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My name is Jake. I guess I really don't know where to begin, where to start telling this story have takenas a sign of my own eroding sanity t have proof I was still very much in my right mind. Proof that lays scattered all around this makeshift work area I've turned my bedroom into, and even out in my living room. Photocopies of journal pages, birth records, death records, news clippings, old books of urban legends letters. printed web-pages. It escapes me what the source of the quote is, but I think I once heard this sort of thing described as organized chaos.

I guess I'll start with saying that I'm what some people might call a crackpot-in-training. Since I was young I've always been fascinated with what humanity can't explain. Ghosts, hauntings, monster sightings, urban legends. I could bury myself for hours in old books and websites about things some people would write off as insanity or old campfire stories gone wild.

As a result of this, 18 year-old me wound up with a degree in parapsychology that meant all of jack until now. It's been five years and I've gone from nothing but debunking a few local scam artists to being knee-deep in something I fear is out of my pay grade. That's why I decided to start this journal and lay out the whole mess the old fashioned way, and nothing is more old fashioned and reliable than a good notebook and an ink pen.

I figured it was better this way, so that I could keep my thoughts in order. I guess I also figured that this book might just as much wind up being the next chapter in her story. That my destiny might become intertwined with hers, and thus my road here is just as important as the tale I've pieced together.

I guess I should explain who "she" is, since this can of worms has been blown wide open and it would be pointless to try and seal it back up. I mean, continuing to put off the meat of my tale by rambling on would be a waste of paper at this point.

I feel as though I should ease you, (you being the possible future owner of this book) into this mess slowly. If I don't, you might dismiss me as crazy and write this off as some elaborate hoax to get some poor smuck to post about it on the internet while I laugh at the attention.

The first thing you have to understand that many myths come from a shred of fact that get's twisted, and warped into something barely recognizable over time. It can be something mundane like fear of the unknown and ignorance causing people to mistake mental illness for demonic possession, or some poor soul with a birth defect for a monster.

Come to think of it, I guess that that fear of the unknown is often dangerous and why this story I've watched unfold across dreams and the dusty old pages of a young girl's journal was so far buried, distorted, and rendered unrecognizable by time. It would also explain how a creature of the light, a potential hero has been so vilified in past and present pop-culture.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. I should start with the simple Nightmare that kick started my transition from relatively normal 23 year old bachelor to what could be a character from a 90s TV show.

I woke up to a cold draft and cursed my trashy apartment for the poor weather-sealing around the doors and windows that the landlord refused to fix. I thought nothing of it at first this was a normal occurrence I generally had to live with in the colder months. The joys of cheap rental houses in the run-down part of town, right?

That feeling quickly faded as I remembered it was the middle of June and should have been a muggy summer night with a pleasant and light summer breeze lessening the heat.. It most certainly should not be the chilly, end-of-winter draft that was currently washing over me.

I also quickly noticed that I was laying on a hard floor, and not my marginally softer bed. Feeling around, I concluded that it was hardwood, rough and unfinished like you might find in one of the out buildings scattered about a farm. Now unless I had sleep walked outside and laid down on my front porch, this was also a red flag that this wasn't my house.

I couldn't really make out my surroundings in the near pitch-black room with any amount of real certainty, but I willed myself up off the floor and began to feeling around anyway. As I stumbled into the nearest solid object I ran my hands over it's dry and rough surface in an attempt to identify what I was leaning on. It was a bail of hay and now I knew this WAS NOT my house.

I knew at that point my assumption that I was in some sort of farm building was correct. That was a nice piece of information to have, but it still didn't explain HOW I got here and where this place was. I could've been in the middle of Africa for all I knew because "in a barn somewhere" was a very vague description of my location only marginally more useful than "somewhere."

To make my predicament worse, the sound of the door creaking open broke the silence before I could further attempt to process this information (or rather, lack of information would be more apt). I quickly hopped over the makeshift wall of bales and crouched down, pressing my back up against the rough surface. I also thanked God I didn't sleep naked.

As I sat there trying my best to remain silent, I could hear light footsteps making their way past me and towards the opposite corner of the structure. I decided to risk a peek as curiosity got the best of me. After all, It certainly didn't sound like the kind of hulking thug that I would picture abducting and dumping me here as I slept.

As my eyes adjusted to the light I could make out a figure in the corner with their back to me and sitting on something. A figure whose face was obscured from my vision by a heavy cloak and hood. I could make out the familiar sound of ruffling paper and someone beginning to write, the tip of their chosen writing implement scraping against the paper

As I watched their movements closely, the sound of heavy footsteps broke the silence and I heard her almost whisper "Is that you, John?"

It was a young woman, I would have to guess late teens by the youthful sound of her voice. I assumed the heavy footsteps were male, but it that it wasn't the person she was expecting when there was no answer back. I was unfortunately right.

Her hood still shrouded her face from my view as she glanced over her shoulder and jumped to her feet at the sight of whoever had entered the room with her. Something heavy dropped to the floor with a dull thud as she stood. She must have been writing in some sort of book. A journal, perhaps?

"No, it's you! Leave me alone!" she cried at the figure. She knew this man, and something she knew about him make her terrified.

I followed her gaze to a tall, dark figure. He wore what appeared to be a long, flowing coat and his voice chilled me to the bone as he spoke. It was cold as death and yet still somehow held a certain fire and venom that sounded as if he took a certain joy in her fear.

"You've been quite a thorn in the side of my master, you and that meddlesome hunter that seems to have taken a fancy to you." My breath caught in my throat as he withdrew something from his coat and my eye was drawn to the unmistakable gleam of steel.

I couldn't make out much of his face, but I could almost picture the smile creeping across it as he idly ran his fingers along the edge of the blade. "That reminds me, kid. He was indisposed and couldn't make it tonight, so I figured I'd be a gentleman and keep you company in his stead"

At this point that I didn't even know who this guy was, but he had a certain "aura" about him. A presence that had me just as scared of him as she was. It was almost as if the The Devil himself had entered the room and a part of me almost expected I would've smelled sulfur on his breath if I was close enough.

I watched in shock as she whimpered and did the only she could do. She backed away further, drawing her hands closer to her face in some desperate attempt to shield herself and barely choked out the words "No, he can't be. He can't be dead."

The figure merely stepped forward, closing the distance between them and giving a chuckle as his answer. In what i assumed to be either a trick of the light or my own imagination I saw a gleam of red from his eyes, a subtle glow of deep and bright red in his irises reflected against the whites of his sclera. It was the only part of his face I could make out in the dark.

Her back was now against the wall as he stopped at an arm's length. I could hear her almost panting, each breath slow and shaking with fear as she fought back the urge to sob. I tried to will myself to move and do something, to do anything to stop him and save her from whatever horrible fate he obviously had planned. I tried, but I couldn't move. I was frozen with a cold fear that weighed me down like iron shackles and chains.

Before I knew what was happening he struck in one fluid movement and I could see the crimson stains on his blade as he hand stopped. I watched in horror as she grabbed her throat and slid to the ground, choking and gagging for air.

Once she stopped moving he kicked her square in the ribs. I winced as her silence and the sound of the blow. Apparently now sure that she was dead, he tossed his weapon aside and leaned down to her level. He reached out and grabbed her face in one hand, looking into her eyes. I heard him give a quiet laugh as he studied her still obscured face.

I felt my stomach churn as he spoke. "Beautiful, even if she isn't our kind. it's a shame that she had to be disposed of such a hurry before I could enjoy her company'

I turned away as he threw the body over his shoulder, still in shock from the violent murder I had just witnessed and the implication of her killers words. Words spoken in a voice that concealed the evil of his actions by treating them as no different than throwing out a damaged painting It was regret befitting a broken piece of art and not a life taken in it's youth.

It was the heavy wooden door slamming shut that jarred me to reality and reminded me of the fact that I was now alone with my thoughts. I let my head fall back against the rough hay and mentally kicked myself for just watching something so horrible happen. For not even attempting to intervene. I was no more than 10, maybe 20 feet from them, and still just watched her die like it was a scene in a horror movie.

After wallowing in my own self-pity for what felt like ages, I decided that sitting there sulking was of no use to me OR her. I forced myself to climb over bail of hay that had once been my personal barricade and shield from the scene in front of me. I had to know if that book contained anything I could use to at least bring her justice. I felt like I owed her at least that much.

As I made my way to where she had been sitting, my foot bumped into something cold, hard, and wet. I swallowed and looked down, knowing exactly what it was. The weapon at my feet was just as intimidating as it's wielder and It's blade still glistened with blood as a grim reminder of the roll it had played and the life it had ended. I had to will myself to look away and scan the ground beyond it before I seized up again.

It didn't take me long to spot it on the ground a few feet from where I stood. I hesitated as I leaned down and wrapped my hands around it's spine. I ran my fingers over it's leather cover and felt the the rough finish. It's deep black finish caught my eye as as I brought it to be face and stood. It was obviously something of fine craftsmanship and not a cheap notebook. I could only guess it was a gift.

I carefully opened the book and ran my fingers over the almost cloth-like paper and felt it's rough-texture beneath my fingertips. Although it was dark, the pages seemed subtly illuminated as if I was meant to read them. Meant to see the story they held and look through the window into her life.

I could make out text written in an unpracticed hand on the first page, "With all my love, to my Daughter. I hope this journal serves you well to record memories that will last a lifetime."

My heart sunk, and despite not even know so much as this girls name I felt a deep sorrow. I could feel the tears welling-up in my eyes as the cold emptiness the ageing structure around me finally set in. The darkness around me was sombre and quiet, almost as if the night itself mourned for her. I willed back the tears and continued to read.

I turned my eyes to next page, noticing a name written in a much neater and more feminine hand.

"Mary Worth"

No, I didn't miswrite that and I'm sure you all know that name well enough to put two-and-two together. Before I could flip the page I felt a strong, cold hand grab my shoulder and jolted awake before I could turn around.

I sat there in bed, drenched in a cold sweat and tried to process all the information. I could hazard a guess about Mary that I'm sure you've figured out is correct, but who was John? Who, or what was the man that killed her and what did he mean when he called John a hunter? He said it like it was something significant and not just a profession.

The most chilling question in my mind was also the last to creep in. Who was his "master"? What kind of monster could order around a cold-blooded beast like that and have his full allegiance? The killer was obviously little more than an animal hiding behind a human visage and sly words, that meant someone far worse must be calling the shots for him to obey.

I glanced at the clock by my bed: 6:30AM. I might as well get up and get dressed since I certainly didn't feel like sleeping after that.