Progeny

July 28th, 1872

My house becomes emptier with each month, it seems. We are now five where we once were twelve, and I suspect by winter's end we shall be fewer still. I suppose it's because of the suffocating nature of the house. It is draining just to be inside, surrounded by the dark wood and darker history. I had seen pictures from my family's past, and the bright smiles on the faces of those captured within, but such expressions were absent in all my time here. And so it is of little surprise to me that my family is leaving, one by one.

I suspect I may be the reason for their departure, for as much as this edifice of wood and stone and sorrow hates the name of Whitmore, the remaining members of my family hate me all the more. Where this malice is born from, I know not, for surely I am of the same blood. And yet, they seem to regard me with the same contempt that the house does.

The matriarch of the family, Grandmother Whitmore, is the most obvious in her disdain. She looks at me as though I am a ghost, and I can see the tension in her jaw every time our paths cross. Foul words follow, cursing me for being a blight upon the family and a stain on our name. I have learned to simply ignore her, for beyond her cruel words, she is a harmless, senile old woman, wilting away.

Then there is Mother, who seems to be content with our living arrangement. Although, the dark circles encasing her eyes and general lethargy with which she conducts her life suggest otherwise. A sense of relinquishing to the inevitable has settled upon her, and I am uncertain whether to embrace her apathy or fight it. In addition to her persisting weariness, there is an unmistakable sense of regret about her, and I suspect I am the source.

My father, ever-present as the sun yet just as impossible to behold, is a subject which is seldom discussed in this household. I can only wonder if his identity plays a part in the revulsion I inspire in my family.

Finally, Uncle Lewis and Cousin Sterling, who are so detached from the others that I rarely see them, and when I do, they look as though they would rather not be seeing me. They are cordial enough in their interactions. However, it is evident that they will be the next to depart, before the house claims them, too.

Soon, I fear, I shall be left with only Mother and Grandmother for company, a prospect that deals me a great amount of dread. I pray that sleep will bring me some respite from these troubled thoughts, though lately even my dreams have offered little comfort.

August 4th, 1872

Despite my prayers, sleep has offered little consolation this past week. Every night I am burdened with unruly dreams which blend with reality all too easily, and every morning my body aches from exhaustion that should only come from a hard day's labour. Perhaps Grandmother too experienced such difficulties, because today, her agitation was even more apparent than usual.

The moment I stepped foot into the dusty kitchen, her dark eyes trained on me with a burning hatred that was enough to make my skin crawl.

"Child of the Devil," she snarled, her fingers clenching into fists. "You've brought nothing but wickedness to this house. Look at us now, all that's left of the proud Whitmore family, and it's all because of you! You ungodly creature!" she shrieked, her face turning a furious red.

I had never seen a woman so angry before. It was an ugly look on her, and I found myself feeling sorry for her as she sat there in her old rocking chair, the creaks of the wooden floorboards mimicking her old bones. When I simply stood at the doorway, unmoving, she reached for the closest object — a large, leather-bound book with gold embossed pages — and hurled it with what little strength she could muster. I deftly stepped aside and let the book strike the wall behind me, the force of the impact sending dust flying into the air and papers scattering across the floor.

"Calm yourself, Mother," My own mother murmured, a lackadaisical tone in her voice. She didn't even look up from the stove. "You'll give yourself a heart attack if you keep that up."

"You...!" the old woman hissed, pointing a crooked finger in her daughter's direction. "I know what you did to get her, you wanton woman, you whore! And now your sins have come home to roost. She's not natural! She's evil, pure and simple, and if you don't put her down like the rabid dog she is, you'll doom us all, you hear me? You'll damn us all!"

The silence that ensued was deafening, broken only by the sizzling of the pork in the pan and Grandmother’s laboured breaths. Mother was still, the ladle in her hand frozen above the stove, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the fire from the wood stove reflected in her eyes. I walked towards Mother, gently hugging her.

"Don't listen to her," I said softly. But when she turned to face me, I could see the same hatred in her eyes that had burned in Grandmother's. At the very least, she attempted to conceal it, but it was there, and it was undeniable. I was not welcome, I realized, and I released her, returning to my room with a heavy heart. Only then did Uncle Lewis and Cousin Sterling's doors open. I had no doubt they had heard the commotion and had chosen to wait it out rather than intervene.

My appetite was gone, as it had been for a while. None of Mother's dry, tasteless meals could rouse the hunger that had abandoned me, and so I found myself eating less and less.

I think that will be all for this entry. I have little energy or inspiration to write any longer, and I feel an emptiness that Mother's food cannot fill, and fatigue that sleep cannot fix. Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

August 5th, 1872

I suppose I spoke too soon. Today, I had hoped to have a picnic with Sterling. Though insincere, her kindness was something of a comfort, and she had offered to make a meal. But as I skipped across the hallway to her room, I was stopped by the sight of Grandmother's door, ajar. This was highly uncharacteristic of her, as she neither woke up early, nor was she one to leave her room unlocked, much less wide open. I could not help but be curious, and I pushed it open with a slight nudge.

I wish I hadn't.

The interior was left in a state of disarray comparable to a wild animal's den. The furniture was overturned and strewn about, paintings hung askew and some even lay on the floor, torn and shredded. Yet most disquieting of all was the trail of a bloody handprint that led out the window, whose remains lay on the ground in a mess of broken glass.

Uncle Lewis found me standing in the middle of the chaos, my hands covering my mouth in shock. When I turned to face him, his eyes were wide with fear, just as mine were. But, unlike myself, the source of his fear was not the scene before us. It was me.

"No..." he whispered. "You did this, didn't you?!"

I shook my head frantically, but he merely scampered back, falling on his rear before scurrying away like a frightened rat. "Stay away from me!" he screamed. "Stay away from us! Stay away!" The two other doors in the hall flew open, and Mother and Sterling looked on, stunned by the commotion. I could barely exchange a glance with Sterling before Lewis scooped her up in his arms and dashed out the door, as though the Devil himself was on his heels.

I saw him conveniently take the most valuable items from the house, more concerned with securing his riches than his own safety. And not a single word was spared for me or mother. Not even a goodbye. Sterling had the decency to look back at me and Mother from the carriage as Uncle Lewis took the reins. I can still picture the look on her face; a mixture of terror and regret, her cheeks stained with tears. I will not see her again.

And then, Mother. She said nothing, and neither did I. We both simply stood there, looking at the carnage before us. Her indifference was a stark contrast to the panic that had gripped her brother, but it was a coldness that I had come to expect from her. Eventually, she turned towards me, and I could have sworn the faintest hint of light was in her eyes.

"I think it's best you stay in your room for a while, dear," she said, and I couldn't agree more. When I opened the door to my room, a frigid breeze swept through the doorway, and I realized that the windows were ajar. I quickly closed them, trying to recall ever needing to open them, especially in the midst of such chilly nights. My reflection gazed back at me from the window's surface, and I noticed that my nightgown was torn at the shoulder, the fabric stained a dark red.

I spent the remaining hours of daylight reading and toiling in bed. Though I had not awoken hungry, that only persisted until near sunset, and soon my stomach was tied into knots from hunger. Deciding I would finally eat, I went to the door and pushed against it.

It didn't budge. I tried again and again, but to no avail. It was as if the door had been nailed shut. I called out for Mother, and after a few attempts, I could hear her muffled voice through the wood.

"Yes, my dear?" she asked, a calmness in her tone.

"I'm hungry," I said, pressing my ear to the door. "Can you please open the door?"

Mother paused, as though she was weighing her options. Then, I heard a soft sigh, and her voice returned, even softer than before. "No, my dear, I cannot," she replied.

"Why?"

"You know why."

A chill ran down my spine. I didn't know why. But I had a feeling it wouldn't matter if I knew or not. She was not going to let me out.

"Please, Mother," I begged. "I need to eat."

"You know... You're just like your Father," She sighed, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. Then, her footsteps receded down the hallway and vanished.

I paced around my room, searching for a means of escape, but the only way out was through the window, and the drop was not one I could survive. And so I resigned myself to sitting on my bed, waiting as my hunger gnawed at my insides like a wild animal, demanding to be fed. Whatever has been haunting this family, taking and taking until there was nothing left, it will come for me next. I suppose my Mother decided to use me as bait in an attempt to keep herself alive.

I realize I should be livid with her, but after all the turmoil I've caused her... perhaps it is deserved. The hunger is growing stronger. I don't have the strength or clarity of mind to write more.

Should this be my final entry, let me leave you with this: I am sorry, Mother.

August 6th, 1872

Much to my surprise, I survived. My stomach, which had been growling and clawing at my insides the previous day, was quiet. Though my nightmares had become most vivid that night, filled with the sounds of scratching and tearing, I awoke with more energy than I'd had in months.

My relief was cut short the moment I gazed at the door from across the room. It was covered in claw marks, gouged and chipped away, revealing the aged wood beneath it. I rushed to the door, running my fingers over the deep furrows in the wood. They were not the marks of human fingernails, that was for certain, but rather of something much larger and sharper. However, no matter how deep the gouges went, they could not breach the door entirely, for something heavy had been placed against the other side.

A jolt of pain shot through my heart as I realized Mother had barricaded the door. My hand trembled as I pushed against it, a futile attempt at freedom. Another breeze swept through the room, and I turned to find the window once more open, despite knowing for certain that I had locked it the day before. Could that creature have made its way into my room? And yet, it chose to let me live.

Perhaps I was too frail to make for a good meal.

The thought was enough to make my heart race, and I banged on the surface of the decayed door, yelling for Mother, but she remained as quiet and distant as a mountain on the horizon. The carriage outside was still present, and so I suspect she is either too scared to leave her room or has abandoned me by foot.

The silence in the house is complete now. Even the floorboards have stopped their familiar creaking. I feel that it is finally drawing its last breath. Soon, I will be the only Whitmore left, and then, even I will be gone.

That will be all for this entry. My fingers are struggling to hold the pen even as I write, a sharp pain shooting through my arm with each stroke of ink. My nails ache terribly and appear to have been filed down to the quick.