All the lights in the house suddenly went dead. Excuse my poor penmanship, journal, for I am writing in total darkness. I can hear faint murmuring sounds outside. Picking up the phone I hear nothing, no dial tone, such as it was in my previous entry.
My eyes are adjusting to the dark. Looking out the window I can see black-on-black shapes writing, human bodies controlled by something else. Their movements are lithe and flexible, as if unused to their own forms but unconcerned by the pain of twisting joints. On the neighboring lawn I can the fat, bloated form of Bud Dink, arms twisting in bizarre directions in deference to some obscene being, or deity, or something else beyond my comprehension.
I fear I am the only one in town not yet affected, or dead. I can hear sounds now, what would be speech, but only come as illegible tonguing to my still sane (?) ears, but I can recognize voices. The crass baying of Roger. The shrill piping of Beebe. The...high, perfect singer's tones of Patti. My dear, sweet Patti, into this thing of evil and horror. I can only pray that the real you, Patti, has left to somewhere unreachable by this insidious influence.
"HONK HONK" I hear, echoing through the streets and over carefully manicured lawns. So he still retains something of him. Perhaps it was because it was first, that it started with him. Friendly Skeeter. Poor Skeeter. Damned, too-smart Skeeter with his perfect IQ scores. Damn him and his sudden obsession with those runes. He was the only one that could have done it. If I had killed him that day as I knew in my heart of hearts I should have this all could have been avoided.