September 4 1981
My name is George Newsmen, I work at The Freeman's Journal as a Journalist, it's a life I can't complain, it has its ups and downs but what doesn't in life, right? I've always done Notes before so I can keep organized on what information I'm trying to write about, or what new pages I want to write about but I have a feeling that this one is going to be different from everything that I've wrote about before. To make it short, my boss has sent me to the countryside to write about a certain family called ''Demascus'', there have been odd and eerie rumours about this family in the vicinity and the townsfolk close to its manor seem to be scared of them for some reason, I'll go there and try to talk with them and see if I can get a nice interview or a good article. (I hope I can, it's been so dull recently) the town is pretty far from here, and their Manor is quite far from the closest town to it so it'll be a rough travel, I was relied information that there isn't even roads leading there or any civilization 'round those parts of the state.
September 5
After a very tiring travel of 9 hours I've finally reached the town called Sarton.
As they told me it has a very eerie vibe 'round here, the town isn't specially lively even around the center, the very few people that are willing to talk to you are the shopkeepers or the Sheriff but even them are very closed off, from information I gathered while walking 'round the town is that they're very private folk that like their solitude and peace. I heard that most people that live in here are farmers with farms or ranches around the perimeter of some kilometers of the city, and they come here to sell goods, some of these goods also travel to bigger cities and that's how most folk around here make their living. It's a respectable town of good American citizens, but even so I can't shake off this odd feeling that's pumping out my chest and my insticts giving me shivers to run away as fast as I can, my chest weighing tons. I really can't get my head around on figuring out why so I'll do my best to ignore it. Even if there's danger, the more the reason I should be here and make a good story.
I'll rest for today as the travel was rough and tiring, and then I'll procceed to look around for pointers on where the Demascus manor may be, hopefully someone will be willing to help me.
September 6 (In the middle of the night)
I've woke up in the middle of the night and did my best to turn a candle on in the middle of dark, I don't know what time it is but the moon is sure shining bright in the sky, that's what helped me succeed in turning the candle. It's difficult to sleep around these parts, I hear howling wolves in the horizon as if they were just right by, howling in my ear. Their howls fades away and echoes in the distance as if they were calling for something - or asking. Because of this I was not able to have a good night's sleep as I was planning to, I hope to go back to sleep as soon as they stop. I started writing again to keep myself busy, I've done my fair amount deeds that of what others would call ''insanity'' because of my job but it's the first time that I've gone so far from home, in such a unknown place and alone. The wolves seemed to have stopped, I'll go and try to sleep now.
September 6 (Morning)
One of the women that work in this hotel woke me up by knocking on the door to check if I was okay. Apparently it was already late by their standards and they wanted to check if I wasn't dead. I found that last part very weird, why would they jump to that conclusion? It makes me think if that's a common occurance here... Let's try not to think about that for now, today I need to search for clues about this family and get out of here as fast as I can.
September 6 (Afternoon)
I've been asking around the locals of the city but very few people seem to live here so it's been difficult for me so I decided to go to their Sheriff once again to ask for help. He told me very little is known about the family I was trying to look for and that I should quit it while I can, he also told me that they never came personally to the town and always had someone else handle the goods that they sell them, besides a few times their family head came here to deal with something. He told me that there was a cargo coming from them just a few days from today and if I wait maybe I could get lucky asking their cargoman to give me pointers on where their manor would be, hopefully. I've decided to wait, today should be September 6 if I'm not mistaken and he said that the cargoman would be here by the 9th, so 3 days from now if nothing goes wrong.
September 7 (In the middle of the night)
I've been awaken again, but this time not by wolves. The moon is almost nowhere to be seen in the sky, almost as if someone personally got rid of it, or maybe I'm just hallucinating. I was awaken by something thumping on the window, I thought it was the window so I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep but I couldn't, the thumping sound got louder and louder until I couldn't ignore it anymore. I got out of bed and tried my best to turn a candle on out of muscle memory as it was so dark I couldn't see not even a notch after my nose. After struggling for a while I succeeded and started to write this, again, to chill my nerves. As soon as I got up it seems the thumping sounds have coincidentally stopped... maybe I was just dreaming about it? I'll just go back to bed, what a waste of time.
September 9 (Early Morning)
Nothing interfered with my sleep yesterday, and I decided not to write because nothing interesting worthy of writing about in happened in the day, I just strolled around the town and observed the outskirts, I went outside to where my window is pointed at to see what could make those thumping sounds I heard but I didn't find anything.
Today is the day the cargoman that the Sheriff told me about was supposed to come to town so I'll try to catch him at the marketplace, I asked the Sheriff and he said he would help and accompany me so he can tell me who it is, hopefully he helps me.
September 9 (Morning)
The Sheriff made a quick stop to drink coffee before we head to the marketplace, I'm sitting outside on a bench that I found waiting for the Sheriff, after he's done we'll look for the cargoman and hopefully he can help me get to the Demascus family.
September 9 (Later that day, in a Carriage)
I'm inside a carriage right now, the cargoman whose name is James is leading me to the Demascus manor, I was surprised when I came to talk to him with the Sheriff, he was very welcoming and different from the other folk of the town. I told him about my job and why I was here, and what I was here for, he didn't appear surprised, more so it looked like he knew that I would come. He reassured me that the Demascus family 'er good folk - 'ust a little secluded. In his own words and country accent. (In which was the heaviest around here, for some reason all the people I talked to didn't have one) I asked him if he could take me to them so we could have a talk so I can write something and we can go our own ways. He said ''Oy of 'ourse 'here's no problem at all, 'ust 'et me deliver my cargo 'nd we'll be al'ight to go!'' I find it very difficult to understand his language sometimes. I wonder if its the same English that I speak. All that led me to the current situation I find myself in, it's been... I think that 3 or 4 hours since we talked and since then we've been in this carriage, he's at the forefront stirring it and I'm in the back, and since we last spoke in the marketplace we haven't exchanged another word. So I'll try to talk to him and ask him how much longer until we're there.
He said that it shouldn't take much longer, maybe about 30 minutes.
Hopefully.
September 10 (After meeting with the Family)
We arrived at the Demascus manor late in the evening. I didn't even notice how much time had passed until James stopped the carriage and told me we were here - the sky had long gone from gray to ink-black, and I didn't remember seeing the stars come out. The manor loomed ahead like something out of an old storybook - tall, wide, and quiet, not decayed but timeless, like it belonged to an era that had been forgotten. The building was constructed from dark stone, ivy crawling halfway up its walls like veins, and its many windows glinted with faint candlelight from within.
James didn't come inside with me. He simply gave me a nod and a "Good luck in there, son," and then turned back with the carriage, disappearing down the winding dirt road with surprising speed.
I was greeted at the door by a tall, elderly man dressed in what I can only describe as formal wear that had aged alongside him - worn but meticulous. He introduced himself as Gregory, the house steward, and welcomed me inside with a voice that was soft but commanded attention.
The interior of the manor was warmer than expected, both in atmosphere and temperature. Despite the looming exterior, the inside felt... lived in. Old portraits adorned the walls — I assume ancestors of the Demascus family - and though the furniture was antique, it was clean and well-kept. The air carried a smell of sandalwood and something floral I couldn't quite place.
I met Brad Demascus shortly after I settled in. He's not what I expected. Middle-aged, though his eyes feel centuries old. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a tired smile, as though he had been waiting for me for some time. There's a calmness to him - not cold, but... still, like deep water.
We exchanged pleasantries. He was kind, articulate, and offered me a room to stay for a few days while we conducted the interview - "It's far too long a journey to only speak for an hour," he said. I wanted to object, but his hospitality felt genuine, and the truth is I was far too tired to argue.
He excused himself for the night, leaving me in a cozy guest room with tall ceilings, a heavy oak desk, and a window that looked out over what I think was a garden — though in the moonlight, it seemed more like a tangled maze of hedges and withered trees. I tried not to stare too long.
There are no clocks in the manor, I've noticed. No ticking, no tocking — just silence, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind brushing against the windows. It's not unsettling, not yet. Just... different.
I'll begin my interview with Mr. Demascus tomorrow.
I should rest.
September 11 (Part I)
I woke to the sound of birds - not the high-pitched chirps of morning songbirds, but something lower, almost melodic. For a moment I thought I was dreaming, but the light creeping through the velvet curtains told me otherwise.
The guest room felt colder this morning, despite the heavy quilts. I dressed and gathered my things, ready to meet Brad for breakfast and, finally, start the interview. As I stepped into the hallway, the silence returned - thick and velvet-like, not ominous but certainly unnatural. The manor seems to breathe in the quiet.
The halls are long, the ceilings high, and everything feels just slightly too tall - doors that stretch above normal height, portraits that peer just a little too far down at you, shadows that seem to wait until you're looking directly at them before they shift and become innocent again. I took a wrong turn on my way downstairs and ended up wandering part of the eastern wing. That's when I heard laughter - children's laughter.
It echoed softly from a room down the corridor, warm and strange in a place like this. I followed the sound and, with some hesitation, peeked inside. It was a playroom - old toys, puzzles, shelves lined with books. Four children sat in the center on a faded rug.
The youngest - a little girl with thick brown curls and sharp eyes — noticed me first.
"Are you the new man?" she asked, tilting her head.
"George," I replied, surprised. "And you are?"
"I'm Ferzie," she said proudly. "That's Seb, that's Fred, and that's Gian."
The boys gave me cautious glances. Seb and Fred, the twins — or near enough — both had dark hair like their sister but different builds. Seb was wiry, with an anxious energy behind his eyes, while Fred was quieter, his gaze calculating even at five years old. Gian, the eldest at six, had a composure that seemed unnatural for a child. He nodded to me like a young lord, polite and practiced.
Before I could ask more, I heard a soft cough behind me. Brad stood at the doorway, dressed in a dark gray suit with a navy waistcoat. Somehow, he made the morning feel formal.
"Ah, you've met the little stars of this house," he said with a faint smile. "I hope they weren't too forward."
"Not at all," I said, still a little stunned. "They seem... different. Polite. Reserved."
"They're Demascus," Brad replied simply, with something between pride and sadness in his voice. "Come - breakfast is ready. We can speak over food."
The dining hall was large but modest in decoration. A long table set for two, with more silverware than I knew what to do with. Eggs, bread, soft cheese, smoked meat, and a tea I didn't recognize but drank anyway - fragrant and calming. Brad was an easy man to talk to once you accepted the silences between thoughts. He chose his words like a chess player - deliberate, strategic.
We didn't dive deep into the family history yet, but he spoke about the land - the age of it, the soil, the wind. I told him I was hoping to understand the roots of the family, why they had become so secluded.
"Sometimes, peace is mistaken for secrecy," he said. "And sometimes secrecy is the only way to keep peace."
After breakfast, he offered me a brief tour of the grounds. I followed him through the back garden, where time seemed to slow. Trees bent inward, forming gentle arches above narrow dirt paths. There were shrines - small, unmarked stones placed with care - and statues of strange design, worn by time, almost eroded into abstract forms. I didn't ask what they were. I didn't want to know yet.
As we walked, another figure joined us - tall, lean, and unmistakably different.
"George," Brad said, "this is my brother, Neey."
Neey nodded, his expression unreadable. His white hair was tied back in a sharp manbun, though one long strand hung across his forehead. His face bore deep lines, like he had seen too many winters, but his eyes... they were young. Almost too young. I greeted him politely, but his reply was just a quiet, raspy, "Mm."
He didn't say much else, only studied me for a long moment before turning to look back at the trees. I didn't press. Something about him made me feel like speaking too much around him was a mistake.
"He keeps to himself," Brad said quietly as we continued. "But don't mistake his silence for absence."
I'll write more later. There's something strange in the air here, but not wrong. It's like the land hums beneath your feet, and if you stand still long enough, you can hear the song.
September 11 (Part II)
We sat again in the manor's drawing room after the walk. It was dimly lit, with curtains drawn low and candles nestled in thick bronze sconces along the stone walls. The air smelled faintly of wax and something musky - like old paper and dried herbs. Brad offered me tea again, the same floral, earthy blend I couldn't quite place.
I took out my notebook, cleared my throat, and asked if I could begin the actual interview.
He smiled lightly. "We've already started, Mr. Newsmen. But I'll play along."
Interview with Brad Demascus, transcribed by hand
George: I want to ask first about the family — the Demascus name. What are your roots? How did this all begin?
Brad: We were farmers. Ranchers. My father, John Demascus, worked the land with his hands. Nothing fancy. Just cattle, wheat, a little corn when the weather allowed. We were simple folk, once.
George: And now?
Brad: Still simple, in many ways. We own land — a good deal of it. We let it breathe. Nature takes care of most things if you let her.
George: So that's how the family makes a living?
Brad: Partially. We sell raw goods. Timber. Game. Some medicinal herbs. The occasional crafted item — the townsfolk are fond of our woodwork, even if they pretend otherwise. Everything we do, we do quietly. With care.
George: Speaking of woodwork — that leads into something else. On my way through the manor, I noticed the... eyes.
Brad:[smiles faintly]
George: Carved into the beams. In the corners of rooms. Some are in sculptures, others just alone — shaped in wood or even stone. They're everywhere. I won't lie, it feels... religious.
Brad: And you're wondering if we're zealots?
George: I wouldn't put it that way, but — it feels intentional. Symbolic.
Brad: It is.
George: May I ask what it represents?
Brad: Eyes see. They remember. They remind.
George: Of what?
Brad: That nothing is truly hidden. Not here. Not ever.
George: Are they tied to a religion?
Brad: No organized one. Just... old truths. Family truths.
George: Truths passed down from your father?
Brad: In part. My father was a good man. Honest. But not everything he planted was wheat.
George: What does that mean?
Brad: It means we come from the soil, same as everyone else. But sometimes the soil gives back more than food.
He said that last part while sipping tea, staring at the wall as if watching something move just behind it. I let the silence settle for a moment, scribbling his words in shorthand.
After a pause, I asked if he'd tell me more about his father, John.
"He believed in work," Brad said. "In sweat. In silence. He didn't speak much, but when he did, people listened. He built all this - not the stone and timber, but the bones of it. The values. The... pact."
He caught himself with that word - pact - and paused just long enough to make me certain he meant it in more ways than one.
"John died peacefully," Brad continued. "Not many do."
Before I could press further, we were interrupted by a presence. I hadn't heard him enter, but there he was - Neey, standing at the far side of the room, eyes half-lidded, as though listening in a dream.
"Brother," Brad said with a polite nod.
Neey walked slowly across the room, his boots making no sound. He didn't speak - just moved to the window, peering out into the fog-draped garden beyond the glass.
"He knows more than I do," Brad said, leaning slightly toward me. "But he'd rather bleed than explain it."
Neey turned his head just slightly at that - not in annoyance, but something closer to amusement. Then he finally spoke, voice dry and deep, like wind through hollow wood:
"Eyes aren't for watching. They're for remembering."
I wrote that down, though I didn't fully understand it.
Brad didn't elaborate. He just smiled again, leaning back in his chair.
I thanked him for his time, sensing that the interview was done for the day — though I'd barely scratched the surface. He stood, gestured to the window.
"Tomorrow, I'll take you further down the land," he said. "There's more to see. More to remember."
I returned to my room with my notes, my head heavy. I find myself glancing at the walls more often now, noticing the eyes more clearly - the way they face certain directions, the way some seem to follow.
There is something deeply rooted here, older than just a family history. I don't know what it is yet, but I think Neey and Brad does.
And I think the land does, too.
September 12 (Morning)Demascus Manor — Eastern Grounds
I woke up to the smell of dew and old cedarwood. The windows were slightly cracked, and the forest outside whispered like it was breathing. I hadn't realized how deeply I'd slept - no wolves, no tapping. Just silence. Weightless and thick.
Brad was waiting for me at the back garden with two coats in hand, one of which he tossed my way.
"Bit colder this morning," he said. "You'll want this."
We walked quietly at first, through a narrow path bordered by trees whose trunks bent unnaturally, as if bowing inward. The forest was... still, but never silent. I kept hearing faint chirps, the snap of a branch under no weight, and the distant cry of a bird I couldn't place. Occasionally, I'd glance back to find Neey walking behind us at a slow, deliberate pace - he never spoke.
We passed a field of long grass that seemed to ripple against the wind's direction. Beyond it, I saw what looked like weather-worn stones, almost like markers. Not gravestones, but not far off.
"They were here before us," Brad said. "We keep them clean. It's a small thing, but it matters."
I asked what they were.
"Names long gone," he replied. "Maybe family. Maybe not. We just remember them. That's all Somnia asks."
He said it so naturally that I didn't even catch it at first - Somnia. The name was spoken like one might speak of the weather. Or a neighbor.
I wrote it down instinctively.
"Somnia?"
Brad only nodded. "Old name. Older than even this land."
I wanted to ask more, but just then Neey stepped past us and pointed toward a lone tree standing at the top of a rise. It was twisted, leafless, with bark that had long since gone white - like bone. Beneath it, a shallow circular impression in the earth, ringed by worn stones and covered in creeping moss.
I stepped into the circle without thinking. My legs moved like I was being pulled forward by memory that wasn't mine.
And then -
I don't know how to describe what happened next.
There was no sound, yet everything rang. I was standing, but I felt as though I had fallen - deep into the ground, into a place of velvet black and cold stars.
There were eyes, hundreds of them, embedded into the dark like constellations. They blinked one by one - not in unison, but as if each held its own mind, its own history.
I heard a voice - or maybe I didn't. It felt more like a thought placed inside my bones.
"You are seen."
I tried to move, but my limbs were heavy - like submerged in tar. The eyes closed slowly, as though satisfied. And then the darkness folded in on itself.
September 12 (Later)Back at the Manor
Brad helped me sit down under the tree, a flask in hand. He didn't look surprised.
"It happens," was all he said.
I asked what "it" was, and he only shrugged. "The land remembers. Sometimes it shares."
Neey was standing at the circle's edge, unmoving. Watching.
I told Brad I should be heading back to town soon. He agreed, though his eyes lingered on me a little longer this time.
"You've seen enough, I think," he said. "Too much, maybe."
September 12 (Evening)On the Road — Carriage Ride with James
I'm riding back with James, same as before — the carriage creaks in rhythm with the winding path. The trees thin slowly, giving way to distant views of the town below. The air is still thick with something I can't explain - not fear, not awe. Just weight.
James hasn't said a word since we left.
I haven't written about the children. About Ferzie's glassy smile, or Seb's endless questions. About Fred and Gian always peering at me from doorways and halls like they were waiting for me to notice something. I didn't write about the rooms that rearranged themselves in subtle ways, or the hallway that seemed too long on my second day. I didn't write about my strange vision or about Brad's infinite gaze. I haven't written about how the silence was so loud that it would make one deaf.
Some stories don't fit into neat lines. Some truths blur when written.
Still, I have my notes. And memories I wish I didn't trust.
I'll return to the city, write the article, and send it in. I'll file it under "human interest." Or maybe folklore. Something easy to ignore.
But I'll keep a copy for myself.
And I'll make sure the eyes in the manor aren't the only ones that remember.