The Jersey Devil Diaries “Cannon Fire” [Book Two, Entry #153]

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“Cannon Fire”

Book Two

November 13, 1835 (Entry #153)

Oh, how the time passes — 100 years since the day I was born. Ironically, 100 years since the day I died too. 

It hasn’t gotten any easier. I spend most of my time hidden away in the darkness. The pinelands or something, the locals call it. They’re so simple. Every few weeks, a group comes poking around in the forest, looking for that next shot of adrenaline, I assume. The bump in the night is better than the local coffeehouses, and it’s free. Bunch of junkies — all of them.

A few years back I let one see me. I was kind of sick of hiding, and I just wanted to see what they’d do. It’s lonely, but I’ve heard the stories. What they say about me. What they think I… what I did to my family. It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t… it’s fine. Now isn’t the time.

Anyway, Stefan or Stewart or something they called him. I slowly swooped down from overhead, tried to talk to the guy. Hovered a safe distance away. At least, I thought it was safe. He sparked up this giant machine, and soon I couldn’t see anything but a bright light. I heard a loud bang, and this ball came hurtling toward me. It hit me but didn’t hurt. I have powers I don’t even understand. Black magic, or whatever these simple people call it.

I flew off and felt a rush of excitement. I couldn’t wait to spook another one. Only a few weeks later, some Frenchman came wandering into the woods. Something bone parts, I don’t know. I spooked him too. Gave him a good fright. It felt good, until I realized they thrive off of it. 

They’ll call you the monster to their friends and family, but who’s hunting who? The more terrifying the monster, the better the hunt, so they make up stories. Tall tales that don’t exist. And the stronger the monster, the longer the hunt lasts. The never-ending pursuit, that’s what they want. Once it’s over, once the head’s on the wall, so to speak, they’re onto the next monster. A bigger one this time. A stronger one.

I’m getting off track. Exactly 100 years — 100 years since the day I entered this cruel, miserable world. Oh, if someone ever finds this journal they’d surely understand. It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t… it’s fine. Now isn’t the time.

Worst,

The Devil’s Prisoner

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