The girl in the White Gown

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Dear reader

        I’ve come to share an event that has occurred between two people, both related in blood, yet it seems that family connections have nothing to do with said event. It starts with my friend’s grandfather, Jacob, who now spends his days in a mental institution due to dementia, and a very severe form of insanity. If you were to visit him at this moment, you would find him in a fetal position. rocking back and forth, repeating the phrase “Do not read the journal”. The journal, was actually written by Jacob himself, filled with experiences and events in his life that were worth mentioning, acting almost as a diary, except this particular journal, cannot be destroyed, by any means. Many have observed, as two people, Jacob and his son, Gregory, have fallen into this Journal’s curse, and nobody has even attempted to touch the Journal.

        Until now.

A few minutes ago, I thoroughly read through Jacob’s Journal, and, to this point, I am not suffering any effects. I came to come upon reading this Journal, purely out of curiosity, and it now rests to the left of me, face up. It has an odd appearance, a light leather cover with the title written in ink, and the paper is rough and old. It appears very dusty, but no matter how many times I wipe it with a cloth, the book retains its ancient look. I recall the first time I came in contact with the book, as soon as my fingers touched the leather cover, I felt overcome with a dark presence, I figured it was just my imagination, but I could never be too sure. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m sharing this information with you. If the assumptions of the book are true, then I surely will follow under the spell and go mad, but I know that you reading this right now, won’t be affected as you, never came in contact with the Journal. As a note, Gregory also kept a Journal that he wrote in regularly. I read most of it, but there is a note at the back of the book, I’ll save it for later. I will now list Journal entries from Jacob’s Journal.

        December 5th, 1959

It’s very late out, but I still had to take my Labrador out for a walk. It gets very eerie out at this time of night, especially considering the fact that I live in a clearing between two forests, that get very dark at night, and almost gives off an ominous glow. Adding to the fact, that I’m the only one who resides here, and my nearest neighbor is about seven miles away, it gets very lonely. But I like the loneliness. It gives me comfort knowing that I don’t have to be bothered by the problems of the common people, or not having to compete in a neighborly feud, to make one of our lawns look better than the other, I like it here. The walk is quick and I return home to sleep.

        December 6th 1959

I had to drive into town this morning, all out of dog food, and I could use some groceries myself. I bring my journal with me. After I parked in the lot, I started to walk toward the supermarket, and I accidentally bump into an elderly woman, about eighty years old. Before I could apologize, she rips my journal from my hand, and gazes into it. I attempted to take it back, but before that, she mutters something in a foreign language I can’t quite make out, then tosses it back into my hands. I think nothing of the incident and continue on my way to the supermarket.

The strangest thing happened tonight. While I was walking my dog in the clearing, I saw a little girl, maybe no older than 10, staring at the ground. She had jet black hair, and wore a very dirty white gown. Her skin was as pale as the night was dark, and the odd thing was, my dog took no notice to her. My dog, who frequently explodes at the sight of a moving leaf, doesn’t take notice in the little girl before me. Strange. I look down, and notices that she isn’t wearing shoes, or socks even. I asked her if she was lost, and if she needed help, but she didn’t give a single response. She didn’t even move. She just stood there, as still as a rock. I decided to turn back, because I was certain that she would be gone in the morning.