There were not many steps. I had counted them a thousand times, both going up and coming down, but I never arrived at the same number twice. Now, shrouded in the mists of memory, it seems to me that it was many staircases in one, the incarnation of all staircases in the steps leading up to the third floor room where I spent my first year of college.

Pictures exist in my mind of that room, confused with other memories of other rooms I spent time in. The radiator under the dormer window, the posters I stared at for hours, the walls that had been repainted so many times that chunks of paint came off the wall with tape.

Why those steps, that room, haunt me I do not know. Perhaps the odd shape of the room fit into my brain, or the impressionistic nature of that year has painted itself with unusual brightness on the canvas of my soul.

My memories of that year are uneventful. I see no reason why I remember it so well, or perhaps I remember nothing at all of that year, and my mind has created these shadows of nothing. There is much in my life that is unclear, much I do not remember. It is hard for me to believe, at times, that I have lived at all. All my memories are like pictures flickering on a blank screen, surrounded by the dark sea of nothingness.

I must tell the story as it plays out, here in the darkness. The voices are trying to confuse me now, and I must not listen. My memories are real, this is real, or there is no way of proving that it is not. Fear echoes through my head, but with death coming I feel strangely calm. The revolver in my hand assures me that they will not take me. I am my own person at last, free of their influence. I am not sure how long they have controlled me, but my memories after that year are very hazy, and seem very unreal. I do not believe what those memories say of me. I am not the person in them.

It was that year, I believe, that they first began to influence me. I sleepwalked often, and I spent much time just staring at the corner of the dormer. My room was filled with lamps, and even with all of them on, the shadows proliferated and took on horrifying shapes in the corners. I thank the gods that the stars were not right, or they would have possessed me entirely. As it is, there is much I have lost, but I have reason to believe that I am not yet damned.

I am not sure what first attracted them to me. Beware the man with sweet words, he comes to entrance your heart and steal your soul. Perhaps it was my longing for something beyond the mundane reality, something magical and mysterious, something that no one could explain. I lost myself in phantasy and music, trying to escape the miserable winter outside. I did well enough in my classes, but I remember very little of them. As the year wears on, my memories become more and more dreamlike. I believe I must have drifted off to sleep one early spring night, and what was me did not wake up. I woke up in this old house.

I have no idea where I am or what year it is, or even what century. I found an old journal in the library and the revolver in a desk drawer. I pray that it works. I have had no opportunity to test it, because the slightest noise could bring them here. Even now, they bang on the door to this room, but they will not get in until it is done, and I am finally free. The story is told, the gun is loaded, and it is now time to bring an end to this accursed life. The door buckles inward and I know they will soon answer. Light a candle for me, you who find this and pray for my soul. Libera me, domine. Please free me.