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L Ontonagon, MI. (May 1853)
I, Jennet Nancarrow, leave this warning: do not look too deeply into the desires of the human race.
My body may traipse along these rocky shores for years to come—centuries perhaps, if I’m to believe the insinuations of the eight folios under my bed.
But my mind—my precious mind— no matter how I resist, will cease to be my own. That’s why I’m writing these things down, before I lose control. I must share what we found in that dreary monastery in the woods, where the wind never blew but it howled, and the moonlight transfigured slippery things that clutch at the back of your brain.
I will share how my vanity let me believe I could steal glimpses of eternity without being inhaled down its spiraling throat.
You will understand how I, Jennet Nancarr
