With this method, we need not venture in and out of the grounds. The gate will stay closed, and once the seven days are over, we can safely enter to tidy and make whatever adjustments we deem necessary for the next season, as well as determine whether without its sight the beast can pick us out.
It would be wrong to say I am excited—of course I am not excited, that would be ghastly—but I am eager to do my part in ensuring the unbroken chain of prosperity so dearly bought.
I have even decided that, as gratitude for their unknowing contribution and as an homage to our parents, we will spend the day before we take the fourteen sacrifices into the grounds pampering and preparing them. I think our parents would like that.
JULY 22, 1946
Disaster. Who could have guessed that, once they figured out their fate, they would choose to end their own lives rather than wait? Their deaths served no purposes, had no meaning, did no good. Selfish. Foolish. And we only knew because the beast came to the gate, moaning and slathering, searching sightless for us. I thought nothing could be worse than those twin points of flame, but I think this is.
Fortunately, I had planned for contingencies. Two spares were already in town, working in my house. They were offered, which bought us time to range out and find more. We sent the replacements in two by two to “work” on the building in the woods and by the time they got close enough to know something was wrong, it was too late for them.
Wasteful, and embarrassing, and the beast did not even consume the madwoman or the dead bodies. At the end of the seven days, she was sitting in the midst of the remaining corpses, filthy and crying. It was horrible to have to see, and I wish someone else had taken care of it all so I did not have to.
I am ashamed at my arrogance in assuming I had designed a perfect system, but who could have foreseen this? There were rumblings that it should be Tommy Callas Junior in charge, but he did not step up. And why should he? He has no more right to lead than I do. The seven families are equal, no matter whose idea the sacrifice was.
Still. I will be humble going forward, and far cleverer. No more waste.
But I also wonder if Hobart really tried hard enough to find other options to feed the beast. We now know it will not consume dead things, and it does not depend on sight, both of which are a pity.
I will think on it, and come up with a perfect system. I know there is one to be had. One that keeps the beast far from the gate, one that keeps him fed, one that keeps us safe.
JULY 15, 1947
I feel the weight of July most keenly. Though I have six years left to plan, each July feels like a claw descending onto my shoulder, pressing down. It does not help that I have children of my own, demanding my attentions, and a husband who does not understand why I must meet with the other families, what “secrets” we are up to.
Sometimes, as he sleeps next to me, snoring gently, I want to smother him in his ignorance.
Sammy Frye whines that he is being run ragged, tracking down distant relatives and sleuthing far-flung cousins, as though his is the difficult task. Our men are virile. We have not discouraged them from sowing wild seeds with low women. It is a sacrifice easy for them to make on behalf of our community. Between them and the siblings of our parents, there are plenty of sacrifices to choose from, plenty who do not know what we keep in the forest outside Asterion. Plenty who do not know by what means their sons have been kept safe in the war, what miracle protected their money when the banks fell, what secret wind lifts them all to ever-greater heights. But the more diluted the blood, the more diluted the people, and there are enough who are disposable.
That is all distasteful to dwell on. I will have a better plan by next season.
MAY 23, 1948
My husband has returned from New York and a trip to Coney Island with the girls. I do not leave Asterion—I am its guardian, and I do not take that responsibility lightly—but hearing their breathless reports of roller coasters and games and rides, how easily they lost an entire day there, sparked a brilliant new plan. One that means we can send in the sacrifices happy, and let them be consumed with no one the wiser! A minimum of suffering. A garish, cheerful solution.
An amusement park! Low entertainment for the low classes, and perfect for our needs.
The plans are elaborate, yes. Tommy Jr. complained extensively, surprising no one. But the Pulsiphers, Youngs, Harrells, and Fryes are all on my side. Besides, I am not doing this on a whim. The labyrinthine structure of the park serves a purpose, turning the beast in circles and keeping him near the center, away from the gate. And with our sacrifices lured in ever deeper by the promise of delight and fun and excitement, they will escort themselves to the slaughter.