My creation is hideous. Only Now that I have achieved that which I've desired for many years I realize the blaspheme of my ambitions. I have let something wretched out into the world. The night of my mistake I dreamed as tho I stood in the streets of Ingolstadt, I saw Elizabeth whom I quickly embraced. But upon withdrawing from her, her features became the dull sunken features of death, those which I had become all to familiar with, and upon looking back I found not Elizabeth but instead the long deceased carcass of my mother. I can only hope that such a dream is not telling of what shall come.
Even now I gain little solace from my journal, something that usually brings me great comfort. I feel dread not for me, as I have already admitted that I cannot atone for what I have constructed. But I instead feel dread for my family, for Elisabeth. And what shall they think of me when they discover what I have done, that I have spent years of my life dedicated to this evil?
