My Grandfather Wielded At An Loony bin And I Learnt His Personal Logs Dating Back To 1902( Part Seven)

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Read Part Two Here .

Read Part Three Here .

Read Part Four Here .

Read Part Five Here .

Read Part Six Here .

I know. I KNOW, ALL RIGHT? I said I wouldn’t be so long and looky here, it’s almost a month eventually with no term from me. Maybe you started to think I’d gone seeds? Got taken by the witch from Gramps’ tales?

No such luck. Just the holidays, I’m sorry to say. Bet you wished I had something better to tell you but that’s all it was, calling with some sidekicks and the ex and her friend, who I actually get along with all right. Truth be told me and the ex get along with okay more, although we probably wouldn’t if she saw the piece of ass I was assuring on the side these days. Sexy little digit I filled on Tinder — who says age-old guys like me can’t pick up a hottie from time to season?

Anyway. When I got together with the ex, Julie, you are familiar with … my thought was beginning to amble. I made little about Gramps’ records and Clara and the long-gone refuge where he used to work, thought more about the old days. How it might’ve worked out between us if we’d been able to have children. But back then it was all finger-pointing and drunken proofs and … well, you are familiar with. Events fall apart.

I could tell she wanted to ask me, you are familiar with. If I thought we might’ve stuck together if not for … that. If we hadn’t both blamed the other and is just too proud to actually is currently working on circumstances. Been with person long enough you can see the unasked questions in their attentions after a few Christmas cocktails.

But that’s that. She went back to her lieu, I went back to mine. And there they were, waiting for me after all those nights without the tapping on my space. Sheets and pages of Gramps’ revelations.’ Cause you know that’s what they are, right? Yellowing, ancient acknowledgments, stacked like bodies in that old rotten trunk.

So you got what you wanted. Here “weve been”. No gumption in holding back now.


December 26, 1906

It has been a fortnight since I last snooped the sorceres at my opening. I have tried to keep close attention on the children in the brand-new offstage of the hospital but it is no application. They clamber over each other like a fresh offspring of puppies in a kennel, I do not know if the wet-nurses even bother to count their number each night as they go to sleep. Unwanted children are a surplus in this town.

There is simply no way to tell if she has been taking them but if she has it has obstructed her away and God help me, I thank them for it.

January 3, 1907

The birth of another brand-new time. My home is empty, my bride and children are dust in the sand. My family tree has become a boneyard.

The girl, though. In world markets. I meet her from time to era and each instance my centre stops in my throat.

She smiles at me.

I guessed it is time to admit that her smile alone was enough to construct me stay.

January 11, 1907

Lucy.

Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.

I have heard her reputation, the girl with the red wine “hairs-breadth”, and it is Lucy and it is as beautiful as she. The exceedingly believed to be her pale surface and gentle smile are able to obtain me through the strict nightmare my displacements at asylum seekers had now become. Every expedition to the market I germinate closer to her, inch nearer, think of what I could say to obligate her mine.

She is surely betrothed to another but I cannot rest until I take this chance.

April 14, 1907

I have had no time , no time at all to update these logs properly because a miracle has happened. When once I thought I would know nothing but darkness, a beacon of light-headed glint through the shadows. Lucy has dispelled the dark and cleared the lamentable recollects from my head.

She has reminded me that one cannot dwell in a boneyard forever. The dead are the dead and the living are the living and to curl up with a rotting corpse is to fate oneself to a life without love.

We are to be married on the morrow.

April 15, 1907

I have never been as happy as I am on this day.

May 5, 1907

Work progressions. Lucy is my wife.

All is well. There is not much else to say.

June 18, 1907

I am a bit concerned. It has been months because it was united but Lucy remains without child.

She apoplexies my mane, tells me all will out as it should. She smiles. Her smile could solace even “the worlds largest” beast case in Highville far better than any electroshock therapy.

I think, for a meter, I will step away from these logs. Lucy tells me I spend far too much period documenting the past than revaluing the current. She may have a point. To look back on older enterings only constructs me sad.

I shall store them away for future see. Perhaps our children will enjoy them. When they are old enough, of course.


Here, there’s a break. Not a weird, scattered one like between 1904 and 1906. A very solid crack, even between the different types of newspaper and ink used for the logs. Seems Gramps took that time away like he said he would. And these dates, well — these dates, I acknowledge a little more.


March 13, 1918

I had panicked I would never have a reason to return to my written logs. Yes, I have been joyous, I have been well, but I have remained glad and well without an heir. It seemed my call was doomed to croak with myself and Lucy; no matter how strong our desire, her womb remained an empty room.

My wife, my exquisite Lucy with the long ruby-red fuzz, never gave up hope. She smiled her beautiful smile and told me all will out as it should. Unlike other women in the village who fell grisly and silent upon recognise they might never delivery a child, she continued on as carefree and innocent as the day I first ensure her in the market. As the working day I decided to stay at Highville.

And though I could firstly start to see the lines on her appearance, though she approached the age where a child seemed like a wild hope never to be realized, though I had begun to suspect the only children I would ever be allowed had been taken by the witch…

Today, Lucy impounded my hands and situated it on her stomach.

She told me we would have a son.

I am over the moon. I believe her, I can tell from the channel her attentions glisten that what she says is true-blue. We will have a son and our kinfolk will be complete and I never have to return to the boneyard of my imagination again.

Taken by the witch. To read these texts gives me some suspension. Some ten years old have elapsed without the tapping at the window, without the paws dragging through dark fuzz, without hearing her psalm on the wind.

Perhaps it was all in my mind.

May 23, 1918

Dr. Wickers has noticed a drop in numerals in the children’s wing. He supposes they find themselves being sold off in secret to the factories. His honcho headache seems to be that he is not were participating in the profit.

He has prescribed attendance be strictly monitored.

I feel that electricity in the air again but I will save my top down and do my work and eagerly await the arrival of my son.

September 11, 1918

I have a son!

He came into the world early this morning, the very picture of health and innocence. I was a bit disappointed to see he has my dishwater-dark mane, rather than Lucy’s beautiful auburn color, but perhaps he will grow into it.

We have reputation him Charles and this time, this time I will safeguard him. Whether the witch was a product of my intellect or not, I will shield him strenuously and desire him best available acces I know how.

Lucy is well. She has already begun to sing to him.

September 19, 1918

Dr. Wickers is behaving strangely. The breath at the asylum is so electric I can nearly detect the “hairs-breadth” on my arms countenance at attention.

He was moving slowly this morning — though he has aged in the past ten years of running the asylum, he is and ever has been spry — and seemed as though his invests ached him. Each small-scale change made the doctor to wince in pain.

I hope he is not ill.

September 22, 1918

Today, when he did not know I was looking, I examined Dr. Wickers enter his office. The back of his white pressed shirt is scattered with blood. It appeared to be in a pattern.

He shut the door behind him so quickly I could not watch what the specific characteristics was.

The children’s wing is on lockdown — no one admitted to membership in or out, outside of hospital staff. I do not think they are being sold off.

I think the doctor knows where they are.

November 3, 1918

My hands shake as I write this but I must write it now before I forget.

I woke early this morning, so early the moon and stars have yet to give way to sun, to the racket of glass shatter. Lucy was in the reces of the bedroom, cowering, shielding something in her limbs. She was bawling. The bedroom space was utterly destroyed, glass glinting in the moonlight. The curtain wafted on a cold breeze.

I expected her what had happened, what had interrupted the window, if she was all right. Her heading was lowered and whatever she was protecting was hidden behind the curtain of her cherry-red hair.

She prayed me not to suffer him. Not to suffer her.

I requested again, what had happened, was it the witch? Had she discovered the witch? It was all I could think in my instant of panic.

Lucy appeared up at me, wide-eyed, and gathered the wrap closer to her chest. From her limbs, Charles let on a anguished cry.

She asked me why I had ended the window. Why was I trying to let something inside?

She begged me again not to hurt them.

It took me a few moments to realize what she represented. I conjured my hands to scrutinize them and ascertained the right one covered in razor-thin sections, grieving tiny rips of blood.

I had to remove the small bits of glass before I wrote this and yet still my hands shake. I was able to calm Lucy down, ensure her it was merely a nightmare, that I had no sentiment what I had done and that I would never throb them.

Part of that is true. But not all of it.

Lucy is back in couch with Charles. I have told them I will be there soon and that they shouldn’t worry, all is well. It took some doing but I was able to mollify them for the time being. Before they fell asleep, I took care to board up the separated window.

The flow of children from the hospital has stopped. That must be it. Even under her assault Dr. Wickers has bided strong and no children have hovered from their chambers in the night to obstruct her satisfied. And now, as her fluke would have it, I have made an easy catch for her. Just in time.

I do not speculate I will be going to sleep before morning. I am too afraid I will try to let her in again.


I had to gradation away from these for a while, just like Gramps did. There was a week-long crack where I couldn’t bear to even look at the records again, let alone transcribed them for you. I’m sorry it took so long but that’s the truth.

See, I’d been sort of phantom that hot segment I have on the side. The one I told you about, Ashleigh? From Tinder? Yeah, it wasn’t neats but after realizing Julie over the holidays I merely didn’t feel like talking or texting or whatever with this perfectly pleasant little 25 -year-old because I remembered what Julie and I had and it just made me sad.

She got a hold of me, though. Simply after New Year’s. That’s why these took so long. I’ve been trying to get a handle on all this. Wrap my top around it. I wasn’t even going to share it with you because I didn’t think it mattered but after reading about the birth of the old man in 1918, well, I think it does. I think it kind of matters a lot.

Ashleigh, you identify, is pregnant.

She thinks it’s a boy.

And ever since she told me, well. I’ve been waking up a lot. Waking up around 2, maybe 3 in the morning. Because of course, when you open your openings in January, it gets pretty cold in your room. That’s enough to wake somebody out of a din sleep.

I simply can’t remember opening the windows.

I think Clara is preparing for something.

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