Journal '89: The Veilwood Manuscript

Journal '89 Entry #174

It happened again today— one of those strange dreams that make me feel as if I’d been ripped out of my timeline and woken in another.

I was at the grocer’s in Saint-Liège, the one by the square that still smells faintly of coal and old apples. I was comparing the price of pears—those ruddy, overripe ones that bruise if you look at them—when I saw her.

Elisabetta.

She stood just a few steps away, at the counter, holding hands with her sister. The same face, the same pigtails hanging over her shoulder, even the same thin scar along her elbow from when she shattered the glass beaker in Aunt Gabrielle’s summer kitchen.

But there was something wrong—or perhaps right—about her. She looked... well. She looked exactly as she had that fatal day when I saw her last.

But that's impossible. That was over two decades ago.

I can hardly describe the sensation—a shock followed by recognition, like glimpsing a photograph of someone in a life they never lived. For a brief moment I felt joyful—then nauseous.

It could have been two sisters resembling Marie and Elisabetta, yet when I heard her humming—that same unholy tune—my blood froze in my veins. As though my legs had grown roots, I could not move.

When I blinked, they were gone—vanished between the aisles, absorbed by the humming refrigerators as though the forest itself had learned to hide itself in everyday corners of life.

I finished my shopping in silence, though I can’t recall what I purchased. And went about my life as normal. On the drive home I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror and thought: perhaps the veil had opened up again.

It can't be a coincidence that the forest was named Veilwood, and that we grew up listening to dozens of folk tales and horror stories about it.

As I write this, I hear the wind moving through the chimney. It sounds almost like laughter—low, distant, and familiar. Like the humming that took Lizzy away.

I feel guilty for how I treated the girls. I was always so jealous of them. Aunt Gabrielle placed them on a pedestal and set me as an example for them. She did the same to me, the other way around. But I always knew the truth, of course—they were better and brighter than me. So I made our time together a living hell for them.

That day in the forest has never left me. I often wonder if, had I acted differently, the outcome might have changed.

Should I stayed at the house? Would the girls have reached the road safely?Or would something terrible happen to both of them? What if both of them had vanished?

Journal '89 Entry #177

I dreamed of the forest again last night. It was not the same as before— it was more vivid, as if it was watching me.

Lizzy stood at the edge of the clearing, her dress wet with dew, her face pale as candlelight. I told her she mustn’t go further. She smiled:

“You always try, but you never can.”

When I woke, I noticed mud beneath my fingernails. Not dried—fresh, still damp.

Journal ’89 — Entry #178

Dreams, I’ve noticed, have a peculiar way of reviving what should have been long buried. The act of writing stabilizes memory, so I note down every dream (or rather, nightmare) I have of Lizzy. Without this habit, I fear I would lose the ability to distinguish between dreams and my days.

It feels as though I am caught in a time loop that exists only when I close my eyes—waking life is only constant loss.

Regardless of what I do in that parallel realm, Lizzy remains gone. I tried to outwit the pattern, but each variation collapses into the same end.

Every time I wake, something shifts around me. A photograph went missing from its frame. The clock was running backward for exactly one minute. The pears, once bruised, now are perfectly smooth. I recall only buying them in my dreams.

I can’t speak of this to anyone, not after what happened to Marie. I wouldn't want to meet the same fate.

I was the only one who believed her—that she had swapped bodies with Lizzy, that it was really Lizzy who vanished.

I wrote her letters for years but never sent them. Perhaps it was for the best; her family had her committed to a sanatorium— though it was an asylum in all but name.

A poor girl, lost in the forest for days, returning convinced she was someone else — her own sister who disappeared. It sounds like madness. So what credibility would I have, a boy claiming to share her delusion? Better to stay silent. Better to still write for the drawer.

Journal ’89 — Entry #181

I noticed something has shifted again.

The lamp on my desk flickers even when unplugged. It’s too precise to be imagination.

I tested the boundaries. I left a note for myself by the bedside table before sleep: If this is real, the ink will run.

When I woke, the paper was still there, but the page blank.

In the dream, Lizzy stood where I left her the night before, holding the same note in her hands. She asked:

“Why do you keep doing this to me?”

And I—God help me—said:

“Because I cannot bear a world without you.”

She folded the note into her mouth and swallowed it whole.

When I woke, I could taste paper and ink in my mouth.

A philosopher named Théophile Morel once wrote: “The moment a thought is written, it begins to eat its author.”

I think I understand him now.

Still, I write. The act itself might be the tether between worlds.

Journal ’89 — Entry #193

I have discovered a method to sustain the veil.

It happened accidentally: on the night I fell asleep in my chair with the candle still burning. When I slipped under, the forest appeared almost lucid, like looking through pond water.

Lizzy was crouched among the mushrooms. They pulsed faintly, as if they were communicating.

This time, I did not call her name. I did not interfere. I simply watched from afar.

Usually, when I become aware I’m dreaming, the world collapses and I wake. But this time, it persisted— each detail crystalline: the silver thread of a spider web, the rustling of the leaves, the faint smell of brownies.

(Note: Perhaps the composition of the candle creates the bridge between worlds? The wax mixed with mineral rocks and herbs of obscure provenance. Look into it!)

But then Lizzy turned around. “You always try,” she said again,almost kindly, “but you never can.”

I told her I wasn’t trying. I was only observing.

She smiled with the sadness of knowing, and said: “You think the outcome is yours to write."

When I woke, my room smelled of iron and damp soil. The candle was out, the wax pooled down the desk and hardened like melted bone. My nose was bleeding.

I slept again that evening, deliberately, to test the hypothesis. It worked. Each night since, I’ve remained longer.

But I am noticing a peculiar side effect: I am thinner now, weary, my hands trembling. The pears I forgot on the counter no longer rot.

I think—no, I’m certain—that if I stay long enough, I could step through entirely.

And perhaps then, Lizzy wouldn’t disappear. Perhaps I can do something to change it. I could keep her with us.

Journal ‘89 – Entry #216

Each dream begun at a different point in the past. Sometimes right before Elisabetta’s disappearance, sometimes sooner.

I’ve tried changing the variables as if I could edit fate itself. I begged her not to go. I hid her shoes in the house. I ran ahead and blocked the path, even done nothing at all.

It makes no difference. She always disappears.

Journal ‘89 – Entry #217

I began talking directly to her. It feels foolish, but I can’t stop.

“Tell me what I missed, Lizzy,” I told her last night.

When I woke, I heard a faint humming in the chimney again— clearly, her humming — the same old melody that began all of this.

It is clear now: There is no waking world, only pauses between loops!!!

(NOTE: For some reason, Marie is never present in these dreams, or when she is, her face is blurred, as though she doesn't really exist in this realm.)

Journal '89 Entry #229

I woke in my chair, my fingers stained with soil and dry ink.

I woke with a certain realization. It is not Lizzy who is trapped — it is I.

She vanishes in every world because she must.

To end the loop, one must stop writing it.

I can not save Lizzy, but perhaps I can still save myself.

From what? I'm not quite sure, but the only way to get out of this madness is by accepting the fact that Lizzy is gone and I could have done nothing differently to save her.

Perhaps some souls are written in negative space — defined only by absence. And never to be disturbed.

What arrogance I lived with, believing that I can challenge fate, and that I am intellectual enough to perceive parallel realities and exist simultaneously in all of them...

This is my final entry. I will place this journal in the bottom drawer, and lock it away.

I thought about Marie. For a moment, I considered reaching out to her. But then I remembered her expression the day they took her away: that utter disappointment in me. So I’ll do what I always did best: stay silent.

Life is not cruel; it is merely consistent. It is humanity that stains existence.

I will return to my lectures, to grading papers— the gray rhythm of my ordinary life. And pray that sleep, at last, will be dreamless.

Postscript

Editor’s note, 1994: The entries are inconsistent and cease abruptly. Some entries appear to be written by two different hands.

The journal was found in the bottom drawer of Marcel D——’s desk, sealed with wax.

The house at Saint-Liège has since been abandoned; reports mention faint humming audible from the chimney, even when bricked shut.

This story is part of a series called "The Veilwood Tales". A collection of short stories about Marie and Elisabetta— two sisters separated by the veil of a faerie realm, each story was inspired by Vocal challenge prompts.

For this story, I reached back to the character of Marcel who appeared in the very first story. I hope you get a grasp of his personality through his journal entries, and understand some of his motifs from the "The summer that never ended" and hopefully it provides more understanding of the events, as well as the actions of Marcel.

Saint-Liège is a made up town, that I named after Hubert of Liège a.k.a. Saint Hubertus, the patron saint of hunters. Some say he's the patron of the forest itself due to his legend, and is associated with forest workers, hunting dogs, and archers. As a forest worker myself who's writing stories that are placed in a magical forest, it seemed perfect to use him as the name giver of an imaginary place.

Thank you for reading these stories, and the kind support and encouragement I received from so many of you to keep writing this cycle. ❤️ It really means a lot to me!