It whispered to her as she slept "Tell me more..." it would entice.
"More. More. More." always more, it would never leave her be.
Her hair was painted to her forehead with the same cold, bone
chilling, sweat that made her flesh crawl and the hairs on the
back of her neck stand like shivering innocents in a sepulcher.
She rolled out of bed and hobbled toward the chest of drawers in
which it slept. Or where it would sleep, if it ever rested.
She lifted it from it's cradle, so soft and seemingly benign. "More" it whispered still.
She plucked from her desk a pen, its red ink half empty from
hours of use. Gingerly flicking through the pages of her deepest
secrets, the ancient yellowed pages threatened to tear if she was
not careful, and it would not like that.
It fed off dark feelings, it loved them. It loved Emily too, for she was it's provider.
She stopped midway through the leather bound journal, and read
what she had written on this particular date. She had complained
"She is far more beautiful than I am," she had written "I wish I were prettier than she was."
That was a week before the accident, coming home from school one december evening Hannah came into confrontation with a sleeping driver's car.
Through a sad, and unforeseen tragedy Emily had Hannah's role as the prettier of the pair.
Emily further gazed back into past entries, how she had prayed
for a B in her english examination, three weeks before her
Grandmother's death, she was given the grade she had hoped for
the family trauma.
Again when she had begged the fates for her father's attention, days before he was stricken with an almost paralyzing illness and forced to remain in the house with Emily.
The journal rewarded it's provider.
And Emily was terrified at it. She was always careful as to what she would write, but it always seemed to know she was keeping something.
"More..." it would whisper in the voice only she could hear.
After she had made the connection between the satanic stationary
and her friend's disfigurement, Emily had cast the archaic
journal to the waves from a bridge near her home. Only to hear
its drowned and muffled cries for "More..." Emily waded in the
water that night and retrieved the sodden parchment to find that
not a drop of ink had run
She had tried burning the book, but as soon as the greying leather hit the flames the sound of agonizing pain filled her head. When she burnt her hand pulling it from the embers, she wailed in horror at the sight of every page in its original condition.
She had found it in a second hand book shop in the bargain section. It was not particularly appealing to look at nor was it what she had in mind when she was shopping for a diary in which to write her deepest feelings. Emily was attracted to it's character. And character it had.
She wrote, and wrote that night until a thin beam of light
stretched out and illuminated her room. Dawn.
The whispers for more ceased.
For that night Emily had written her final words, "If Only... If Only I could stop writing."