[There has now come into the editor's possession a seemingly related journal, probably from somewhere in California, given the happy face on the journal cover. It too has been mutilated at some point ....]



Oct 31.

Ever since returning from abroad, I have been under the weather. I also find myself strangely drawn to these two mystery instruments that I brought back with me from Castle Fielding, and find myself playing them all the time, not even stopping for food or drink. It is as if I have become compelled to play them without ceasing. When I do sleep I have the strangest dreams. I dream that my beloved husband is making little tiny boots for oxen. I dream that my bodhran has a Guinness label on it (after that dream I woke up screaming in terror). And then I dream that there is a ship with ripped sails entering San Francisco Harbor carrying a cargo of guitar cases.

What can all this mean?

Nov 1.
I wake up in the night. I hear someone in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the old banjo. I look down, and it is me. My fingers are entwined with this banjo. And then I remember that Dinah has been dead for 20 years. Can no one help me?

Dr. Van Helsing, my family physician, is away in Rumania at a Transfusion Conference, so I am forced to consult his assistant, Mr. Stein, who is also European, and was trained in Heidelberg. Mr. Stein suggests a course of electroshock treatments, which I decline. He says that I have a phrenologically interesting skull. I tell him that these bumps come from falling down in exhaustion from swooping up and down the dulcimer without ceasing. He mentions something about the tarantella dance, which reminds me that I am late for the tarantula lecture at the wildlife preserve.

Nov. 1. Later the same day.

I am reading up on the tarantella dance, which was supposed to be an endless dance that results from being bitten by a tarantula. The dancer eventually dies of exhaustion. I am beginning to feel that way about these instruments, especially as it has become difficult to take baths and showers and play music at the same time. Also, my co-workers are beginning to mutter.

Nov. 1. Night.

A very strange dream. I am standing by the Harbor and the ghostly ship anchors some distance off shore. A mist covers the water. From the ship I hear bizarre hornpipes and other sea shanties as if sung by lunatics and howling dervishes, not unlike a bad night at the local pub. The sound of a cajun accordion floats above it all. Eventually, the mist recedes, and a strangely accented voice beckons to me: "Come in, you can valk on the vater, no problem, take you a veek or two of really hard practicing, but then it is a piece of cake." I place my feet on the water, and lo and behold, I am able to walk out to the ship. I am lifted up on board, and who do I see but Count Fielding! I ask him what he is doing in the New World, and he says that he is going to visit a cousin of his called Buffy or Muffy or something. "But enough of talk," he says, "I have brought you a new instrument, combination snake and autoharp, called ze slitherzither! It goes vel vith the old Carter Family tune, "I Tingle With My Mangles" And he hands it to me. It drapes around my neck, and seems to clutch me oddly. "Give me an A!" he says," Or an AB Negative!!" At this the ship howls, and ghouls appear out of every nook, playing strange fiendish instruments and chanting something about albatrosses and ships lost off the Cape of Good Hope. I wake up. Daylight fitfully enters my room.
I now have 3 instruments, and am rapidly losing weight, as I am not even taking time off to eat. Every waking moment is now spent with my music, and most of my sleeping ones as well. The sun is pale today. I am so mesmerized and exhausted that I feel my strength ebbing away. Dr. Van Helsing, where are you? Can nothing break this sorcery?....
[at this point the diary dissolves into an unreadable scrawl, and then breaks off]