Diary of the Lost

Diary of the Lost; Page One

Date; I've stopped wondering.
Year; 1899? No point in knowing.
Name; Elizabeth Charter.
Age; 18.
Current Location; Who knows?

Dear Diary,

You have no idea how weird it feels saying that. Not only have I never written in a diary and started with "Dear Diary" before, I haven't spoken to a person in a long time. All around me ghosts of children slave away, singing their songs.

Their songs... Their songs. Ring Around the Rosie- the real version. By that, I mean that they sing it with the true meaning.

The meaning with all the history, all the death. They sing so many more songs; songs I don't know the name of. The eerie sound of their voices bore through our souls. I'm sorry, let me rephrase that- my soul. I'm not sure if any other person is left. I would cross out my mistakes, but ink is precious and it takes up space.

I found this diary when I was working on gathering wood. It had the title "Diary of the Lost" on the cover. It gave me an icy feeling- a feeling that I am already used to feeling, since ghosts lurk around me. I tried my hand at making ink, but I failed. I was able to find a small, miniature mason jar full of ink. Lucky, I am.

When will I be found? I feel no point in writing in this book if no one will be here  to find this. Maybe, if I am lucky once more, another soul will come on in a few years. Perhaps a child, a child who will find this diary and write their own story after reading mine.

Oh, Elizabeth; how could you think that? If a child comes here again, they've no chance of surviving. I barely get on myself, so how could an innocent child live? When I was first taken here, four others came with me. One was a girl, fourteen winters old. Her little brother, nine winters younger than her, was taken, too. She slowly lost her mind, until one day we found her body ice cold. A ghost with her eyes and hair floated nearby, however, watching us; particularly the little boy.

The boy died not long after. He was simply too young to survive with us. I'll always miss his little brown eyes and his adorable laugh. The third person was twenty-seven. She was getting on just fine, but then, one day, three of us were walking through the woods and the woman ran off. The two of us that were left assumed she'd had enough and went to drown herself in freezing water.

The fourth and final person was a boy my age. His name was Danny. He was nice, certainly someone I'd want to have as a brother. I regret the day we made an attempt to climb a mountain and leave the camp.

The terrain on the mountain is harsh enough to kill a man, and that was just what it did when we were hiking. There were large, camouflaged rocks in our path. Danny tripped over one, injuring his leg greatly. When he fell, his face his another sharp-edged rock. As if that wasn't enough, a ghost came through the woods around us and beat us silly. I was able to climb back down to the camp, but Danny wasn't so lucky.

It's only a matter of time before I pass, too.

I miss them. I miss the girl and her brother, the woman and Danny. I miss my family. I miss the normal world. I miss it, I do.

I was taken at night. I was asleep until I heard the bone-chilling whistles from all around me. There was a sudden flash, and then I was surrounded by ghosts. The world around me seemed to stop. I was led to an old, rickety truck. The four others were in it. I had little time to take in the world around me. There was a runner, frozen mid-step. There was also a curtain blowing in the wind, but it had stopped halfway back to it's original place.

After that, the truck rattled along the pavement, speeding up gradually; it took what seemed like several minutes to get to a pace faster than light.

Then we were here.