Post 3

It is early morning, and I am on the porch outside writing this. The sea is as high as ever and quite unsettled if not stormy. I have seen no one else awake in my time out here, which is partially why I wanted to get away. Whoever dies next, I want to have no part in it. Maybe here they won't suspect me. Vera has acted very tense around me, and Mr. Blore seems on edge when he is talking to me. I worry they both suspect me, even though I'm sure I have the clearest conscience of the Indian Island guests. However, lately my thoughts have seemed to drift to Beatrice Taylor whenever they have had a chance. I feel that the fantastic nature of this vacation is getting to me, though it is my goal to not let it show. I think I might be going mad, but I want to do everything in my power to keep my sanity. One thing I can do to preserve it is to journal. I think I will now write down everything that happens, but as far away from prying eyes as possible. No one must know of this madness I feel. Last night I dreamt of Beatrice Taylor. I dreamt that she was outside my bedroom window, caught up in the storm and begging to be let in. She was crying, moaning, howling! But I couldn't let her in, for if I did, something unthinkable would occur. No one has died in the past day, and as cold-hearted and terrible as it sounds, I believe someone else will die today. It will not be me, as long as I keep my nerve. On another note, two balls of gray knitting yarn of mine have disappeared. But what use could two skeins of yarn be to Mr. Owen?