Bulfinch Journal 1

From Black Country Role Playing Society

I had thought that now back in Boston and away from that wretched hellhole that my spirits would lift. Not even my sessions with professor DeWolfe seem to help however.

My sleep, or lack of it, is extremely troublesome to me. I was once a sound sleeper, albeit following late nights at the club, but no matter how much I seem to drink now, it has little soporific effect.

For the first time in my life I am finding myself staying in, much to the consternation of the rest of the household. I just don’t have the drive anymore, that place has drained the very life out of me.

Though I have tried to write of my experiences on several occasions, words, or at least my words, just can’t begin describe what occurred on our visit to Kentucky. Even with the so called rational explanations that even I purport to being the logical sequence of events, I still get a dark feeling of touching on something that we shouldn’t have, to have glimpsed a canvas of unreality that man was not meant to view. And it seems that I am to be punished and will carry the burden of that night in the woods with me to the grave.

And what of the others? In truth, I care little for their well-being. Nothing new some would say about me, but it is more than that. I am a changed person, a person that even I find difficult to bear. Yet even now, I find myself contemplating meeting up with them all at the Crimson club, as if there is still unfinished business that we all must take care of. The shadow of an unknown future drapes us all, and binds us in ways yet to be fathomed.

I must, at least according to DeWolfe, speak with Warburg and apologise for my actions. I had beaten him severely and locked him in the wicker basket. Justified still, I believe, but If I am to begin to come to terms with our trip, I am told that I must begin to take some responsibility and not blame Warburg for all our woes whilst there, and all that has happened since. The thought of meeting up with that vile man fills me with rage, and as for apologising to him, it just makes me want to spit.

And of poor Lilith, she has again written and is still enamoured with me. I will have to reply in no uncertain terms that I have no intentions of continuing a relationship that was for me a one night only affair. Perhaps I should send some money down to her?

(back to Charles Bulfinch)