About Me

I am not Diana Crafton, I am Diana Blake, and these journals have started me down the path to discovering who I really am and what has apparently plagued my family for over a century. Starting today, I am documenting everything I find, and I swear, I will find out what happened to my mother, father, and ancestors if it is the last thing I do. As I stumble through this process (some of the documents are in Latin or Sumerian), follow my blog, and my social media for updates.

Hello, if you are reading this, something in my blog must have caught your eye, so here goes. Hmmm, where do I begin? My name is Diana Blake, although many may know me as Diana Crafton (we will get to that later). My favorite movie is Romancing the Stone, I was born in the backseat of a car a few miles outside Providence, Rhode Island (my mother, Mindy’s, hometown though she rarely spoke of it), oh, and I have never met my father. I also have never accomplished the monumental task of obtaining any information about him from my mother (keeping secrets was her chosen craft and she loved it).

I would describe my childhood as a mobile one. My mother and I moved around a lot. It seemed as soon as we were settled in one place, we had to pack up and move again. It was almost like we were avoiding something. We were a flashlight family. No, literally, my mother was petrified of the dark, and always had a flashlight on her person. She made me carry one too. We always had a stockpile of them lying around just in case.

    

Now I know what you’re thinking, how could a serial new-girl-in-town with an extremely nyctophobic mother possibly have a social life? You guessed it, I didn’t. My mother home schooled me, so we could sleep during the day. Mother said that we had to be the most alert at night. I didn’t begin to think that there was something wrong with her until I was in my teens and unfortunately, that may have been too late.

As you well know, teens can be…rebellious and I was no different. One night, I threw a terrible tantrum and ran away (for three days), thinking I was teaching her a lesson. Soon, I realized that was a huge mistake, as the day I got back was the worst day of my life. I knew something was wrong as soon as I entered the house when my nose was overtaken by a foul stench. It was horrible, and worst of all, I had no idea what it was. The smell was so bad that it made my eyes water. 

I panicked, and I called out for my mother, but was met with silence. I remember finding that strange, as her car was in the driveway; she had to be home. That is when it happened; I flipped on the light switch and darkness; for some reason, the house didn’t have power. Then I saw it. Off, in the kitchen, I saw my reflection in my mother’s bulging eyes. Her body slumped against the stove. I screamed, but it was too late. Now I am stuck with her look of pure terror scorched into my nightmares.

From there, my life spiraled downward, as I spent the next two years in foster care. The couple was nice and all, but they were rarely around, leaving me the freedom to stay in the light as a way to honor my mother. I did that until I turned 18, and was finally able to leave the system (and I did that in style).

Unbeknownst to me, my mother had quite a sum of money tucked away, and was bequeathed a hefty inheritance when I turned 18. I also received three strange journals, and a peculiar message that read, Beware the cycle of three, always three. First: The mystery/the church/the cult. Second: The stone/the Haunter/the voices. Third: The odor/the dark/the three lobed burning eye, scribbled on a piece of parchment. What the hell did that mean?

At first, I didn’t care; all I cared about was money and freedom, something that changed when I started dissecting the journals a few weeks ago. These journals are odd, all having varying ages and markings. The oldest, written by someone named Robert Blake, has to be over one hundred years old. It is tattered and worn, full of strange accounts about some dark figure. I would say that the next one would be 50-to-60 years old. This journal was written by someone named, Stefan-Kingston Blake, and incredibly has some of the same drawings and markings inside.

A man named Dante Blake wrote the least worn volume, and again, it features many of the same details that the first two have. There is something weird about that journal, as I feel a deep connection to it. There is an inscription on the cover, which reads a warning to my daughter Diana, from her loving father, could this Diana be me? I often wondered about my father, could I have finally found a connection? After all, Crafton was my mother’s maiden name. Yes, it has to be.