Please note that as I write this, the clock has struck two hours past midnight, I do not know the date. My name is Isidore Whitaker and this is my home. My family has lived here ever since this house was built. No progeny have I to pass it onto, so I must insist that it still is mine. Therefore, as landlord, it is my right to decide who may reside in my domicile. Over the years, I have evicted many who dared to challenge my birthright when they finally came face to face with me. A new tenant has just arrived, but I haven't introduced myself to him as of yet. He's been bringing in books from the library, I've noticed. I wonder if he fancies the same sort of literature that I do.

Lately, I fear that I am not alone up here in my study. I see no one, yet I feel eyes watching me. Neither my tenant nor his boyfriend come to my room, so I know 'tis not them. This happens every day now, but when I look I see nothing but darkness. I want to tell someone, but I dare not. I see no reason to give people another poor opinion of me.

I was always considered strange by the townsfolk. Mostly, this was due to the fact I was twenty-one years and still unmarried. Women were creatures I preferred to do without, you see. Even now, I refuse to have female tenants and promptly inform them of this fact. Once, I was engaged to a young woman, not by my own choice, but because my parents had willed it. When I told her I would have nothing to do with her, she deemed me unfit to live a life without her. I never should have accepted that box of cookies she baked for me...

The sound of a quill pen hitting a wooden desk permeates the empty attic room. The only things not covered in dust are the writing desk, a typewriter, and a small plush toy that sits on the stool in front of it.