Several years ago, I was charged with doing something.
Something important.
Something...
Something.
My memory is so muddled. I don't know anymore.
I can barely remember the days I spent with Traveller, hiding in his hair. I recall him getting beaten up a lot, and... something... something being stolen... constantly... but I'll be damned if I know what.
He was a rascal, that man.
But I think I liked him.
And I think I felt bad for doing... something... to him.
I don't remember.
Why am I talking about all this?
Perhaps I'm just expressing my regrets before I die. I don't know what else could possibly happen at this point.
We walked, Fynn and I, for miles. Frightened as we were by the still air and the lack of noise, I'm pretty certain we were both also bored stiff. There was nothing of interest: no spiralling stalctites or stalagmites, no precious jewels to illuminate with brown magic, no intricate cave paintings or sculptures to betray the origins of this place. Just a path, a pair of idiots, and a diary walking behind them.
At some point Fynn gave up and went to sleep. I kept watch for a while, but, in time, I too gave up. We rested in a nook formed of rock.
Time passed.
I woke up again.
The cave was noticeably brighter. And it had nothing to do with Fynn's little ball of magic, which had gone out for the first time.
I dared open my eyes, extricating myself from Fynn's hands to look around.
We were surrounded by ghosts.
They floated in utter silence, watching over us with empty white eye sockets, their translucent limbs dangling limp at their sides. Despite varying sizes and builds they were all ambiguous, as ghosts tend to be, not revealing who or what they may have originally been. Each exhibited a pale, unhealthy glow.
The silence was broken when one of them spotted me. It shrieked in a foreign tongue, and as the others caught on they, too, filled the tunnel with their furious vocals. Soon Fynn added to the confusion, screaming as he caught sight of the spectres for the first time. Covering my ears was not nearly enough to block out the din.
The ghosts vanished. Fynn clambered to his feet and tried to run, but unseen hands tugged him into the air. I fell from his hands. They did not grasp me, no ghost would dare touch a regulator directly, but something - a coconut shell? - scooped me up and locked me away. I was carried, jostled violently, for a long, long time.
The only thing I could do is concentrate on leading this diary along behind the procession of ghosts, trying hard not to focus on Fynn's grim wail. Eventually even that noise disappeared as Fynn and I were separated.
I don't know where I am, other than being locked away in a small, confined space. The diary is somewhere nearby; I'm writing in it without seeing the words. It's the only thing I can do without going half mad with fright.
Ghosts don't like regulators.
No, they don't like regulators one bit.
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