There is little time but i must write down as much as i can while It is gone from me. i do not know where or when i am and i no longer care to know. Always there is blood. On my hands and face promising me that i am still a murderer.

Here sits the Journal as well. i have no choice but to write i am compelled to do so in an attempt to keep my last sheds of humanity intact.
Please, whoever reads this, please know that i had my reasons for doing what i did. He was killing us all. Slowly at first and under confusion he acted. We never had a chance. To us he was a leader to be respected and counseled with but to him we were less than swine to be butchered on his steel tables.

We thought he only wanted the prisoners, the low and destitute ones brought in on the railways. They were not enough for his experiments however and soon my people began disappearing as well.
My closest neighbor had twin sons two years before. Beautiful and healthy little boys that brought much warmth to all of our hearts simply by playing and being children. They were the first to disappear and their parents gone the next day. Many thought they wandered away into the Black Forrest to die in their grief but some, like me began to suspect worse.

For many months i watched helplessly as this nightmare took form among us. It was after being made to dig an enormous pit for burying dozens of the Doctor's victims that I remembered
That darkest of nights and the Hunter that came to kill us all.


  1. Well shit. When it rains, it pours. Are you and this guy the same? Or did you find his Journal? Asking to be sure.