot him in the mouth. Again, and again, and again.

When the sun rose, it found him naked and unchained.

It left him charred and at my feet.

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July 14, 1920

I spent the majority of the day with Dan Graves, a man I had seen born shortly before the beginning of the War of the Rebellion. Dan was, without doubt, the finest carpenter in Cross, and it was he who supplied me with the stakes I needed for the assault on Mr. Tregaskis’ undead guards.

Ash is a difficult wood to work with, and it is the only sure method of pinning a vampire down. Some of the old ways work, such as ash and a mouth stuffed full of garlic, but holy water and the trappings of faith are useless if the person attempting to employ them lacks faith, to begin with.

I have never feigned to profess belief in anything, so I did not arm myself with any sort of religious items. Instead, I loaded my Colts, dug out a significant amount of garlic from my stores, and went and paid Dan a visit.

I explained what I needed, and how many of the stakes as well, and Dan crafted them for me. Unlike myself, Dan is a God-fearing man, and he poured all his faith and devotion into the creation of the weapons. His extra efforts would, I hoped, prove useful. I wouldn’t know until I attempted to stop one of the undead and seek to question them.

I am armed, and I have left this journal on my desk. It is not unrealistic to know that I might die.

I hope I do not, but, as they say, look not to hope.

I’ll trust in my Colts and the ash stakes Graves has crafted.

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July 13, 1920

Mr. Chambers certainly wasn’t lying when he said that Mr. Douglas Tregaskis lived on a well-defended estate.

Tregaskis’ property was massive, covering nearly ten acres with multiple brick buildings upon it. As I watched the guards patrol the property, I felt as though I was missing something, and so rather than planning on moving in during the night, I climbed a large tree, and I waited.

I am happy I did so.

Tregaskis wasn’t protected solely by humans.

The creatures which came out after his human guards went in were difficult to spot at first, but when the wind shifted, I could smell them. They were a foul lot, rank with the odor of death. There are few creatures so vile as vampires, and there were six of them I could see. What they were doing allied with Tregaskis I didn’t know, but if I was to move forward on the house, I would need information only one of the undead could provide.

Unfortunately, I was not equipped to kill, let alone capture one of them. And it is far easier to kill a vampire than it is to take one captive.

They tend to dislike being prisoners more than most.

Frustrated with the setback, I waited until dawn returned and could safely make my withdrawal. I returned home as quickly as I could and gathered the equipment I needed.

Then, I went to bed and rested as much as I could.

The night of the fourteenth would be long and arduous.

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July 12, 1920

Robert Chambers was certainly important in the movement. And in Boston society. When I found him, he was exiting the mayor’s office, where he had evidently collected a sizeable donation for his organization. I then trailed Mr. Chambers to his office. He was an attorney of some note, specializing in defense.

From his office, the good Mr. Chambers went on to a private club, then from the club, he proceeded to a well-appointed – and guarded – apartment building. It took me only a matter of minutes to gain access to the structure, and to find where he was.

His apartment, like the building itself, was guarded. The two men standing watch outside the door were ‘pugs,’ old time boxers who could take a few hits and who didn’t mind going toe to toe with someone.

Of course, they expected to deal with overzealous individuals with little or no experience in the realm of fighting. I, on the other hand, had little patience this evening. I’d been hunting for answers since the incident, and I wanted them sooner rather than later.

I gutted both men at the door and let myself into the apartment. I found the good Mr. Chambers taking advantage of several young Chinese women who were there against their will. They were willing to leave the gentleman in my care.

I regret to say that I was not gentle with him.

I started with his knees before I asked him a single question. From those joints, I moved on to his elbows and his shoulders. Only when all were dislocated did I remove the gag from his mouth and ask him what I wanted to know.

There were three men above him in the organization. He only knew the name of the next. Mr. Douglas Tregaskis. He was a gentleman of means in Concord, Massachusetts. According to Mr. Chambers, Mr. Tregaskis’ home was well defended and would require some effort to enter. He offered his assistance, of course, and I drowned him in his bathtub.

I would find my own way in.

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July 11, 1920

I was fortunate in my examination of the notebook I had early taken, to discover an individual who was located nearby to the explosive Ms. Genest.

Captain Frederick Thompson, formerly of the United States Army, lived and worked in the town of Amherst, New Hampshire, a short distance from Hudson. The Captain was a graduate of the famed Virginia Military Institute, and he had served with distinction in the Great War. Why such a man would throw his lot in with murders and thieves was beyond my understanding, but I wanted to see if I could fathom the reasoning behind his course of action.

He was not immediately interested in speaking with me. In fact, he flew into a rage when he found me walking up the steps of his porch.

The man was a fighter. But he was a fighter with only a few years’ worth of experience.

I’ve been killing people since I was twelve, and since before the end of the 17th century.

I have little interest in torture, although I am adept at the brutal art. Captain Thompson did not believe me. Not until after I crushed his genitals with a meat tenderizer.

With that accomplished, he told me what I wanted to know. The next person I needed to speak with was a Mr. Robert Chambers, once again of Boston. Mr. Chambers, according to the good Captain, was in one of the top tiers in the movement.

I did not grant Captain Thompson a soldier’s death. He forfeited that when he partook in the murder of my friends.

Instead, I garroted him in his chair and left him in the gutter for the dogs to find.

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