The Memoir of Zefir Cozbi: Tales of lies and deception.

Name: Zefir Cozbi

11/7/1943 - 11/12/1982

Age of death: 40

Cause of death: N/A

Last record: This Memoir.

Contents: This memoir details Zefir Cozbi’s experience at the great SeaFare Lighthouse for 30 days, surrounded by gale-force winds, at constant rates.

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10/23/1982,

I tried turning the thick, iron steel wheel against the pressure of the gale-force winds behind them. It was terrifying yet so thrilling to know that such death-hungry breezes awaited behind. I turned the wheel once more to secure it and backed away from the door. Sweat, rain, and shivers trickled down my spine like fingers sliding down my back, as I caught up to my shaky breath and racing heart. Would this lighthouse be able to fight against those forceful winds? Only time could tell. Time that I did not have. I dashed against the pain in my joints, up the cold concrete stairs, and up to the single desk I had. I tore open a page from my stack of bound sheets and fluttered out my pen. 

This was a hobby of mine. Deduce that the danger was not dangerous, and live off of it. It was a stable job with more money than a single man could need, but it was the only way to stop ‘it’ from looking at me. Anytime I was alone or deep in my thoughts, I could see ‘it’ staring at me. It was terrifying, so I tried everything to get it away. I sat with serial killers, participated in satanic rituals, lived with cursed objects, and now, to survive in a lighthouse, from those barbaric winds outside for 1 month. Since I’ve racked up quite a huge sum of money over the years, I expect that this would be the very last thing I do. But, this was not what I was expecting at all. I thought I would die when all I did was spend 5 minutes out there. Concrete, dust, and random objects were flying everywhere at sickening speeds. It was raining and cold, and a strange smell of rotten flesh was carried everywhere. But whatever the case, I’m doing this so this ‘it’ can leave me alone. And I’m leaving this memoir here, in case it gets me.

10/27/1982,

The first couple of days have gone strong for me. I’ve been able to explore and see what I have in store. But I don’t dare to venture out, or even cross those steps because, for some reason, there seems to be a really bad smell coming from them. Aside from that though, a good sign is that I haven’t seen ‘it’ yet, so I’m praying the rest of the days are just as peaceful and quiet as these couple of days.

10/29/1982,

It's gotten a bit too quiet.

The shutter, rain, and howling winds are the only things that seem to make noises, and that’s been playing with my head. I’ll hear footsteps skittering around and voices that shouldn’t be there. I’ll feel gusts of wind out of nowhere and at night it gets freezing cold. But that's probably how this goes. Right? But, one thing that is bothering me is the horrible stench. It's like there is a whole room full of rotting fish, and decaying flesh. It gets so bad that I start to vomit anytime I go down those concrete steps. I don’t know what it is, or why it’s there. But, my food storage is down there, and these rations aren’t going to last long. 

11/3/1982, 1 pm,

It's been 4 days since the smell and persistent winds outside continue. All I’ve been able to do these past few days, is read, listen to a distorted radio, and write. It's been challenging, and the stench isn’t making anything better at all. My food and water are cutting out, but I’m way too sick to go down there. Maybe later. Yes, later. When my mind doesn’t have to think about ‘it’ again. I’ll try to write more. But my hands are so cold and the hunger is getting to me. Why did I do this? 

11/3/1982, 6 pm,

I couldn’t handle the pain. My stomach ached too loudly for me to ignore it. So, after much consideration, I decided to head down and get supplies. Walking down those steps, I tried to ignore the nasty smell, as I headed down to the cellar (of sorts). I turned the iron handle as fast as I could and entered the musty room. There was no light on at all, and at this moment, the smell was too much. My eyes were watering. My breath shook, and my nose was so reluctant to even take a whiff of the room's contents. I quickly turned around, trying to find something, anything to turn the lights on. I pulled on strings, rods, and anything in my reach, and eventually, one of them turned on a silent, dim light towards the right. I ran, tears falling down my cheeks to the nook. I quickly grabbed a basket and dashed out the door, it barely shutting behind me. I ran up the steps and immediately fell to my knees. The basket sprawled across the floor, as I gasped for air in between deep breaths. I stood up and walked towards the mirror in the corner of the room. It was a blurry, confusing walk with so many stumbles and incoherent words strapped into my mind. I steadied myself on the sink and looked up. “You don’t want to do this anymore.” ‘it’ said, eyes bloodshot and a shadowed face.

11/4/1982,

I collapsed after that moment from the terror of seeing ‘it’ again. I didn’t wake up until a bit later, but the jolt of pain and burning in my legs and eyes hurt too much. Yet I forced myself to get up and grab the basket. I looked around for anything else that skidded along the floor, then stuck my hand into the basket and pulled out the contents. 1 (extra) book, ink, bread, fruits, bottles of water, and a quilt. Enough for about 2 weeks if I didn’t overeat/use it. But that’s not what I worry about. What I want to know is why I saw ‘it’ again. It should've left me alone. I’m tired and hungry, and my head is shaking. The loneliness is getting to me, and I don’t know how long I can last anymore. 

11/5/1982,

The winds are constant, and every time I try to forget about them, ‘it’ just comes up. It’s as if this whole thing is set up by the forceful breezes, the shuttering, never-ending rain, and ‘it’. I don’t know why, but those gusts keep resembling whispers, keeping me up all night. But of course, there’s no one here but me. Poor, old, lonely me.

11/7/1982,

I can’t keep acting like this. I need to get myself up. This is exactly why I wanted to do this. To smack this ‘it’ right in its face. And how can I do that if I just lay down, somberly all day? I got myself up and decided to eat something in over a day. That helped get my mood and strength back. I’m starting to write more, walk around, look outside, anything to keep me from looking at the shattered glass on the ground. Or at the open cellar door down the stairs. Because those don’t produce happy thoughts at all. What kind of person would I be if I couldn’t handle some silly hallucinations? 

11/12/1982, 4 pm,

The smell had gotten significantly worse. I didn’t know what to do or what it was at all, but I needed to find out where it was coming from. And so, I wrapped the quilt around my mouth and nose, took an oil lamp, and started the trek down the cold steps. I could see the door open, with intense darkness seeping out of the cracks. It had taken just one push for the door to swing open as if welcoming me. The smell became more intense, and so I took one last deep breath and slowly went down the broken spiral staircase. I end up in the same place as before. The dim light is still on, lighting up the tiny nook in the corner. I walked along the sides, feeling for a switch, but then opted to go to the light once again. As I was walking to the corner, a lamp lighting up my shaky path, my hand brushed against something. Goosebumps ran up my spine from the soft feeling. I turn around slowly, with my light leading me. I bring the lamp towards a wooden crate and-... then everything goes black. I hear the sound of glass and iron shattering, as I race up the hard, stone steps, screaming my lungs out. Darkness, fear, and silence fill my senses, as my nerves keep pushing my legs to go forward. I reach the first step and shut the massive door close behind me. I’m trying to breathe and catch my racing heart, as my body gives up against the hard, wooden door. I slide down to the frigid ground, and sway my aching head, trying to understand what I saw. My eyes were shaking, my hands trembling, and my vision fading. Bright red, blood dripped from my dirty hands, as tiny pieces of glass protruded from it. I stared. And kept staring. All I could hear was my shaking voice and the ever-so-present, mocking voice of the clouds and zephyrs. But that was not the only thing I could hear.“Why do you do this to yourself?” ‘it’ said, cradling my trembling body, As I listened to its beautiful lullaby.

11/12/1982, 6 pm,

I couldn’t stand it. So I just stayed slumped at the base of the door. My mind felt heavy, and I felt as if ‘it’ was trying to nurse me back. But I never welcomed its presence. Every time I looked at my hand, I got a distorted flashback, of the dingy, gray hand reaching out of the crate, with deep, red blood dripping from cuts and gashes so deep, you could see the pink flesh. I screamed and cried every time. All this from just a couple of days here? Am I that weak… I don’t care anymore. I may as well end my own life, before ‘it’ comes to do it for me. 

11/14/1982,

Do you know what paranoia is? It is the persistent feeling that people are lying, cheating, or trying to harm you. They say that people with paranoia tend to not have any close bonds. That’s what the doctor, my therapist, and my parents said. They all think that I’m this baby who has this dire mental illness that could kill me any second. They don’t know that it’s real. That ‘it’ is constantly after me. But you know what? I understand ‘it’ now. It’s not here to hurt me. It’s here to help me, to guide me, to show me the way. Why did it take so long for me to realize that I was not in danger? And ‘it’ is a friend. A close friend. A very, very close friend.

11/16/1982,

‘It’ has been with me for a while. It soothes the pain in my hands. The blood still seeps out of the gash now and then. But ‘it’ is doing its best. It always tells me to never look at my hand. That the healing process would never work if I did. So I try my best to not look at it, even though it gets so tempting at times. Sometimes, it feels as if little crawlers are slithering around. Or a burning sensation that turns my eyes red. And sometimes even a smell that kind of reminds me of the cellar. But ‘it’ said I’m fine. So I probably am. The days are slowly dwindling, and I’m getting giddier by the second. And ‘it’ seems happier too. I just hope that ‘it’ doesn’t change mine anytime soon.

11/18/1982,

My hand hurts. It feels like the skin is slowly being ripped away by sharp claws, and every time it does, cold blood drips down my hand and then dries up to a hard crust. It’s a horrible feeling and it tempts me to look down. But I can’t. ‘It’ says so. And I know that I really, really can’t, but god does it hurt. 

11/21/1982,

My face, arms, and legs all feel like jello. The ripped skin that each of them holds is slowly falling apart. It hurts so much. I can't keep going like this. my eyes don’t move. They keep staring at a dark corner. My hands have become stiff with the dried blood. My face feels locked in place, with light, prickly steps coming from within and out of the frayed, torn skin. My legs feel like they’re slowly being sawed off by dull hacksaws. flies are everywhere and it’s like a gray cloud has covered me over. But… It feels safe. I don’t need to worry about eating, breathing, or even needing to move. ‘It’ is helping me with everything, and it feels so secure. Why do I question everything? Pain is just another form of love and care. ‘It’ really emphasizes it. And so the omnipresent wind outside. They also care. They care very much. It’s so pleasant.

11/22/1982,

My last day huh? The days flew by didn’t they? I was running around, scared for my life just a couple of days ago, and now, I’m being nursed to safety by the same thing that I was running from. It’s so ridiculous. But I’m thankful that I’ve come to my senses, and that I have written this memoir. It will be such a laugh when I look back at this. I’ll remember these days forever. So, without further ado, I thank those who have read this journal. May your life be just as eventful as my time here. At Seafare Lighthouse. Where the wind never stops.

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Zefir Cozbi was known as the man who never saw reality. He was always screaming or yelling about something that wasn’t there. Thus, he was kicked out of his home at a very young age. Yet, looking back, I guess that gave him a sort of silent retreat. When I heard that this memoir was released online, after his death was published, I knew I had to read it. To know why he would do this to himself. But, what was written there, is not what had happened. When the lighthouse was open to release him. They couldn’t find him anywhere. And when they did, he was slumped against the cellar door, with dark blue bruises, torn flesh, and skin revealing his half-eaten internal organs. The autopsy revealed that he died of shock and extreme fear. But they couldn’t let go of the strange, deep red finger marks around his neck. The last record they have of him is this memoir. Yet, something is very off about it. Forensics say that he died on November 12, 21 days after starting the challenge. Yet the memoir openings continued until November 22, 1982. If he had died, 9 days ago, then who was writing this memoir for him? 

-Alyona Cozbi

Sister of the late Zefir Cozbi.

Researcher of the unusual and strange.

Died on November 12, 1984, due to extreme shock, fear, and paranoia. 

Just like her brother.