9 March 2022
Wednesday. I have discovered a button in my crypt. It is red, it sits within easy reach, and when a guest presses it, a young person in black opens a door and lets them leave. Leave! In the middle of the evening!
I complained to the management in writing, in my best copperplate, sealed with wax. They replied that anyone who wishes to step out may do so at once, and the rest of the party carries on without them. They also mentioned the cameras. It appears my every move is watched from a little room with a kettle in it.
Very well. I accept that my graveyard is a great deal. Mist curls along the ground, the lanterns gutter and go dark, lights flash, and now and then something happens suddenly that I am not permitted to describe. The mist does not suit chests that dislike mist, and such guests are asked to speak to the house before they book. In my day we simply coughed.
Tonight a gentleman pressed the button, stepped out into the light and drank a glass of water. His friends hunted on, and told him every detail in the street afterwards. He will be back, I think. They always come back for the ending.
— D.
