Ecdysis Archives

I can't believe it. I really can't believe it. Dad's writings were here, all along. I seriously cannot imagine the detectives ever once stepped foot into this town in order to search for him, his last known whereabouts, if they never once came across the leatherbound book. It's much smaller than I remembered, easily stored in a coat pocket.

I have attempted to map out the town as it was described in his words. The Saint-Rose home is most prominent, both in appearances in his writings as well as the state of the home in comparison to the others. Though small to our standards, I know this home must have been impressive for the time period. I had Todd document the entire excursion, and I am reviewing the footage as I write this.

The Saint-Rose story fascinates me. Their lineage ended at a single child, a daughter, Fiona. Dad referred to medical records, which I have recovered from the local doctor's home- Dr. Jonathan Fine. There's no end to illnesses in which Fiona received some sort of treatment. Blood illnesses, coughs and fevers, and many mentions of muscle pain and failure. There is documentation within her file accounting for every year of her life due to frequent visitation. This is the closest anyone can get to a biography of her life, though Dad seemed to have known more. I'm unsure as to his sources, though, as he mentions aspects of her life in passing and with a casual familiarity.

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I have seen no mentions yet of the fire. None in dad's writings, in fact he barely touches on the mines unless describing the careers of the townspeople. I've noted as well that the timestamps of his journal entries have become inconsistent to the dates I found within the archived expense reports approved for this investigation I found at work. I'm trying to remember, I know dad was gone for long stretches of time leading up to when he went missing, but I never doubted that it was the Franklin PD that put that onto him. I think there is good reason to believe this became a personal investigation for dad at some point. The question now is why? And what is it about Fiona that drew him in?

There is a clear shift towards focusing on her. He continually mentions an "outbreak", which I believe is how he has chosen to refer to the mine fire. Dad treats Fiona's history as some sort of grand puzzle piece that needs to be solved in order to determine the events of the "outbreak". She was just a young woman, a very sickly religious young woman who spent what little there was of her adulthood in permanent care of her parents. It's a depressing story, I'm sure, and I empathize with what I believe (and I understand this is what dad suggests in his writings as well) is a severe case of medical control [Unintelligible]. I still haven't familiarized myself with the Saint-Rose patriarch. A position of authority in Isaiah's Meadow seems clear-- whether it was through government, the mines, or the church, I haven't yet pieced together. I'll have Todd come along with me, we'll search all three offices, I'm sure he must have records somewhere.

I suppose I can't help but wanting to understand just what it was that was nagging at dad so badly.

There have been dreams, more dreams than nights spent in camp. How that's possible, I'm not sure. There's one constant in those dreams, the welts not only scab over but I experience a total ecdysis. I've always been claustrophobic, but there is a peace in the shed as if through my teneral being, my fears have unwound from my memory. I emerge, still in my appearance, but the welts are gone, as is the scar above my brow where I had hit that metal swingset when I was a child. I'm not animal at all, I am strictly myself but renewed.

I dream as well of what it might've been like living here in its heyday, prior to the breakout. I dream of Fiona, in that cold chair, on that stiff mattress. I watch the world from her eyes, seeing faces swim in and out of her vision. A roadside attraction of prayers and blessings, but taken from her rather than given away. Hands ████ ██ ███ as if any of her remaining health is a gift to bring home for themselves.

I'm not sure what it is about her, but I feel endeared to Fiona, especially after these few dreams. I can't help it, but I wonder if those people [unintelligible] deserved.

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It's several times now when I review Todd's tapes that I feel this deep unease. He tells me, too, in the moment, that he doesn't see what I see. It's mind tricks, lack of sleep, overworking myself all culminating into whatever exhaustion does to the brain. I can hear myself on the tape, "What was that?" and I watch Todd pan towards a barren wall, lit perfectly well with our flashlights. But I remember what I saw (or believed I saw), and it's only become more frequent.

And then I recalled something dad had written about. I poured through his journal, and found the exact passage. He describes seeing shadows of a girl, and how he knows they're shadow because the shadows look like the elongated stretched out reflections you create through a low-angled light source. The shadows don't follow any logic of light, it can be broad daylight and there are those glimpses of long fingers, or hair, or stretches of legs. Long, stretched thin, exaggerated, out the corner of an eye. I feel closer to him than ever, now, but what does it mean?

Is it possible to speak to someone and understand them, if they do not exist? I feel closer to her, and the longer I spend here the more I feel I am living and understanding her story. Maybe it's the dreams. Or maybe in my loneliness I've begun to [Unintelligible].

Todd left his camera behind. I know tensions were getting high, but I feel horrible. He's just a kid, really, and I shouldn't have put so much pressure onto him. Now I'm alone.

This must have been what she felt. Even when surrounded by her family, she must have been so ████ ████ █████ ███████ ████.

But she lives on... doesn't she? My thoughts of her make her real, like I can feel her around me. That's why I see these shadows besides me, isn't it? That's why I can imagine her voice right now, soothing and sweet- a gentle rose that had no choice but to bloom amongst thorns.

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The welts have yet to drain, I'm keeping them wrapped, but I'm still concerned. They have definitely hardened, though. I feel childish even thinking this, but I've begun to feel nervous out on my own. I've decided to move camp into the Saint-Rose home. It's the most structurally sound, though it's by no means glamorous.

A wisdom was shared with me today.

"Mother knows best, let mother heal you"

I'm uncertain why this phrase came to me, like a subconscious buried beneath my ribs and warming me from the inside out. It's Fiona, I believe. Perhaps she senses the ways I've empathized with her and her sorrows, and has taken to reciprocating. I know this doesn't make any sense, but it feels right to me.

I feel protective of this shared energy between us. It may be across decades, or generations, or lifetimes, but is it wrong to believe it's there? I have found myself weeping for her, adopting her pain as my own. Better yet, I will ache where she was denied the permission to, if that makes sense.

God, I've never felt anything like this before. She has become my reality, I can't separate her pain from my own and the agony tears at me like endless screams.

I am filled with it, too. That voice knows me, and fills me like dregs of water at the base of a scrying bowl. I see myself more clearly, and I feel the nature of this journey has been realized.

There is this synchronicity shared between the two of us, Fiona and I. As she is haunting me, the world around me is changing. Not just mentally, but I can sense the shift in real time. My body is no longer the same. I can see her. I can see her. █ ███ ███ ███. It can’t exist, but it does and a part of me knows it’s my care for her that has brought her here. The fog has cleared, the eggs have incubated and will soon hatch. It itches within me.

Could Todd's [Unintelligible] greater message? Maybe I needed to be alone after all, to truly connect with the messages delivered to me. I was never deeply religious before, but miracles come unto me every day now. These dreams are manifesting, and the pustules beneath my skin will soon burst and give way to my teneral virgin form. I will shed the trauma and leave it behind like a former skin, like a babe from the womb. Is this what Mother is? Is this what Mother wants?

I believe my baptism is coming.

Whatever it is, if its something which originates from the fires or... from somewhere else... It spreads fast. It quickly overtakes the town's population, immobilizing the entire community in a surprising amount of time.

...physical contact, or maybe an airborne transmission. With what little resources there were at the time, mutliple families often occupied community centers, by the time symptoms of infection revealed themseleves it would have already been too late. Such a small town would make it impossible to avoid contamination. The spread was inevitable.

Thoughts have been unlike my own, I can't think of what my priorities once were, who I was supposed to be. Why has Fiona and the Saint-Rose family overtaken any sense of logic and self preservation. I should have never moved into the house. Enough self-awareness remains for me to recognize what is going on, but at once there is not enough to stop it. I would describe it like an addiction. I know I should step away, but I can't let go of it until I reach the end.

I remember now, since I first read that letter. My dad's. It was that moment that I knew I had to come here, before I even knew what here was. Not even just that I had to, but I would. Nothing could hold me back from achieving this, not mom, not my husband, mother, nor Todd. Even the handwritten words alone were enough to draw me in, to overtake my mind and make me think of nothing else. Is there a possibility that a virus could spread through the mere knowledge of it? Topical contamination is not an option. What then is its source?

and my sobriety is fleeting. Take these words in their brevitas and understand you are not the same as you were when you begun reading these pages. You have begun dissecting my words for meaning behind them, and a deeper understanding what happened to her. What do you seek in these writings? What has She led you to search for? We are not alone here, when will you understand? There is no conclusion to be found. What would the answer provide you, truly? Knowing is not enough.

It hurts. I am swollen with this obsession, bloated with curiosity. The skin at my temples are pulled taut against a skull teeming with unrelenting imagination. How much pressure can bone take before the fracture line undergoes an unredeemable split? Bony hand under my shirt feel my bones caress pale and sticky skin. My hair has begun to fall in straw-like dried clumps. Is this what knowing costs?

I think they led me to believe I could bring dad back, somehow. Does closure really exist? Can this story have a beginning, middle and end- or am I just a parable? One of many in an archive of like fates. No. I am no martyr. I am just one of the flock. I am you, and you will become me.

When all resembles a dream, how can I be certain I'm awake? How many came before me?

Am I condemning whomever is unfortunate enough to read this, or are my delusions beyond my own control?

The time approaches to bear the weight of your inflicted sorrows.