December 28th, 1845

It has been about 2 weeks since I departed Fort Bridger. I would never expect myself to end up in a situation like this, even when that blizzard hit. Soon I hope I find William, after the instructions I gave him if I ever got lost when I left. Now, I must focus on what really troubles me.

Ever since that old man Mr. Rogues took me into his home I knew he was strange, but the warmth of his trading post was enough to keep my mind of off of it. Now that state of mind has passed now that I’ve been stuck with him long enough. He’s told me so many stories about his family, his family, business, and isolation within this icy hell buried in the mountains. I can’t hold in any longer of what I now know.

From what I know about his family is quite tragic. Years ago, he began with his family the journey of the Oregon Trail to find purpose in Oregon City. Unfortunately they never made it passed Wyoming as his family died of cholera. As a burden for his life, he had to bury them and move on - he had to at this point, especially for his family - there was no turning back. Luckily he was able to find shelter, the very trading post I reside within now.

When he arrived there, it was already occupied. The trader heard his story and took him in. They resided together for a couple of months until the trader went to go hunting. He told Mr. Rogues to take care of the place while he was gone but he never came back. Mr. Rogues assumed he was mauled by a bear or something of that matter. Eventually he decided to handle the trading post on his own. He did apparently well as a trader. One day he was visited by some Cheyenne Indians who traded with him a boldly decorated carpet in return for some furs. Like any day of business, they made their transaction, and the Cheyenne departed.

Mr. Rogues has been staying here long enough to make any man go insane. Besides the occasional visits, there has never been a man so isolated, so secluded, so contained that you may as well fall victim by the blizzards. Yet he remains, not as a trader but as a slave, a property, owned by the mountains, who provide him with no other choice of freedom. The slavery of this man has left him mentally deteriorated, at least from what he has been telling me from the stories of his dreams. Every night he sees these shadows, with pale eyes, that surround him and drench him in their darkness. I thought of this as it was a figment of his imagination, at least that’s what I thought until I started seeing these same black shadows in my dreams as well. I see them, yet they do do not drench me. They stand away from me, statically hovering over the Cheyenne carpet. They would do this night over night until last night. Last night, they were hovering in the same position, not over the carpet, but over a key. Thus, I was prompted to begin an investigation.

Earlier today, Mr. Rogues went out hunting. This is when I looked for the key, almost instinctively. I looked all over the trading post, with caution, as I knew I couldn’t around any suspicion by Mr. Rogues. I couldn’t find anything. But then I checked the shed. I looked all over the shed. Still no key. On my way out however I seemed to have stepped over a weak floorboard. I teared it open. Alas, the key was there! With Mr. Rogues still in mind I kept the key exactly where it was with the floorboard placed exactly where it was before. I hurried back to the trading post before he came back, in fact he’s still out as I write this. The dreams told me something, and out of curiosity I stood over the carpet. I felt something - a hollowness - the same hollowness from when I stepped over the floorboard from where the key was hidden.

Unlike any other visitor that Mr. Rogues received I believe I have found something - something that he is hiding. I cannot bear to look now, God forbid I am caught right as Mr. Rogues walks through the door. I must wait until tonight - late.

Alas, I begin to hear footsteps outside, it must be him.