Farrow's Journal

CORKBOARD I

This is ridiculous. I finally have what I want. I’ve forced open the secrets this place tried its damnedest to hide from me. I’m drowning in so many documents and artifacts and pieces of history I could stay busy for months. Forget an exhibit - the Madigan estate could have an entire damn museum. 

 

Except I only have a week. Maybe less than that! I’ve totally lost track of time in here. There aren’t any windows in these old corridors, and it’s been so long since I went back to rest in my little “base camp” that I don’t even know if it’s night or day. 

 

Maybe I should get out. Take a walk, clear my head. But I don’t have time.

 

And I don’t want to run into him again. I know he’s out there. He might even be waiting for me. 

 

Maybe I could make do with a week, if all these documents were neatly organized and filed and waiting for me. But that isn’t the case here. Papers are scattered all over the place. Stuffed into drawers, curled up on the floor, folded into old books. The journal pages I’ve found are torn and loose, ripped from their bindings and shuffled like playing cards. 

 

Someone (I suspect Castile) went to a LOT of trouble to make sure this mess was incomprehensible. But if that’s the case, why the hell didn’t he just set it all on fire and be done with it? Why hide it? Why keep it in the first place? Heck, why seal yourself up in the walls with it? 

 

I’m trying to put things in some kind of order, or at least draw out a chain of events that I can follow. But I just. Don’t. Have. Time. 

 

What happens when the state shows up and forces me to leave? If I can’t figure out what’s going on with me, with this place, I’ll die. Leaving the estate will kill me. 

 

I’m set up near the entrance to the corridors. Or, well, my entrance to the corridors. The one I made. Through the wall. With a hammer. I’m not letting Castile’s body out of my sight. It would be just my luck if he got up and walked away, and I’m not taking my chances with that shit. No zombies on Ben’s watch. 

 

The guy is still JUICY, by the way. I would have thought he’d be a skeleton by now, but there’s still plenty of flesh on him under all the branches and stuff that have grown around him. Maybe that’s why he’s kind of preserved. At least he doesn’t smell, but it doesn’t exactly instill confidence that he won’t jump up suddenly and try to eat my face. 

 

God, is this me now? Is this what I do? Sit alone in an overgrown house clacking away on a typewriter with just a dead guy for company? My mom used to say I should try to grow up into the kind of man my younger self would be proud of.

 

Sorry, kiddo, but this is what we got to work with. 

 

OK. There’s a few people in this mess I’m trying to keep track of. Hazel Lawley and her sister. Castile. Any of the other Madigans (where are they? I’ve only seen mentions of Castile’s father. What about his mother? Or siblings? Didn’t Quinn say Jane Madigan was Castile’s great-niece?). 

 

And this Jackdaw guy. As much as I love finding old bits of queer history (seems Jackdaw was a self-admitted trans man), at first I had no idea how a piece of writing by a random ship’s boy in the 1830s ended up at the Madigan estate. Now I see that he was connected to the family, at least peripherally. 

 

More than peripherally, if the rest of this entry is anything to go by. There’s a few more pages. They make me think Jackdaw, whoever he is, might just be the lynchpin in all this.