No matter what I do, I find myself back infront of the typewriter, jabbing at the keys. Desperately trying to find the path forward, the narrative that will lead us to the end of this horror story - but this other presence, this co-author is stopping me at every turn. I've had to deal with a ghostwriter before now, but this, this is different. Everything I write - every plot element, every shining light in the darkness - he is there, at every twist and turn and snuffs it out. I write, and I write, and none of it matters - his plan, his story keeps going, he is in control here. No matter what I do, more people keep dying, good people. Revy. Bradimir. Maximillion. Ciel. Sothoth.
The seals, the damn seals, everyone keeps playing into his hands and breaking them, getting one step closer to his goal at every opportunity while everyone else is distracted by the shining lights in their eyes. Nobody knows what they're messing with, not even Sothoth did. I don't trust the Hustler - but I don't think they'll do anything truly disastrous with their newfound Liturgic power.
I'm a writer. I write. Writing is the key. I have to keep writing. No matter what, I have to keep writing. Just a few more pages. Just a few more drafts. I'll get this right. I'll get this write, ha ha. I will write a way out of his horror story. My words versus his. Typeface versus cursive. In a horror story, the villain always finds his end. Eventually. No matter the cost.
...Ah, I'm sorry, but I'm going to be a bit sparse in describing my evening. I'm a little distracted. I had planned to go investigate the woods once again, but the blizzard scuppered those plans.
I mostly spent my evening down in the basement - uh, the regular basement, not the extremely deep basement, that is - looking for more information on some of the more... relevant types of esotera. Other than a brief chat with BPI-2300 in the Control Department, the only other person I saw all night was Phenera early on. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.