Another freezing night. The only thing keeping me safe from Them as I walk this long, lonely road is the light of the full moon, piercing through the darkness and dense fog, and only a few hours of this safety is left. The oracles have spoken of a darkening of the moon tonight, I must find shelter before this happens or I will be at the mercy of Them.

  I’ve heard rumors of a small village existing in the countryside, a living village, safe from Them. This is why I left the city. That old, ruinous city. The city, like many more of it’s kind, is filled with things just as bad as Them, filled with thieves, rapists, murderers, disease and Death. At least Them come out only at night, and even then, only when it is too dark to see your nose in front of your face. 

  I must carry onward.

  I have made it a few more miles without much incident. It has started snowing again, I can only hope it’s not enough to block out the moon light, which has started to change, it no longer has the fullness of earlier.

  There was an old man on the road, very old, on his last journey he informed me. I asked him of the village and he said he had come from there (proof at last), it’s not much farther ahead he told me, just another hour walking maybe more. 

  I can almost feel Them closing in now. 

  We must never mention Them aloud, for fear they will hear. I can only hope my writing of Them is safe. The moon is only a half of what it was and I have seen no shelter since before dusk. If the village is not close then I fear I will be a goner.

  Little light remains. No sign of village. I can see a small structure ahead, possibly a house from before the Destruction.

  I’m in the small cottage now, everything is bare inside it’s cold, stone walls. I can find no suitable material to make a fire and my food pack is running low. I can only hope the door will be enough to keep Them out. I should try and sleep but I don’t think I will be able to. There is only a sliver of moon left in the sky, I was lucky to find this cottage.

  My eyes feel weary, it’s time to rest now.

  Noises have woken me from my sleep, I can hear them. I can hear Them. I hear the terrible cries of Them, the screeching They use to communicate. The noise of Them moving, a noise that spells doom for all who hear it, an indescribable noise of terror.

  The door! May the gods hold the door! They are smashing against it now, I have nowhere to run or hide. I can only cower and write and hope the door holds.

  It’s cracking, the door won’t hold them. I have been forsaken. A hole is forming in the door, I can see Them. The horror, arms and arms ripping through the door. Why did I not bring weapons? A slit throat would be far better than what They would have in store.

They’re through I’m not going to…

This was the last entry of a journal found inside a small cottage on the outskirts of our village. The journal was found by two of our young men when they were out hunting yesterday morning.