This diary belongs to Cody Swanson.
If you find this then please return it to :
3521 Beach Road, Deerhead Harbor, Maine/Hare Island

12/8/2019
Dear Diary,
Tommy was raving on and on about lights in the old Beckstein-Manor. No one believed him. I mean that building wasted away for the last century. Ever since that family of German migrants gruesomely died. At least, that is the legend. No one in their right mind would try to live there. Not to mention that it would take a fortune to restore the manor to its old glory. Still, Tommy is pestering us to check it out. I hope he forgets the whole thing.

12/12/2019
Damn Diary,
no one calls me a chicken shit and gets away with it. Tommy said the others and I are too scared to check out the Beckstein Manor. As if. Tomorrow after school we will prove him wrong.

12/13/2019
Shit. Shit Shit.
This was a huge mistake. Getting onto the estate was easy. There isn't much left of the wrought iron fence. The front door was still intact. Not that anyone bothered to lock it. From the inside, the manor didn't look as bad as we would have thought. And that was our mistake. We had barely a second of warning. There had been that cracking sound and a moment later a big chunk of the floor gave way. Taking Spencer with him. Thankfully he was fine. Getting him out was another matter. Took ages. Tommy wanted to explore more. But we shot him down. We were lucky the first time. At least Spencer got a little trophy from this adventure. Some old journal he grabbed from the cellar.

12/16/2019
Dear Diary,
Spencer is obsessed with this journal. He can't even read it. Some ancient language or maybe it is written in code? We aren't sure yet. There are a few diagrams, but they don't make much sense. He took a nasty tumble at practice today. Let's hope he forgot all about this stupid journey when the next big game is getting down.

12/17/2019
Shit, this is scary.
Writing this in the candlelight of all things. I woke in the morning to a sound of loud explosions and crashes and whatnot. It was pitch black and still in the middle of the night. The lights weren't working, so I had to use my phone as a flashlight. The rents wanted me to stay inside but screw that. I had to know what was going on. So, I followed them outside. Nothing could be seen aside from our neighbors coming out too. A whole lot of confusion until it dawn. I remember my mother gasping and then pointing towards the Astare bridge. The only connection to the mainland. Once a half-mile long. Now, not even a hundred feet. The whole middle of the bridge was gone. My father explained this was the reason for the blackout. The bridge had not only connected traffic to the mainland but also power and landlines. Without it, we were back in the stone age. Well, not quite.

School was canceled, which wasn't a big relief. To be honest, I could have used the distraction. I spend the day with Spencer and Tommy overlooking the affords of the officials to get everything in order. They assured us that it won't get too bad. The harbor was still up and running. Old Mike and his crew ferried some generators and supplies over from the mainland. Everything else might take a while. Internet was out as was cell service. Life is going to suck for a while. Of course, the adults had their priorities straight. They assured us that school tomorrow wouldn't be canceled.

12/18/2019
Dear Diary,
Spence had been on edge all day. At lunch, I took him to the side and tried to find out what was up. That fool thinks he caused the bridge to collapse. Get this. According to him, he was still up at night studying that stupid journal. He read out aloud a passage just moments before the bridge went bye-bye. Then he tries to sell me the idea that he had unleashed a curse. Ha! No way. Maybe I need new friends. Mine are all acting strange lately.

12/19/2019
Hey Diary,
I visited Doc Johnson after school today. Had this itch all over me that I couldn't shake. Especially on the chest. Turns out I wasn't the only one. Half the town had swung by. Doc couldn't explain it besides allergies. I don't buy it. Why now and allergic to what? Turns out I was the sucker for finishing school first and then visiting Johnson. The drug store was out of creme or anything that could have helped with the itch was bought out. Mom promised me she would make some homemade concoction. I am not holding my breath for that one.

12/20/2019
I am telling you Diary, Christmas will suck this year. Old Mike's trawler broke down. As did a few of the generators. We still have a handful of dingies and a few boats from St George will pick up the slack. So I can't understand the panic. Of course, Spencer is raving on and on about that curse again. Trying to recruit us to find out more. Well, he can. I rather find something against that itch. Mom's salve isn't helping. Maybe even making it worse. Okay, I admit. The skin on my chest isn't itchy anymore, but it feels now taunt and stiff. Very strange.

12/21/2019
Dear Diary,
Tommy came by today. Asking for some of my Mom's salve. I would have ridiculed him if it wasn't for his hand. The skin looked strange. Artificial. He looked at me confused when I mentioned it. To him, it looked normal. What had him freaked out was the stiffness. He hardly could bend his fingers anymore. He tried to visit Doc Johnson again but saw the futility of it. Poor Doc was swamped with patients waiting. It looked like the whole island had now the same mysterious itch.

12/22/2019
I am freaking out, Diary. We all are. The mainland is gone. Not concealed by mist or the likes. Everything is gone. There is only the ocean. It is as if we had drifted out of the Penobscot Bay. Friends and neighbors walked around the island and we tried to see anything but water. Metinic Island? Gone. As was Matinicus Isle. All we see is the ocean and it freaks the hell out of me.

12/23/2019
We closed all the seaside blinds as we all are shaken, but Mom takes it the hardest. She was starring out the ocean for hours. We are now helping her make her salve. Not that it really helps, but half the town is asking for it. Dad and I spend the day in the sparse woods on the island. Hunting for herbs. That or breaking people out of a trance. Many just standing on the beach and looking. Heck, I can understand them. To see this changed view is unnerving. Even menacing. As if this vastness of sea stares back at you.

12/24/2019
Fuck, Diary. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Excuse the language, but slowly I think Spence is right. The island is cursed. We are cursed.
Tommy came by today. Took me to the side to show me something. He slowly undid the gauze that he had wrapped his hand in. I would never have guessed what was beneath it. His hand was changed. It looked fake. Like painted porcelain. But worse was the joints of his fingers. They weren't human anymore. More like a doll. What are they called? Ball-joints I think. And here is the kicker. He could move them, his fingers. And despite the artificial look, he still had sensations in them. He was oddly calm about this change. Despite me trying to tell him how fucked up this was.
It put me on edge for the rest of the day, but fate wasn't done kicking me in the nuts. Mom asked about those lumps that pushed out my t-shirt a bit. I was confused. What lumps? So I walked to the bathroom and undressed. And Mom was right. I had lumps. Small mounds of- Not flesh. They were like Tommy's hand. Like painted porcelain. I hadn't even noticed the change. I knew I should have panicked right then and there. But here is the thing. They felt natural. Right. Well, mostly. In the back of my mind, I couldn't change the feeling that they should be bigger.
Like the breasts of a girl. Which was an absurd thought, right? Boys don't grow breasts. They just don't. And don't girls have bigger nipples? Mine were hardly existent. It took me ten minutes of inspecting before I even noticed. I didn't have any. Not anymore. Their presence vacant save for the spot were they should be painted to represent them.
I was changing. The town was changing. But worst of all, I felt in my bones it would continue. The question was if I would even notice the changes to come.

12/25/2019
Merry Christmas, Diary.
Or not. To be honest no one is in the mood. We all are freaked out. Some even acting insane. The Hendersons next door are packing their things. When I asked where they are moving they said to Beckstein Manor. Who gives up their home for a run-down ruin? I sometimes don't get people.
Maybe it is the curse. I don't know if Spencer told anyone else about the journal and that he read it aloud. I had to find out and decided to visit him. That plan only sounded good on paper.
It was Spence' Mom who answered the door. Told me Spencer wasn't feeling himself. Boy was she right. Slacker Spence was cleaning the house. It looked polished as heck which was strange in itself. Spencer looked weird too. Somehow he had grown his hair out in just a few days. Heck, it even reached down to his butt.
Questioning him was futile. He was always mumbling. "Gotta clean. Everything needs to be tidy. The mistress is watching." Stuff like that. Really unnerving. I asked him about the journal and he only replied: "Everything needs to be where it belongs."
I think he had brought it back to the manor. Where exactly? Who knows.

12/26/2019
I am telling you, Diary, the town is turning into a ghost town.
Most have moved up to the manor and I can't rule out that we will be doing the same too. Mom is still constantly starring out into the ocean. It doesn't matter that she stands in the middle of the house. Starring at a wall or closed blinds. She says the ocean is still starring at her. Dad says maybe moving away from the beach might be best.
I know what that means. There is only one place away from the beach. Surrounded by a small forest is that cursed Beckstein Manor.

12/27/2019
Welcome to your new home, Diary.
It was a struggle to get here. We decided to move in the early morning and were one of the last families to do so. We packed only basics but I still struggled with it. Dad remarked that I lifted things strangely. Turned out I couldn't bend very well at the waist. Hardly at all. I later looked and nearly my whole torso was this strange porcelain-like material. I hadn't even noticed. The bumps on my chest are bigger and my waist narrowed down considerably. I have a feeling where this will lead, but I hesitate to speak it aloud. Or even write it down here.
Somehow the manor wasn't as run down as I remembered it. It was probably fixed up a bit by those who moved before us. The gaping hole in the foyer was gone. Which reminded me of the journal. If Spencer really put it back where he found it then I had to find a different way into the cellar.
For now, my parents and I staked a part of the dining room as our new home. Despite being a big house, the manor is claustrophobic. Too many people that seek shelter here. But from what? The ocean? Somehow I feel we all are walking into a trap.

12/28/2019
Things are getting strange in here, Diary.
People have found a new wing of the manor. Which doesn't make sense. It wasn't there before. Houses don't just grow overnight. But what choice do we have? A few stragglers arrived today and what they said didn't make sense. They said they traveled for over an hour through the small forest surrounding the manor. The very same path that hadn't taken us more than ten minutes the day before.
But frankly speaking, my own changes are more alarming to me. I can bend my waist again. Which isn't as good as news as it should be. Just like Tommy's hand, my waist is now a big piece of a ball-joint. Artificial. Fake. Yet, I can still feel every inch of it. Anatomy so strange, but yet familiar. It freaks me out. It nearly has crept down to my legs and junk. Will it be gone soon? Is there a chance I won't even notice?
I took the time to walk around. Trying to notice changes in other people. Tommy's arm was like a doll up to the shoulder. He wasn't the only one. Most teenagers had extensive changes. One or two limbs just shifted. And I was sure that those teenagers who hadn't changed limbs were like me. The change is hidden under layers of clothes.
Spencer somehow was the worst. When I found him and his mother, she was lamenting that he didn't recognize her. Personally, I was more alarmed by the striking look of his face. It was like his face was swallowed by porcelain. Like a Venetian mask that slowly crept lower and lower. Spencer didn't talk. I wasn't sure if he even could. His expression was frozen like that of a doll. But he was still cleaning. Allways. Without tiring or taking a break.
The adults showed signs of change too but to a lesser degree. I swear Dad has a limp that wasn't there before. But I couldn't bring myself to ask. Not after fate had another gut punch in store for me.
Mom urged me to eat, but I wasn't hungry. Hadn't been for days. In fact, I couldn't recall when I had last eaten. Do I even still have a stomach?

1/1/2020?
Happy new year, Diary.
At least, I think it is a new year. The days started to blur together. I can't recall when it had been night or day. Looking out, the manor always seems to be shrouded in twilight.
I spend most of my time down in the cellar. Down there it is like a labyrinth. Corridors and rooms that surely have to span the entire island. Still haven't found the journal. Progress exploring seems to crawl to a stop. I had to take a long break when my legs between tights and hips froze up. After a small eternity, I could control them again, but I knew they would now be ball-joints. I haven't looked. Too afraid to find out what else had changed.

1/?/2020
What day is it, Diary?
Can you tell me? I do not know anymore. But I am now convinced that the answer doesn't lie within the manor. Maybe the past would give me clarity. Stumbling through the manor to get to the front door was frightening. The building kept growing. So much that I hardly met anyone on my way there. And those that I saw were oddly dazed. Staring into space or lost in cleaning duties. For a moment I felt it too. A spot of dust that urged me to grab a rag and clean it up. But I prevailed.
Stepping outside was hard. The forest loomed like a hooligan in the twilight. Spindly trees with branches that reminded me of skeleton arms. How long did I stand there? Urging my feet to move on. Eventually, I did.
The woods weren't like I remembered them. Step by step I dragged myself along the path. Fitfully glancing at both sides. This forest reminded me now of all the old fairy tales. Not those with happy ends that Disney sold us. More in tune with the brother Grimm's. Those who rarely guaranteed a happy outcome.
As the trees grew sparse I nearly turned around. The view was so surreal. The ocean had indeed come for us. Claiming our town. Barely the roofs could be seen of those houses that used to be near the beach. My own home lost beneath the waves.
The main road was still visible. Barely. It was not too late. I could still make it to the library. There I hoped to find answers. To find out what happened in the past.
Dragging myself through the flood was hard. The water around me churned and my fantasy ran wild. Told me of beasts that would snatch my legs. Would drag me down.
Down.
Down.
Deep into the abyss.
When I reached the library the water lapped at my hips. There was not much time. Thankfully I knew where I had to look. The old tragedy of Beckstein Manor. Surely that had been the origin of whatever curse that toyed with this island.
What I found was not a lot. Speculations. Wild guesses. Was the family Beckstein even dead? They found the father. Shot in the head. Pronounced suicide. The newspaper clips were vague.
Then a clue. One so horrifying that it caught my breath. Or would if I could remember when I last felt the heaving of my chest. The mother, lady of the house, was an artist. The strange craft of making dolls and puppets. Her favorite medium? Painted porcelain.
Was she the source of the curse? The perpetrator? Or maybe the victim? The last newspaper clipping revealed a frightening detail. Mother and children never had been found. But the father, the one who shot himself, lay beneath life-sized replica dolls of his family.
By now the waves gnawed at my waist and I knew my time was running out. I grabbed what I could and put it into a folder. Then I made my way out. Stubbornly I refused to look to the sides. Where houses broke away and drifted off into the blue. My eyes were glued to the forest. The earlier fear was forgotten. My heart knew that it would stand against the waves. I would be safe there.
As I reached the trees and left the sea behind, I ran. Clutching those spare findings with both my arms to my chest. Onward I ran and ran. How long I couldn't tell.
The last stretch opened before me. The parody of a garden. Silhouettes moved along withered remains of grass, shrubbery, and flowers. I passed a few quite close. Dolls. All of them were dolls. Female. Poised. Perfect. I did not know where that thought came from, but it felt right.
I only stopped running as I came face to face with the main entrance of the manor. Solid oak doors, twice the size they used to be, stood in my way. I tried to reach for them, but couldn't. My arms didn't budge a little. Still clutching the folder to my chest. Looking down, I saw porcelain hands.
My thoughts interrupted as the doors opened. Dolls, dressed as maids, beckoned me in. The foyer had changed, but I hardly noticed. It was not the new grand staircase that drew my eyes, but the person who stood on top. The mistress of the manor.
I still remember her words. "A feisty one. How amusing. But not for long. Hurry to your quarters and be ready when I call." Her voice was of haunting beauty. Perfect. Just like the mistress. Eternally preserved in porcelain.
I never walked these floors, yet I knew the way by heart. My feet carrying me to a small chamber. Opened by a maid. A doll. A sister?
And there I found you, my dear Diary. Had you been waiting for me? I am sorry it took so long. For my arms and hands to finish changing. So I could write once again in you.

?/?/????
What time of day they came for me I couldn't tell. Fellow maids. Dolls. Perfect images of female beauty. They looked familiar despite seeing them really for the first time. No words were uttered. They didn't need to be. Their lips were frozen in a perfect coy smile. Just like mine.
They led me to a room filled with uniforms of lace. Black and white. The colors of service. I disrobed right there. What use had I for them? They were forgotten as I caught the sight of a mirror.
In its reflection, I saw dolls. All neatly clothed save for one. It took me a while until I understood. The naked one was me. My sisters came to help. Offered garment after garment. Until there was no difference. I was them and they were me.
Without a word, but with an understanding I made my way to the main office. There, behind a massive table of Mahagoni wood, my mistress waited for me.
She was waiting there with an old friend. You, my diary. I heard her words deep within my soul. I knew the truth. It was time. The moment to break away with the last string that tied to my past. I had to burn you, Dear Diary.
I joined a procession of my sister. All heading for the gardens were a mighty bonfire illuminated the twilight. Here, my diary, was your end to be. But as I came close to handing you over to the flames sacrifices of my sisters caught my eye. One especially. An old journal. Had I seen it before? I was not sure. But as flames claimed page by page on resisted long enough.
Strange words etched themselves in my brain. Or did they remind me? Of a rhyme? Never spoken. Never heard. But of meaning, that I was sure. The urge was there. To speak them again. But how could I? My lips unmoving. Frozen in porcelain. No lungs to call my own. No breath to ever take again.
I will entrust them to you, my old friend. And cast you to the sea. And may those waves spare you long enough that someone else will see. To utter those words and break us free.