October 27, 1933

Dear Diary, 

     Excellent news this Friday! My portrait came in. I still don’t know how Mother convinced her husband to get it for me. I posed for it the whole of the summer. And what an odd Dear summer that was! You must remember the ailments I spoke of. The long, warm months of summer and the enchanting days of September gone to headaches, dizziness - and how tired I always felt! But all that is past. I have no more complaints to speak of. Nothing bothers me now and I have nothing to do the remainder of this autumn and the whole winter but to admire my portrait. I wish, diary, that you could see it. It’s truly lifelike if I say so myself. I could not be happier with it. It is of me in my favorite red dress and matching hat, standing against my bedroom door, my arms folded, and a - dare I say - proud expression on my face. I hope, dear diary, that I may preserve this painting long after I am gone. I want always to be remembered like this. I look serene. I look healthy. I hope that, after I am buried, my mother and brother will still see me as I am in the portrait; young, glowing, proud, and particularly headstrong. Would it be too morbid, diary, or too macabre of me to be frankly honest and admit that I had often thought of death when I was unwell? I had spells that induced me to be bedridden, and in those dreary moments, I thought I would never recover. I even started making my peace with the idea and began to think of death as nothing but a long, restful, final sleep. But, so as no not to end on such an abysmal note, you can see that I did indeed recover. I like to believe it meant that I was meant for some reason or another. But what that reason is I still don’t know. Oh, but will have to end here. I believe Mother is calling me.

October 28, 1933

Dear Diary, 

     I’m getting concerned about Mother. Last night when she called for me she had such a strange expression on her face. She looked pale and could scarcely let out a word. I worry she’s getting ill, for she seemed also to be perspiring at her forehead. I tried comforting her but she absolutely refused my company. Will keep a vigilant eye on her to see what the causes are and to see if she improves. If she doesn’t, or if she worsens, I’ll have to write a letter to my brother. Perhaps I’ll write to him anyway. I miss Benjamin. My dear brother and I were always close and I’ve missed him exceedingly since he moved to New York. I must confess, diary, that I blame Mother’s husband for his leaving us. Thomas and Benjamin always had a strained relationship, ever since Mother married him when we were young children shortly after our father’s death. Too shortly, we used to whisper to ourselves. But I don’t want to sully Mother with such speech, especially not within the pages of my beloved book. Suffice it to say, that their relationship - and indeed my relationship with him as well - has always been difficult and Benjamin left for New York as soon as he was able. But don’t let’s dwell on sad things. Will be going to check on Mother now. Report back tomorrow.

October 29, 1933

Dear Diary,

    Strange things are happening in the house. This morning, as Mother and her husband were having their breakfast, a visitor appeared. It was a rather tall man in a brown coat. He seemed kind, but we weren’t introduced as I kept to my room. I did hear murmurs, though. Soft murmurs and I must admit I did steal a look at what was happening. The visitor and Timothy seemed to be in an intense, private conversation, and it wasn’t long before the man led Timothy away. It is now late into the night, and Timothy hasn’t been back since then. Mother is taking the shock poorly. She locked herself in her room after he left and hasn’t come out since, not even for a meal. I’ve gone to check on her, but she pleads me to leave her alone. However, I stay close to her room, and I can hear her muttering to herself and pacing the room. It worries me. I fear I may have to send a post to Benjiamn after all. I’ve never seen her like this. If I listen closely enough, I can hear her weeping and apologizing to me, mentioning my past ailments from the summer. But why she should apologize for that, I wonder? Guilt must be playing on her. You see, diary, when I had started feeling ill I would inform her of it, but she would always assure me that I would get well again in due time. Perhaps she didn’t take my concerns as strongly as she should have. But you see, she was right. I’m better now. So why all the fuss now?

October 30, 1933

Dear Diary, 

     Until now, I had only spoken of Timothy’s strenuous relationship with my brother, and merely alluded to our own … challenging relationship. Until now I wouldn’t have dared bring it up, out of respect for Mother, but certain events have transpired that have made me think otherwise. It’s true that while Benjamin had carried the brunt of it while he lived at home, my mother’s husband and I never had a warm or even cordial relationship. Mother and he were married nine months after Father’s death, and from the start, he insisted on full authority. He wanted us, especially Mother, to bend to his every word and wanted my brother and I to look at him as our father. Benjamin and I never could, as we loved our late father far too much to view anyone else in his place. He loved us dearly, too, and left both Benjamin and me a hearty sum of inheritance. Although, I would trade in all that money if it would allow me to have my father back. I was young when he died, not yet ten years old, my brother was twelve, and though ten years have gone by since his passing, I still dream and remember his face, his warm smile, and his hearty laugh. I hope that when my time comes, he is the one that helps me cross to the other side. But now on to the event, and the reason why I am writing this all down. A new day has come and is nearly gone and Timothy has still not returned. Mother is beside herself, and we had another visit from the man who came by yesterday. He and Mother were deep in talk (I did not hear much, as again I kept to my room) but it seems that Timothy is in serious trouble. Mother was anxious, and seemed eager to protect her husband. I did witness that the man himself noticed this, as he left seemingly cross with Mother. I saw her later muttering around and pacing the kitchen. It seems that she has taken to doing that. It infuriates me to see her like this. She always wanted to protect Timothy, to appease him, and his short tempers. He is a cruel man, who subjected all of us to his outbursts. Even still, Mother would always defend him. She let him have his way with anything, and because of this, my only beloved brother left me here. I do not blame Benjiman for going, for when he did the house was quiet for a time. But it was a brief time. And soon I became the target. It is no thanks to him - or rather in spite of him - that I am still here. He refused to get me any treatment, and instilled in Mother that my sickness was trivial, and would soon pass. And she followed his example as always. Why must she always protect him? Why must she give in? Don’t I, as her child, deserve her protection as well? Now she’s doing it once more - whatever it is this vile man has done. Must try and talk some sense into her. 

The Maine Weekly Press

October 31, 1933

Mother of Poisoned Young Lady Sent to Mental Asylum after Confession 

Helen Park, the mother of Aemilia Hudson, the nineteen-year-old lady who was poisoned by her stepfather, has been sent to a mental asylum after confessing that she was aware her husband had been poisoning her daughter. Timothy Park was found guilty of poisoning the young lady shortly after Miss Hudson's death on the 26th of October. A quick investigation had begun at the behest of the lady's brother, Benjamin Hudson, after he received a letter from his late sister informing him she was ill, and that she believed her stepfather to be the cause. Mr. Park was arrested on the 30th, after which Mrs. Park maintained her ignorance of the crime. It is alleged that Mr. Park murdered Miss Hudson to claim an inheritance left to her by her late father. However, this morning she turned herself in to the police, showing obvious signs of mental disturbance. She claimed to the police that she had begun seeing her daughter's ghost. She stated that she would see her daughter's phantom walking around her bedroom, would approach her in her own bedroom, and had seen the young woman writing in her old diary. Mrs. Park was adamant that her daughter was punishing her from beyond the grave, which greatly bothered the police. Mrs. Park also claimed that she could see her daughter watching her from behind the lady's new portrait and that when the detective returned the day after her husband was arrested she decided to confess and take her own life. This alarmed the police and they placed her in the custody of nearby mental facilities. A trial to determine her complicity and aid in the crime is set to ensue once officials deem her stable enough to appear in court.

October 20, 1933

Dearest Benji, 

     I hope you don't mind my using your old nickname. It's been too long, my dearest brother, since I've used it. Too long, I'm afraid, and now I feel it may be the last time I ever do. I'm writing to you now under dire circumstances. I'm unwell, Benji, and I don't think I'll have long to live. I'm writing to you in a hurry, to beg you for one final favor. Timothy finally got me, Benjamin. Back in the summer, he found out about our plans to have me move in with you early next year. I don't know how. He must've read my diary. That's the only place I would mention it. When he discovered it he was furious. He threw dishes and hit Mother. The next day, however, he was calm as ever, and I was suspicious. It took months, but I finally found out the truth. He's been poisoning me, Benji. And with Mother's help, too. I found the arsenic locked up in his study and that same night I saw Mother add the same bottle to my tea. By that time I was too weak to do anything anymore. Lord knows how long they've been doing it. I know I should have written sooner, but they both made me believe I was absurd for believing my illness to be so severe. Now there's no hope left. I'm fading fast. I'm using my last strength to ask that you bring Timothy to justice. My own dear Benji, my beloved brother, you've always been there for me and have protected me. Protect me now. Insist on an autopsy. I'm certain Timothy will fight it, Mother, too, I'm sure, but that in and of itself will raise even your suspicions. As for my funeral, all I care about is that you play my favorite jazz, you dress me in my favorite red dress with the matching hat, and you show the new portrait that should arrive shortly. I'm sorry, Benjamin, to be writing under such dreary conditions, but don't worry about me. The only grievance I bear is towards Mother. We always knew Timothy was a horrid, despicable man, who has been sniveling around my inheritance now that I’ve got a year to come into it. We always did wonder how Mother could put up with him. But now I see Mother is just as horrible as he is. Worse. My own mother helped kill me, Benjamin. But don't quarrel with her about it. I'll ensure her conscience gets her myself, no matter how long it takes. Even if I have to wait until the afterlife to do it. Until we meet again, my dear brother. 

Your eternal sister, in this life and the next,  

Millie