Part 7 | Part 9 I don’t have any more tasks now. It took me three days to finish the library’s inventory. Already asked Alex to bring more fire extinguishers on his next groceries delivery trip. The seventh, and last, instruction is scratched beyond readability. Maybe, for once I could relax. Another thing I found in the records was that the trespasser’s guy on my first night here wasn’t the first “suicide.” In the late 1800s there was a lighthouse keeper who, after failing to light correctly the thing, caused a two-hundred people crew to crash into the rocks and sank; no survivors. Not even the keeper, who hung himself. After such gloomy story, I stepped out of the ruined building to get some fresh air. The Bachman Asylum has its own little graveyard. Like thirty yards away from the main building there is a small, rotten-wood-fenced lot, about twenty square feet with rocks, yellow grass and broken or tumbled gravestones. I was astonished they managed to bury someone the...
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