Aalgoth by Edgar Luque
May 16th, 1808
Biskopsberga, Sweden
It’s eleven-thirty in the morning and it’s still dark out there. In a way, it reminds me of New England’s Dark Day. Howbeit, this is worse. Much worse. I remember that day vividly. I was about 23 at the time. It was all over the newspapers: the crimson moon, ominously laying in the inky skies; the glacial breeze wafting all the black soot; the birds tranquilly sheltering from the darkness.
Natheless, I can not help but ascertain that what my eyes are witnessing at this very moment sees no precedents. If the other inhabitants were not beholding this phenomenon too, I would have sworn I had become unhinged. Round figures, stained in an eerily bewitching golden hue, populate the skies. One and all have gone mad. They state those spheres are angels; that the final judgement is finally taking place; that the condemnatory sound of the first trumpet will be heard soon.
My family has fled to the church to pray, but I have a mission. Whatever these things are, should we survive them, a written record of their existence is essential.
Our town will not go down in history as the dwelling of three hundred madmen. I will not acquiesce to such a thing. I take refuge in this attic in the hope of unravelling the mystery behind these floating spheres. Notwithstanding my determination, at this very moment, I can feel the consequences of my actions slowly crawling on my spine, and I’m not completely sure if I will live to see another day.
There is something clawing at the flooring beneath my feet. I don’t know what it is, but it is currently on the second floor, I am convinced. Withal, I must not stop writing. Whatever that is, it will stop eventually.
From this window, I can perfectly descry all my neighbours absconding from the village. Abbiørn, Gautwidus, Ödhhild… Cowards.
I’ve just heard a trumpet. I don’t know whether it’s a mere suggestion or not. I may be starting to hallucinate. But the fact that I have heard it is undeniable. Something sounded like a trumpet; that, I know for certain.
I am hearing footsteps on the stairs. My family probably wants me to join their decampment. Nonetheless, it is… perplexing: Regardless of how much I look through this window, I can not see anyone on the street anymore. How strange. I swear I’ve only looked away for a couple of seconds.
They are knocking at the door now. I’ll hurry up and open it. Regardless of what they say, I’ll stay here.
I’ll tear this page out of the notebook, just in case, and lock it in the drawer. It’s just a supplementary security measure: both this entry and the next one will talk about the same day, and will be written in the same session.
I sign this entry with the knowledge that if for any reason I do not return to this desk, something uncanny will have happened to me. Wherefore, I genuinely hope that this is not the only entry that you, whoever you are, are holding; for that would mean a second one was never composed.
Aalgoth af Wasaborg