I still don't want to talk about it. But I guess I should. Maybe it'll help. Somehow.
Edmund...that's Gatsby's real name. Edmund Nod. When I got there, with Lyndsay, he was so relieved to see me. He said he'd though the Wolf had gotten me. He wanted to talk to me, wanted to tell me everything, but the doctors said he needed to rest, and that I could see him more the next day. Apparently, he'd spent the day yelling and screaming that he needed to see me, he needed to see me because the Wolf was coming for me.
The next day he was substantially more lucid...but much more distressing. He wanted to spend the whole day talking about Mother. And Lucy. Lucy, our sister that...that we never really knew. He said the Wolf was coming for us, the Big Bad Wolf was on his way, because of our secret. He kept saying that, that it was after us because of our secret.
I wish I'd believed him. I think I did, but something wouldn't let me admit it. He said he didn't know what to do, that maybe telling people would help somehow.
And then he said something strange. He told me that I should post about it on my blog.
I'd never told him about my blog. It's not something you talk to your asylum-bound brother about.
He said that the Wolf had told him about it. Shown it to him. He's told me that the Wolf is on my blog. That it's leaving those notes for me. He told me that the Wolf is all around us, always watching. Always scratching at our doors, our windows, and staring in, breathing in our secrets, our shames and fears and all the little lies we tell ourselves. He says it has many names, but that for him it will always be the Big Bad Wolf. I guess it makes sense, because it huffs and it puffs and it gets in your head, breaks through your brick house and it exposes everything you thought was so safely guarded, so deeply protected.
He spoke about this to me every day, every day for a week, because I kept going back to him, kept listening to him talk, and I ignored how uneasy I felt. I ignored how more and more I was starting to realize he was right. Because I'm a coward. A total, complete coward. I never faced what she did to us, or what we did to her. I never tried to get help, not beyond the most minor problem I had.
And now he's dead. The braver of the two of us. The stronger of the two of us, the one who actually faced his problems. Trying to get better, to understand and come to terms with what we did rather than filing it away and refusing to talk about it. He's gone and it's my fault.
On the last day, I came to the front desk, and asked to meet my brother. Things started as normal, orderlies came and went, one of the nurses went to see if he was feeling up to it.
Then, panic. It was like hitting a bee hive with a baseball bat. Nurses and doctors and orderlies were everywhere, and I saw a stretcher being rushed up the hall, and I asked the secretary what was going on, and she gave me a weak, forced smile and said she was trying to find that out, but I could tell they just didn't want to tell me.
But I found out. I got to watch as they performed emergency surgery on him. He looked at me, watched me the entire time.
Something had savaged him. Like a wild animal attack. They said his room was full of muddy pawprints and black fur, but there was no sign of entry. No holes that could admit an animal this large.
I posted, then, about our mother. I hope it would magically save him.
But it didn't. Less than a day after I posted that, he died in his sleep. I was too late. Too lave to save him, if I could. Too late to save myself.
The scratching at my window is back. If I'm quick enough, I can almost see it looking in.
I don't know what to do. I don't know what this is, or if I can outrun it.
Lyndsay knows. She's been trying to look things up. I didn't want to get her involved. She's my best friend. What if it goes after her, too? Even if she doesn't have skeletons in her closet...what if she's guilty by association? I don't know how this works.
I wish I knew how this worked.