Exploring Blackwood Grove: Lost 1924 Expedition Journal

Journal Entry Year: 1924

**June 10th, 1924**

Today marks the first entry of my personal journal regarding the expedition into the Blackwood Grove. Local folklore, steeped with warnings and tales of unexplainable disappearances, has dissuaded many before me, but the potential for undiscovered flora and fauna fuels my persistent curiosity. My team, consisting of five seasoned explorers, has prepared for contingencies, and our spirits are high. The grove looms in the distance as gnarled, ancient trees claw towards a sullen sky. Tonight, we camp at the edge of this dark enclave; tomorrow, we venture into its heart.

**June 12th, 1924**

We have been walking for two days now, and the deeper we traverse into the darkness of the Grove, the more the trees seem to whisper among themselves—a rustle of leaves even when the wind is still. My compass spins inexplicably at times, and I catch the men muttering about ghost lights among the trees at night. I must admit, last night, amidst the veil of sleep, I thought I saw a flicker of luminance dancing between the trunks. I chalked it up to dreams, the mind playing as it sometimes will in the eerie embrace of uncharted lands.

**June 15th, 1924**

Our progress has slowed. The vegetation grows denser, and the light—even at midday—struggles to pierce the canopy above. One of our porters, Swanson, swears he heard his name whispered from the shadows. None of the others were near. Tonight, as I write, the air seems thicker, as if we breathe the same breaths as the Grove itself, recycled and stale. Notably, the flora here displays characteristics unlike any botanical texts familiar to me—veins of luminous sap, leaves that recoil at the touch. The peculiarities are both fascinating and unnerving.

**June 18th, 1924**

Disaster struck. Gilbert, our botanist, vanished. He was collecting samples mere yards from the camp. An extensive search yielded only the kit he carried, scattered near an ancient oak, its bark notably lighter than its kin, as if bleached. The surface was unnaturally smooth, too smooth for any known tree. Its touch gave an uncomfortable sensation, almost electric. We marked the site, intending to investigate with daylight.



**June 21st, 1924**

Three days since Gilbert’s disappearance and morale is as dim as our ever-dimming surroundings. Last night, the whispering voices were louder, more insistent. They are not mere zephyrs through leaves but syllables in a language we shouldn’t understand, yet their intent feels malevolent. It’s as though the forest itself watches, listens, and indeed, speaks back. I’ve studied the bark of that pallid oak more closely—it seems… flesh-like underneath its wooden veneer.

**June 24th, 1924**

I write now with trembling hands. We attempted to leave, to retrace our steps, but the paths… they change. Or we change. Confusion reigns. Swanson, now pallid and thin as if the grove feeds off him, claimed to see Gilbert last night. But not as we remember him. Changed. Part of the grove, his flesh morphing into wood, his veins thick with glowing sap, his eyes… hollow.

**June 27th, 1924**

I am alone. The others vanished or fled, I cannot tell. The grove refuses my departure, each turn leading back to the heart—the pale oak. It stands before me, more grotesque each day, its trunk pulsating slightly, as a chest might with breath. And the voices—no longer mere whispers but clear calls. They beckon me to join, to step into the fold of this arboreal tomb.

**June 30th, 1924**

This may be my final entry. I have come to understand—this Grove is alive, a single sentient entity, ancient, ravenous. It lured us, feeds from us, assimilates us. I feel a pull toward the heart, my will slipping, my thoughts intertwining with whispers. If this journal escapes the recursive snare of Blackwood Grove, let it be a warning: some places on this earth are left untouched for a reason. Here lies a border to another realm, one of predation, disguised in the form of the unexplored.

May God have mercy on my soul.

Exploring the Mystic Isles: The Lost Journal of Godfrey, Soldier of England


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