March 7, 1836
I have drawn death.
A simple sketch, charcoal on canvas of a… monster? Demon? I know not what.
I only recall reading my recently acquired copy of The Necromnibus when suddenly my hands flew over the canvas, scratching, scrawling, shading.
The bell pulled me from delirium. My dear friend, Mr. Tompkins, round for a drink, glanced upon my macabre handiwork and crumpled dead on my rug.
Shortly thereafter, my butler, hearing the thump, dashed in and expired.
Then the housemaid… the gardener… the neighbor.
Why? Why this senseless stream of spent spirits?
They will not stop coming.
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