From the Diary of:
Elizabeth Birch
Fifteenth, July 1948

I purchased this, and so I might as well put it to use.

I haven’t seen my parents at all this summer. If there have been any letters I haven’t received them. Not that it matters. My father’s likely been lazing around the house pretending he’s doing freelance work for the Ministry, and my mother’s probably still hard at work planning charity parties with her half-blood friends for causes that no-one honestly cares about, but everyone has to nod understandingly to. Widows and Orphans and Wastes from poor families. Nothing about them ever changes.

Things here are a bit different. As I write these words I find myself confined to my new bedroom on the fourth floor, awaiting my grandmother’s return. I’ve always despised this wing, and that awful ghost has been creeping about it incessantly. I’ll be walking down the hall, or simply sitting at my desk as I am now, and feel a shock through my heart like a bitter wind, only to find that she has passed through me. She seems to enjoy seeking me out just for this. The creature never speaks to me. It is so terribly unnerving to sit awake at night and find her watching me in silence, just knowing that she is the only one stirring. Worse still is the sound of her screams. They are never words, just atrocious Banshee-like sounds that echo through the quiet of the castle. Too often she is drawn to doing this just as grandfather has his fits, and the terrible din that fills the halls between the two of them crying out together is not a thing to be easily endured. Grandmother never speaks of it. I’ve thought it wise to follow her queue on this, and so have kept my silence as well. It is never a wise thing to offer her dissent when not invited to do so. She’s been very close of late, even more so than is usual. Three full meals might pass without her speaking to me at all. This does not seem so ill a thing, though. If she does not speak to me, it means that she has found no grounds for complaint.

When she arrives home today we are to resume spell practice, I think. It will be nice to have my mind occupied with something, or at least something more. I’ve been set to work for the past week memorizing our family tree. It was of slight interest at first. The history carried some intriguing stories, but to be truthful now it seems nothing more than a long tedium of blurred names. I know that this must seem ungrateful. Our history ought to be a source of pride, as we could not carry our name with honour were it not for it, but it is tiresome none-the-less, and this boredom breeds unpleasant dreams. If I sit too long I tend to fall asleep, and find myself in places that I do not wish to be. Any change at all would seem a pleasant one.