I was cleaning up in Marcus’s office and came across a weird page. It looks like a Google Maps picture of a river in Germany called the Radau. There’s writing all up and down it in German but it’s not Marcus’s handwriting, it’s someone else’s and it’s too swirly and florid for me to make out.

I had a look around and couldn’t find anything connecting the Radau to the Tree Walker, the Black Forest or anything else to do with this whole…thing that I can’t even find a word to describe. Living nightmare sounds too cliché. Fiasco doesn’t go far enough.

There’s been no change in Marcus’s condition. There’s a specialist coming by this weekend to look at him, so maybe he can give me an idea of when he’ll wake up. Other than that, nothing to report.



This place has too many nooks and crannies. No matter how good the lighting is, there’s always just enough shadows to fill me with a kind of dreading doubt as I walk around Marcus’s cathedral to utter resignation . Vaulted ceilings full of hot air and the stagnant energy of the echoes of all his guffawing gusto. Enough spare rooms, empty but for the dust that cakes them, to house several families, but Laura’s room is a pristinely-kept shrine; a mausoleum with no cadaver save for Marcus’s drive and will. A house of luxury for the dead, a distant landmark for the living.

Huh. I can be almost poetic when I’m bitching someone out.

No major changes to Marcus’s condition but I’m obliged to make some vain effort to keep you all updated. So, yeah, fragile but stable. But, then again, wasn’t he like that anyway?


Marcus’s condition is the same. Fragile, but he’s not getting any better or worse.

I always thought Marcus was deluding himself about the Tree Walker not crossing the line of thistle and weeds. The crazy furniture rearrangement thing that happened seemed to add weight to my theory but, earlier today, I got confirmation, of a sort.

I went upstairs to check on Marcus and the Tree Walker was in the room. He was hunched over, being far too tall for the low ceiling in Marcus’s room. He was staring at Marcus, in so far as a sightless being can stare, but what worries me is that he didn’t do anything else. He just stood there, staring. He didn’t even notice I was there and, after a few minutes of watching them both, I retreated back to the kitchen to make a sandwich.

Just how intelligent is the Tree Walker? Is it intelligent enough to understand that there’s more pleasure to be taken from prolonging its victim’s pain? Is it so unintelligent that it can’t understand that Marcus’s belief in the sanctity of “his domain” doesn’t stop him from killing him? Is it so intelligent that we can’t even comprehend why it would choose to let Marcus live?


Marcus left a few instructions for any eventualities in which he couldn’t access this blog but wasn’t dead. I was to keep you all updated on his condition, for one thing. He’s fragile. He’s on a lot of machines. I don’t like spending too much time in his room, to be honest. I don’t like all the tubes and wires.

He also left instructions to use this blog to vent if I want, but not to look through it. What a fool. He thinks I don’t know already. I’ve been coming here almost every day for nearly four years and he thinks he’s been sly and cunning enough to keep me out of his trouble? I know all about his friend from the Black Forest. He thinks he’s been clever to keep me safe. He can’t even figure out how to get a jar of aniseed balls down from the top of the fridge without me noticing. I’ve got my own problems with the Tree Walker, alright, but I deal with them and keep up my work. It helps that Winston pays me enough that I can survive just working for Marcus.

Anyway, that’s my obligations to Marcus made for today. I’ll keep you all posted.


Um, this is Hannah, Marcus’s nurse. He gave me the login details to this blog a couple months back in case something happened to him. Which it obviously has, otherwise I wouldn’t be posting here.

Marcus is in a coma. A few nights ago, he drank heavily for several hours before trying to drive off his property in his specially-fitted car. Unfortunately, he crashed into a tree. Well…that’s not entirely definite. The damage to the car and to Marcus were both consistent with hitting a tree, the least of all being the front of the car being more or less wrapped around a tree. Sort of. That’s the way the bonnet looks, is what I’m trying to say. Only…well, there’s no tree where Marcus crashed. It was in the middle of his garden.

Yeah, I know that sounds crazy but that’s what happened. Everyone is baffled. Well, except Marcus. He’s in a coma. And me, but that’s another story.

Anyway, yeah, to whoever’s reading this, that’s what happened. Marcus is still being cared for here at the mansion. It’s expensive but Marcus can foot the bill. Or well, technically, I guess I’m footing the bill, since Marcus’s legal documents specify that in the event of his death or incapacitation, I have power of attorney. But it’s all the same, really. At any rate, I’m living in the house full time until Marcus wakes up. I’m not going to awkwardly correct myself this time. I know Marcus will wake up. He’s too stubborn to stay in a coma. He’ll probably get up one of these days and ask me why I didn’t wake him from his nap.

Things That Go Bump In The Night

He decided to let me get online properly today. He probably wants to have proof of his latest escapades so he can brag and gloat about fucking with the old guy’s head to all his monster buddies. Oh yeah, I’m drunk. Spellcheck is a wonderful tool, just like that insipid sycamore lurking in my goddamn forest.

He gave me another nightmare tonight. I was sitting in my living room with Laura, cuddled up under a blanket, watching a movie, when suddenly the power went. Without the lights, the room was cast in an eerie dark blue and I realised I was alone. Or not. I looked out the door to the hall and saw the Tree Walker lurching towards me. Rather than wait for him to come in and catch me, I started running towards the window, but the blanket started wrapping itself around me and pinning me to the ceiling like it was being manipulated by a poltergeist or some other generic horror movie monster, so I had to claw my way across the ceiling to the living room window and pull myself out to escape.

Once again, my back smacking against concrete served as a wake-up call.

Luckily I was downstairs this time but there was a seemingly localised thunderstorm raging right above my head and the rain was pelting down. Of course, I’d learned from my previous mistakes and, despite the security upgrade, I was able to let myself back into the house, where I discovered the most infuriating thing.

My furniture has been rearranged.

All the kitchen furniture is in my bedroom, my bedroom furniture is in the living room, the living room furniture is in the bathroom, the bathroom furniture is in the library, the library furniture is in the pantry, the pantry furniture is in my office and my office furniture is in the kitchen. I haven’t even looked upstairs yet.

He’s just taunting me now. He took everything from me, everything I’ve ever loved or cared about. He crippled me like an animal. He won’t give me a single restless night’s sleep. Twice, he made me crawl around on the ground like a worm on my own property. In my domain. Thistle and weeds my ass. He’s broken me, humiliated me and now he’s taunting me. He’s doing these things just because he can.

Or maybe not. Maybe he’s not so easy to rationalise and understand. Maybe he’s so different to us that rearranging my furniture is worse than repeatedly ruining my life to him. Maybe he considers this escalation. I don’t give a fuck. I just don’t care anymore. He won’t leave me alone. He’s so intent on ruining my life that he won’t even let me have furniture arrangements that I like. My life is so subservient to his whims I can’t even have that triviality. Fuck this. Fuck everything. I’m going to go drink myself into oblivion, for all the good it will do me. He’s probably waiting for me there.