Lovecraft.

I think H.P. may have had something. Re-reading 'The Thing on the Doorstep'. They are not bats, nor owls. This place is damned.

Apology.

I'm very sorry for the lack of recent updates to my blog. It has been a trying few weeks, most notably because I was forced to fly to Australia in order to participate (against my will, I might add) in a perplexing ritual. The ensuing disortientation I experienced led me to spend many hours contemplating the cold night sky, as my mind and body seemed convinced it was daytime.
However, that is not what you want to hear. I must confess that I will, most probably, not be returning to that deplorable house in the woods, as the concluding events of our stay there were so very harrowing. Instead I have 'gone freelance', offering my ghost-hunting services to the proprietors of a rambling barn-conversion somewhere in the English countryside.
To briefly summarize: problems were first experienced here by the housekeeper, a normally level-headed man, who began complaining of a bat infestation in one of the bedrooms. Sure enough, on my arrival I found three dead bats in the room, which I was assured were not there the previous day. Additionally, several of the inhabitants of the property have heard what they describe as a 'leathery fluttering' emanating from the plughole in one of the bathrooms. When I was told by a zoologist that the dead bats I had found in the bedroom had subsequently 'disappeared' from her laboratory I realised that my hunch was right.
These are not bats.
They are psychic manifestations appearing to us as bats, but actually are something quite different. The residents have retired to a farmhouse several miles away, leaving me alone to deal with this matter. Night draws on, and I must continue with my preparations.

Just a dream

Back at home it is not easy to imagine myself back at that house. I left in something of a panic, after that horrible night when I found myself naked on the lawn just before dawn. Getting home was easy, in the end; but I had beeen worried that it would somehow follow me. Nothing, so far, suggests that it has. I had to abandon this blog for a while for personal reasons, but I have just time to mention that, despite everything, I may be forced to return to that house in the woods later in the year, towards Christmas.
One thing; I have not heard from any of the others since I left. Once again I am concerned that they may - still - be at the house, staring from the windows at the skeletal trees threshing in the wind. I told them that it was imperative that they left, as agreed, on Friday afternoon, and that on no account should they remain on those malevolent premises any longer than 5.45pm. However, I admit to a degree of concern.

Second time trying to post this. Bastard geist.

It is becoming increasingly diffilcult to function, in even the most rudimentary way, now that I have been back here two, three, five...? days. Nothing works normally. The weather, last week so ordinary, has taken a decided turn for the bad. Today, at lunch, we ate wordlessly, fixated as we were on the stormy skies, dark with intent, that clouded around the windows.
I cannot remember when I got here. The other guests seem as if permanent fixtures. Did they return to their homes, as agreed, at the weekend? Or did they surreptitiously remain here, absorbing and being absorbed by the PRESCENCE? Am I alone, surrounded by phantoms? By spectres, by ghouls? Or am I, on the other hand, consumed with a burgeoning paranoia which knows no limits, fed, as it is, by the dark woodlands which continually oppress the small clearing in which this decrepit manor house is situated?
I am unsure. I have never been less sure.
Until this afternoon I was I the grip of a feverish panic, a fervidly felt anguish that manifested itself as an unwavering certainty that I could vanquish the PRESCENCE. But it is not so.
I may write more later. I may not. The choice, alas, is no longer in my hands.

PS I tried to post this earlier, but the PRESCENCE has put it in the blog as if I wrote thisdays ago. It is the22nd October.

Defeated. Leaving today.

Last night was intolerable.
The PRESCENCE is using the electrical wiring system to get around the house; unsurprising, really, given the troubles that we have had with appliances. I was awoken at approximately 3am, finding myself suddenly wide awake, staring into the dark. "Is - is anyone there?" I whispered, praying that there would be no answer. However, the answer came, low and barely audible, sounding to me like a rasping wail, or a husky threat uttered as a monstrous ullulation. It was the word 'down'.
Just that. Nothing more. But the icy sweat poured from my brow as I sat up in bed, fumbled for the switch on my bedside lamp and grabbed for my gun.
(I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but I came equipped with a paintball gun loaded with phosphorescent paintballs. This was expressly to try to hit the ghost, and thus track its progress through the unhallowed halls of this ghastly woodland mansion.)
But my hand hesitated as it searched for the gun as, with a terrible, hollow shock I saw the room illuminated by the light. It was not my bedroom. I had awoken in the Brown Room, the room that was now locked from the outside, the room where the PRESCENCE gathered his infernal power.
Shrieking with fear, I leapt from the clammy winding sheets that tried to keep me pinned to the worm-riddled four-poster and made for the window. The rasping word "down...down" repeated again and again behind me, and after unlatching the window I scrambled out into the freezing wet autumn ivy which clambers over this dreadful place. Thankfully I got to the ground unharmed, and stood, naked, on the moonlit lawn gazing back up at the window of the Brown Room. There, in the moonlight, I saw the hooded figure, the lipless grin reflecting the lunar glare, the raised, cloaked arm, the pointing skeletal finger...

No more.

Doomed. Doomed, I tell you, doomed!

Date/time continuum problems with blog. Rain.

This is my second blog today, and knowing the effect of the PRESCENCE on machinery, you can be almost sure that this entry will appear as if it had been written days ago. Not so! Today is19th October. It is dark, it is late, and it is raining.
I have spent the entire day working on my most elaborate hex so far. Things have gone well, and i feel as if I can sign off here tonight and be relatively assured of a peaceful night. The hex involved the drawing, in perspective, of a typically box-like suburban house, decorated on the gable end with a large painting consisting of a emblematic symbol. I then multipled the dwelling until I had an entire suburban housing estate.
After applying the requisite hurtling metors, positioned just at the point before impact, I felt the hex was complete.
I will write more tomorrow, if it works. Perhaps even if it does not.

Relief to be away. Determined to return.

Leaving the house was not as simple as I expected. Late on Thursday night myself and one of the other guests attempted to photograph the PRESCENCE; this was an error. Problems started in the dining room, which is below the Brown Room (where the PRESCENCE was first noticed). After the truly bizarre discovery that my trusty Pentax K1000 would not function whilst my companion's Canon Powershot S70 did, we realised that it is only digital technology that is not affected by the PRESCENCE.
Emboldened by this discovery, we returned after fetching the video camera.
Something happened. We do not know what. But it was as if the continuity of the evening had been tampered with. When we returned, the dining room was... different. Chairs had been moved, the table had been cleared, and the heavy velvet drapes pulled in front of the dark windows. Candles guttered in an unfelt draught.
Heedless, we photographed and filmed, then retreated to the safer part of the buildings, where we looked at our footage. It was truly chilling. On film, the chairs had NOT been moved, the table reamined laden with the remains of our earlier repast, and the windows loomed blackly, uncovered by curtains. Most horrifyingly, however, were the two figures on film in that room: photographing, filming, whispering to each other.
We had somehow filmed and photographed our own (alternate) futures. We decided to get very, very drunk.
I cannot write any more at the moment.

Phones not working. Strange noises.

Things have taken a turn for the worse today. Last night passed without incident, but dawn did not bring the usual level of daylight. All day we have been existing morosely beneath a shifting blanket of dark cloud. It reminds me of the weird reflected light which one experiences during a solar eclipse. A fitful wind, seemingly wearied and distressed by the strange climatic conditions, tugs at the flowering shrubs and whips through the unkempt lawns of this misbegotten manor house.
We have kept all the lights burning in the house, and even so the gloom is palpable. The other guests took a break from their schedule and attempted to watch the television. However, no picture appeared, just a fuzzed mirage of indefinable figures and a horrible sound that was reminiscent of tortured screaming. Shortly afterwards we discovered that our telephones, both landline and portable, had ceased to function.
I had intended to return to my home tomorrow, as my bicycle is unaffected by the misfortunes which have now been visited upon almost every mechanical contraption here. The cars will not start, the washing machine and tumbledryer have packed up, and the cooker will not cook.
The monk has not been seen again.
One of the lower rooms is now host to strange aural phenomena; snatches of commentary, bleeps, repetitive thuds and a mournful wailing.
We will attempt to leave tomorrow, and intend to return on Monday, rested. I will try to write more later, as the icy temperature in here makes typing difficult.