by russ_c
Friday, a local aboriginal I trusted, is dead. I can only assume the tragic accident happened in the fog whilst aiding me in erecting wood crosses.This retched island is consuming every soul it touches. If only our ship hadn't sunk in the storm leaving that dog and me as the remainders of the expedition. The Priests had warned me prior that we had less than a fortnight to exorcise the demons from the island before the curse would destroy us all.
I fear that I can't accomplish this lofty goal God asks of me, but I must continue the work of the exorcism. Wood is so scarce with winter. Each day I muster the strength to collect it for the crosses, but I burn the timber by nightfall to survive the cold. I must build a pair more of the crosses to expunge the demons from this cursed island, but I feel feverish after a viper bite.
How I wished for a restful evening, but the island won't let up. A horrific gale raps at the palisades of my shanty encampment this night and I have nothing but a single goat hide to stave off the cold. The chill is in my bones and daggers of ice in my soul. I try not to despair, but i fear I won't make it through the night. I shall not sign this entry until the morning to mark my safe passage, but know this - If misfortune finds anyone reading this, you must complete the task I could not. You must build the crosses. You must exorcise the curse from this death spot in the ocean.