11 December 1874

　　Oh, wretched creature that I am! I cannot reject nor deprive him! I cannot stop myself! He has but to kiss me and I am his. I crave him as I would food were I starving or water were I lost in a barren wasteland or breath were I drowning. He has awoken in me a need that cannot be sated. When I am with him, all is bliss. When he is gone, all is shame. I tell myself that I will not give into him again while knowing that I will find myself in his bed this night. I am completely at his mercy, his every whim is my command, and I follow his orders with a greedy pleasure unknown to me before now. I love him, and I hate myself for it. And I know that I am damned.

　　God, end my life now, for it would be a mercy to end my torment and better for my soul to die in this moment of repentance before I submit to another night of sin. For I know that I shall give in to temptation, and I know that he will tempt me. Were he the devil, he would seduce me with the tenderness of his embrace and the passion of his kisses, and I, his willing victim, would take pleasure from the hellfire burning my flesh.

　　Yet, even knowing the maw of hell gapes wide for me, he beckons and I answer. I cannot refuse him. My flesh aches for his touch such that death would be preferable. What am I to do?

　　Child, just you wait. Anyone with any sense can see that he`s going to use you until either he is satisfied, or you demand too much.

　　It is the last entry in the second diary; I sigh and shut the book, setting it on top of its companions. Little Sarah Atwood has been keeping me company on and off today, the entire second diary spanning a mere two weeks of her existence as she has been gushing about this man she met just after she turned eighteen and whom she`s been sleeping with for two weeks& back in 1874& when this was written. But for all of her gushing, she has staunchly avoided any concrete descriptors. Not a name or identifying feature, nothing about what he does or what his social status is, nothing about how she met him or& anything. It`s honestly impressive that she was able to fill an entire diary with her ramblings about him without saying anything about him.

　　Meanwhile, I can`t hardly remember what I`ve done with my day. It has been an odd day. My headaches continue to give me grief. I don`t think they`ve gotten worse, but they certainly haven`t gotten better. I don`t think the bleach fumes over the last week, or two maybe, helped. But with the sanitization completed, my headaches have not improved either. My day has been spent aimlessly wandering the house, observing her laundry list of problems that are in the process of being addressed or still need attention. And then I wind up back here, in this chair, rocking, staring, trying to remember what I should be working on. Eventually I pick up Sarah`s diary, read an entry, listen to her moaning and whining, and then set her aside, determined anew to be industrious.

　　This round, knowing that my capacity to be productive today is extremely limited, I choose to remain in my chair, rocking steadily, letting my thoughts percolate to the squeaks of the wooden joints and floorboards beneath, their groans eeking out a syncopated rhythm to the beat of my sway. Or perhaps it is my sway that is in syncopation with the squeaking? Depending on where my brain places the downbeat, I can hear both, and I entertain myself for a moment by listening and intentionally switching between the two rhythms that are both different and identical.

　　I wonder what Sarah Atwood looked like. Was she pretty? A young, vivacious object of desire? Or was she simply a convenient target for her "lover`s" selfish interests and groin-ruled fantasies? While her diary never specifies, I suspect that her lover- or predator, as may be more accurate- based on the historical gossip that is common knowledge in modern days, is her master and the husband to her lady, Mr. Reginald Soward. I did a little research. In 1865, Reginald Soward was twenty-nine when he married a then twenty year old Alice Eastman in what was likely a political stunt that didn`t do what he`d hoped it would. So in 1874, when this diary was written, Reginald Soward would have been thirty-eight or thirty-nine depending on when his birthday was, making him approximately twenty years older than Sarah Atwood, whom he has been accused for over a century of taking as his mistress.

　　However, even with the speculative knowledge of their scandalous affair, there isn`t any historical evidence to support the belief that Reginald and Sarah were ever actually involved, and there isn`t any record of Sarah Atwood beyond that she existed, much less what happened to her while she lived in Soward`s mansion or what happened to her when, I presume, she eventually left. These diaries are the first actual evidence that Sarah was even involved with a man during her tenure as Mrs. Soward`s servant, and only Sarah, at this point, might be able to tell us who she was involved with. Whether she does or not remains to be seen, but after the brain-murder that was her second diary, I`m going to have to work myself up to reading the third.

　　Sigh&.

　　I am getting used to the old girl`s tired wistfulness. (At least, the perceived sighing accompanying these headaches.) She is bored by these troublesome humans creating their own problems, filling her with worries and strifes, plaguing her history with the worst humankind has to offer. She will forever be defined by the horrors she`s seen. She can never outlive the secrets she`s harbored. And here I am prolonging her legacy. Restoration, new life& a new life spent telling the secrets she`s been keeping. I`m not sure that that is a life I would want for myself.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author`s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

　　Bzzt. Bzzt.

　　My phone lights up with a calendar reminder: Jay Meadows - floor demo.

　　I forgot that Jay was planning to come today.

　　Bzzt. Bzzt.

　　Another reminder? The AC Guys.

　　I forgot that was happening today too&.

　　Maybe I need to see a doctor. My sense of time continues to deteriorate, and while it hasn`t been a problem with my electronic brain support (i.e. my phone) tracking all of the relevant calendar events, it would be wise to not hide these worrisome signs under the proverbial rug.

　　And then I hear knocking at the door- Jay. I get to the door slowly enough that Jay feels the need to knock again before I have a chance to open it.

　　"Good morning, Lottie!"

　　Is it only morning?! I look out at the world beyond Jay`s shoulder, a thin mist obscuring the tree tunnel towards the road, the sky a dim gray, the birds chirping. First thing in the morning. Have I been awake all night? I`ve been reading and shuffling mindlessly around for hours! Since&. Since breakfast. What time is it?!

　　"Lottie? Is& is everything alright?" Jay asks, and I startle. Somehow, I forgot he was there. But of course he`s there! Why else would I be standing at the door?! "Lottie?"

　　"I&. I`m sorry. I just had a moment. Jay, what time is it?"

　　"It`s about 8:00 in the morning," he says. "I was going to get the floors ripped up before the guys come in to put air ducting through the house this afternoon?"

　　"Yes," I nod slowly, the pieces coming together in my head with difficulty. "Yes. I remember."

　　"Are you feeling alright?" Jay says with a frown. "You seem& confused."

　　"I think&. I think I might be tired."

　　"Hm," his frown deepens. "Well, if you trust me to take care of the flooring, you could go lie down? I can handle the air conditioning guys too, if you`d like."

　　"That&. That would be helpful. Yes. Yes, that would&. Thank you, Jay."

　　"Sure," he nods, and I can still feel the concern of his frown follow me as I return to my room by the kitchen.

　　And my thoughts come full circle: I should really see a doctor.

　　Sigh&.

　　That`s another thing. Houses shouldn`t be sighing. And these headaches!

　　And the bizarre irrelevance of time.

　　And the way I somehow completely missed an entire day and a night to& to what?

　　My phone is already in my hand; my gynecologist is saved in my contacts under Raesport Medical - Dr. Tiwari. I make the call.

　　"Raesport Medical OBGYN office; this is Sheryl speaking. How can I help you?"

　　"Hi. I need to make an appointment for a check up?"

　　"What`s your name and date of birth?"

　　"Charlotte Evered. March 8th, 1954."

　　"And who is your provider?"

　　"Doctor Tiwari."

　　"Alright. Doctor Tiwari`s next availability is Thursday morning at 11:30. Does that work, Mrs. Evered or is there another time you were hoping for?"

　　"No, that`s fine. You said this coming Thursday?"

　　"At 11:30 AM. Yes."

　　"Great. Thank you."

　　"Is there anything else that I can do to help you today, Mrs. Evered?"

　　"No. That`s all. Thank you."

　　"Have a nice day."

　　"You too."

　　Before I can forget, I add the appointment to my phone calendar, and then I look at the date and time: Tuesday, October 17th, 2023, 8:07 AM. And it hits me. I`ve been living and working on this house for four and a half months! And it at once feels like I just got here and like I`ve been here for forever. Four and a half months of continuous, well-paced, non-stop labor, and the house is only barely reaching the "blank slate" stage.

　　I scroll through the appointments I have lined up this week. David from Magleby and Sons Roofing is coming with an engineer of some type for a follow-up on the roof project. I know they`ve ordered the replacement beams already and just need to discuss how to install them without causing more damage. Barry from the window company is coming on Monday with the first round of windows ready for installation. I`m looking forward to having windows and not boards to look at. And I seem to recall that some of the furniture that got shipped off to the antiques restorers are due back sometime this week or next? I`m not sure, and there are not exact dates nor times for the deliveries. Plumbing and electricity are the next steps after the AC guys do their thing. Yes. Things are coming together.

　　The house is coming together as I am falling apart.