My Journal

Journal Entry #1
April 15th, 2005.

All right, so I’m writing. I’m bored out of my skull trying to heal up from that thing that bit me yesterday. Horrible. Margaret, the innkeeper here, has really worked wonders helping me out, but I’m not sure she really believes my story. Strange given her talent for what looks like alternative or herbal medicine but I guess I might not have believe it either if I hadn’t been there. Being nearly killed by a zombie will convince most folks they are real but other than that? Naw, no one is going to believe it.

It doesn’t matter that it’s true, I suppose. Ramiel was there, thank God, and he saved my ass so I don’t care that nobody really knows or believes the story of what really happened. Other than this journal, I don’t think I’ll bother talking about it with other people. It’s wasted energy.

I really just want to heal up and get out of here. The sheriff keeps nosing around. He doesn’t want to know what really happened, but keeps pressing us for details on what he wants to believe happened here. All he really needs to know is that John Wilcott killed some people here, and kidnapped that girl.

The girl was hot, by the way. I’m surprised Ramiel didn’t slip away and see if she might like to show him some gratitude for saving her skin. But actually he keeps hanging around me instead. Boring. I just lie here and try to heal. I sleep most of the day. Margaret says it’s because I lost so much blood. Anyway, it’s sweet of him to watch over me. I sleep a little better knowing he’s there.

Neither of us can quite shake the willies. I know I keep thinking we missed one, that a zombie or something worse will come lurching out of the shadows at me. I think it’s the same for him. It will be a long time before we rest easy. If we ever do, that is.

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