Journal Entry 78 - June 11th, 1886 – 12:14 a.m.
Earlier this evening, after supper, the dining room fell uncomfortably silent. Only the crickets outside were heard amidst the occasional scraping of silverware against porcelain. Mrs. Ramsey—on the precipice of being driven mad by the quiet table—began to tell tales about the little dell they call ‘Spookinite Valley.’ Her husband shook his head while he listened (though I wonder if he were lying to himself out of fear). She then said something that reminded me of the riddle. At first, I was unsure which line—but then, I recalled the one: ‘Ye will see soaring high the accursed harbinger.’ In her soft yet thoughtful voice, she recounted a legend about a flying beast, whose name few knew. She, on the contrary, had heard the name whispered in her girlhood many decades ago. And that name, she says, is ‘Nyghtmärr.’
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