(Kept in shorthand)
1 October. Toronto. – Left Burwash at 7:35 pm, on 1st October, arriving at home one hour later; should have arrived at 8:15, but subway was late.
When, at last, I emerged from the subterranean depths, the weather had turned. A hard rain swept through the streets, driven sideways by a bitter wind.
By the time I arrived home, all was dark save one window on the second floor, from which there shone a pale, unnatural light. It came from my roommate’s room.
I found her hunched over her desk amid a wilderness of textbooks, papers, and highlighters. Her laptop cast a sickly glow across her face. Empty cans were strewn across her desk.
She was frightfully pale.
I write this now at 2:17 am. Her light is still burning.
4 October. – Let me be calm. Let me set down the facts and allow no fevered imagination to corrupt them.
1. She does not sleep. For three nights now I have heard her pacing the halls at ungodly hours.
2. When I suggested we walk to H Mart before sunset, she violently drew the curtains and said, “Not the time.”
3. She has begun consuming, in great quantities, a substance called Red Bull. Red. Bull.
I had always understood the vampire to prefer human blood. I see now the danger of relying upon popular accounts. There is no reason, biologically speaking, why the blood of cattle should not suffice.
6 October. – I fear the worst. This morning I found her standing before the bathroom mirror with her eyes cast downward.
“I can’t even look at myself right now,” she said.
What confession could be plainer?
Her appearance, meanwhile, becomes more ghastly. Her hair is a tangled mess of knots. Her eyes possess a terrible brightness. At intervals she mutters fragments of some incantation:
“Why is it negative?”
“That can’t be the answer.”
“I literally knew this yesterday.”
I have examined the papers upon which she works. They are covered in symbols. I have tried to copy them here:
Σ λ ∂
What unholy curses must she be casting?
I’ve retreated to my room and turned the lock. Here I sit, in darkness, clutching a clove of garlic, while her strange rites continue to drift over from across the hall.
This house is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!
8 October. – Despair has its own calms. I think I have passed beyond fear now.
She leaves only after sundown. I see her creep back from Robarts in the smallest hours of the morning.
Tonight, unable to bear ignorance any longer, I followed.
The concrete peacock fortress opened its doors, and from within poured a procession of the living dead.
Pale faces…hollow eyes…coffee clutched in trembling hands. Some spoke to themselves. Some stared straight ahead with that dreadful vacancy I have come to know so well.
I fled, though I knew it was futile. I can already feel the transformation within myself. Midterms are fast approaching.
God save me.