JOURNAL OF ARTHUR PIKE Recovered from the banks of Lake Graft, water-stained and partially illegible
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ENTRY 1: July 2nd I went fishing today. Haven't had a bite in weeks. Thought maybe Graft Hollow would surprise me. Not supposed to fish there, locals say it's cursed. Superstition. But fish don't care about stories. They care about bait.
I launched the skiff at dawn. Water was smooth as glass. No wind, no birds. Caught something around noon. Big.
Real big.
Didn't see it at first. It pulled harder than anything I've ever fought. Nearly snapped the rod. Then it just... stopped. Like it let me win.
Pulled it in.
Not a fish. Or maybe it was. Pale. Soft. Translucent skin. No gills. No mouth. Just these two eyes—black, smoking pits—right in its chest. And something else, a slit, sewn shut with bone.
I dropped the rod. Thing sank back into the lake.
But I swear, I heard it speak.
Not with words. With pressure. With meaning.
> Do you want to know what you pulled up?
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ENTRY 2: July 4th Haven't slept.
Every time I close my eyes, I see its eyes. I feel them pressing into my mind. Like it's mapping me. Not just watching. Understanding.
Dreamt of drowning in whispers. Woke up with blood on my pillow. Gums bleeding. My hands... the skin's changing. Looks like fish-scale. Just a little. Probably the light.
I haven't told anyone.
Something's wrong with me.
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ENTRY 3: July 6th I went back.
Lake's different now. Murky. Thick. Air above it looks like it's boiling. I didn't bring the rod.
Found my hook embedded in an old stump. But it blinked when I touched it. Whispered something.
> You pulled up the wrong god.
I left. Ran, actually.
Back in town, people look strange. Familiar faces with... wrong timing. Too-slow blinks. Jaws that seem disconnected.
They whisper when I pass. Don't think they know I can hear.
> He heard the call. He brought it back.
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ENTRY 4: July 7th I threw up a fishhook today.
Not a metaphor. A real, rusted, barbed hook. Just... came up in the sink. My throat is raw.
I haven't eaten in a day. My stomach sounds like it's full of water. I can feel something moving inside. Not gas. Not hunger.
Something's alive in there.
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ENTRY 5: July 9th My reflection doesn't match anymore.
It blinks when I don't. Smiles when I frown. Today it mouthed a word I didn't say.
> Devour.
There are new people in town. I think they're watching me. Or maybe guiding me. I saw one standing in the lake up to his neck. Still. Smiling. Eyes like the thing I caught.
I asked him what he wanted.
He said:
> To welcome you home.
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ENTRY 6: July 11th Went back to the lake.
Fog thick as oil. Water humming like a throat.
I waded in. Something touched my leg. Then my chest.
Then it entered me.
It didn't hurt. It fit.
And then I understood.
We are not the top of the chain. We are not the first to fish.
We were designed to pull. To reach. To invite.
We are bait.
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ENTRY 7: July 12th My skin is translucent. I can see veins I don't remember having. They move. Slightly.
I dream of a tree underwater. Its roots wrap around ruins. Statues of things with too many mouths and no heads. They pray in silence.
I hear them anyway.
> Join us beneath. Where it is quiet. Where it is full.
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ENTRY 8: July 13th I can't stay in the house. The walls breathe. Floor too wet. Ceiling drips things that whisper when they land.
I sleep on the porch now. Lake calls at night.
A choir of bubbles. A liturgy of depth.
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ENTRY 9: July 14th I've begun carving.
Not sure when I started.
Statues. Symbols. Hooks. Fish with human teeth. Eyes like coals. Hands where fins should be.
One carving looked like me. Until it blinked.
I set it on fire.
It screamed.
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ENTRY 10: July 15th I am unravelling.
Memory swims. Thought loops.
I wake up mid-conversation. With myself? With it?
Wrote something on the wall:
> THE LAKE IS A MOUTH AND WE ARE ITS FIRST WORDS
I don't remember writing it. But the paint is still wet.
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ENTRY 11: July 16th I can see them now. In the sky. Behind the clouds. Watching.
Not stars. Not ships. Eyes.
They blink in patterns. Language of the old pressure.
They're waiting.
For me to fish again. For me to open.
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ENTRY 12: July 17th I swallowed a hook on purpose.
Felt right. Felt like prayer.
I bleed clear now. Like the lake.
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ENTRY 13: July 18th I no longer fear it.
I long for it.
The writhing beneath. The true depth.
I was never Arthur Pike. Just a name it wore to learn.
But now it remembers itself. And through me, it awakens.
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FINAL ENTRY: July 19th Gone to the water.
Will not return.
Will not need to.
> THE ONE WHO FISHES IS THE ONE WHO FEEDS THE ONE WHO FEEDS IS THE ONE WHO BECOMES THE ONE WHO BECOMES IS THE ONE WHO BITES
Tell them.
Don't fish the hollow.
Don't fish the hollow.
Don't fish the hollow.