First entry

I've been living in the Mistlands for a little over two weeks in a quaint little town that only appears in some maps. The locals call it Apple Hill because the land used to be full of apple trees, and it still is. The thing is that the trees now produce something… Different.

I'm a doctor by trade, and a man of science through and through, so when the news came to the capital, I offered to come here, away from my comfortable practice, my office and any of my tools that I couldn't fit in a suitcase. This was supposed to be a short trip, nothing more than a quick examination where I could gather enough information to write a satisfying report on the situation, help some people and satiate my curiosity.

No one had warned me about what I can only refer to as the "meat fruits" for the time being. There's no one to blame for that, because who would have believed that the trees were growing functioning organs? Breathing lungs, blinking eyes and beating hearts at the end of the darkest wood I have ever seen in all of my years. They stop working once harvested, and they bleed this dense, clear substance that smells like honey.

The children love it.

I refuse to feel any shame at the fact that I vomited the first time I saw a young boy, barely school age, sucking on an eyeball. His smile, dear God, will possibly haunt me for the rest of my days. "But doctor Locke", a woman told me on the third day of my stay, "how can we deprive our little ones from such a small happiness?".

How indeed. I had replied something about bringing actual food from another town while the situation remained unsolved, at least to avoid this pseudo-cannibalism that even some adults indulged in whenever they thought no one was looking. And then the woman told me something that shook me to my very core.

No one could leave.

At first I laughed. Then I walked to the forest, following the same dirt path I had taken to find the town in the first place. I walked in a straight line – a fact I would bet my mask on, and found myself back right at the entrance of Apple Hill. There was a small chance of me taking a wrong turn, of the mist making me lose my way. I dared not think of sorcery then, for it would be heresy to even entertain the thought.

Two unsuccessful attempts soon followed. The locals regarded me with pity, and I finally understood why their welcome had felt so bittersweet. We were trapped, hostages of forces I have yet to understand. I've given up on my efforts of writing a coherent report and now I resort to recording my days as they go, whenever I remember to or muster enough mental fortitude to bring myself to do so.

My name is Samuel Locke, and I fear this will be my final resting place. May God have mercy on my soul.