28 October 2020
Wednesday. Tonight, at last, my doors opened to guests. I had expected to receive them in the old way: a long table, a single candle, a remark about the children of the night. Instead they came up the stairs in fours and fives and sixes, carrying nothing but a notebook.
His notebook. The Professor’s. Whoever found it in my tomb has been handing it to every visitor as though it were a theatre programme.
I had arranged the evening beautifully. The blood moon climbing, my strength returning with it, my Bride waiting, a sacrifice requested and, I believed, supplied. But they would not stand still to be sacrificed. They read. They argued. They carried things from one end of my graveyard to the other in a manner I can only call busy.
I see now why the house insists on four guests at the very least. Some of my arrangements need more hands than three people own, and I would not wish anybody to feel underfurnished. Ten is the most I will receive. Beyond ten, a crypt becomes a corridor.
The first party did not leave before the moon rose. I shall describe their faces to my beloved when she wakes. The second party did. Those faces I shall keep to myself.
— D.
