Entry 1

On the seventh day of snow, there came a dainty tapping on me door. I sat breathing, for I feared it were that pig-faced Lieutenant Hadar come to drag me back to the Hell I ran from. But if it weren’t a lady with raven dark hair that fell down to a tiny waist. Skin white as the snow. Only slippers on her feet, and robed in fine white linen. But I didn’t touch her, not on this day, I swear it on cold iron.