The Dumont Diaries Novels & Stories

She knew first aid, so grabbing some smelling salts from the bathroom cabinet, she revived her daughter, applied some ice to her wound to manage the pain and then, assuring her that help would arrive any minute, she dashed outside in search for her husband. Natalie was still trying to make sense of everything, but her memories were quite hazy. She remembered going upstairs for her phone, but that was pretty much it, she couldn’t recall anything else. No, wait. The diary! She remembered seeing a diary wrapped in a bow on her dresser, and even remembered wondering how her parents had been able to sneak the diary into her room when they had been downstairs with her the whole time. Natalie recal

I greatly missed reading and was desperate for anything to help get my head out of my present situation. It wasn’t until I was halfway through the first page that I realized it was all in Italian. I blinked when I got stuck on a word. While I did read Italian, I still got tripped up from time to time. What surprised me more was that the book had come from the backpack he’d brought in. There was definitely more to Domenico than I’d believed. From the corner of my eye I watched the slug clean up his mess. His gaze flashed to me before quickly returning back to his task.

There’s no time to waste, immediately I dig into my new project, eager to absorb all the information that I can. My heart swells as I read each page. There, right on the margins are little notes that Dante has left. ‘July, 2 years ago.’ ‘Jean left for Paris at this time.’ ‘Jean’s sister enrolls to uni.’ ‘Island purchased from unlisted owner.’ ‘trafficking’ ‘Visit island chief—asap!’ ‘Tell Jean.’ Without realizing it, my cheeks start to feel wet, bringing my hand up, I unconsciously wipe at the tears.

However, he had underestimated Elaine's assistant, who had wrapped up the investigation and headed back before he could even make the call. Elaine's assistant returned with far more than just answers; she also brought back a collection of deeply horrifying, graphic videos. Elaine's hand trembled as she took the flash drive and plugged it into her laptop. The footage that loaded on the screen made it almost impossible for her to breathe. The video showed Rowan in filthy rags, surrounded and ganged up on by the villagers. It was stomach-churning. His bone-thin body was curled up on the ground like a dying animal, whimpering in utter despair.

It’s a diary. For several seconds, he simply stares at it. She forgot her diary? Carefully, he picks it up. The cover is worn around the edges, used often. Very often. Opening the front cover, his eyes drop to the first page. This diary belongs to: TROY SUMMERS Summers? He didn't even know her surname. Back then, it didn't matter. They were just two starving children trying to survive another winter. His thumb lingers over the page, then he shuts the diary immediately. He sets it on the bedside table with force and intention.

I'm sure you'll know it's him when you cross parts with him* *If you find a girl or a boy(hopefully it's a girl hopefully she's lovable enough for you. You know what I mean) with the frequency, she will need the journal. Not this one. There's another journal. She probably won't be able to read it until she's ready, but when she is, the Harland collection has a companion text that describes the process. The companion text is called the Respondent. If the man has the collection, he may have the Respondent too.*

I flipped the page of my notebook, leaning down to grab my textbook from the door beside my chair. And that’s when the idea struck. Slowly, deliberately, I let the book slip from my fingers. It hit the floor with a soft thud. “Oh—" I bent down immediately to pick it up and the classroom suddenly felt very quiet. Very still. I didn’t rush. Instead, I took my time reaching for the book, my skirt shifting slightly as I moved. A risky move. A deliberate move. For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then— Jeff cleared his throat sharply.

S‍he‌ had spe​nt si​x‌ hou‌rs turni‌ng the pa​ges with a p​air⁠ of cotton gloves, h‍er eye​s burning from t‌he tiny, cram‌ped⁠ German sc​ript of the post-war port inspectors. D​amien sat acr‌os‌s fro⁠m her, h‍is large⁠ frame l​o‍ok‍ing absurdly out o‍f plac‌e‍ i⁠n the deli‌cate, hi‍gh-​bac​ked wooden​ chair. He had t‌hree​ leg​al ledger‍s from the Luxemb‌ourg stee‌l tranches open before him, his thic‍k t⁠humb tracki‍n‌g the co​lu​m⁠ns of‍ raw tonnage figu​res like a man trying to calculate the w‌e​igh‍t‍ of​ a mountain.‍

"Miss, aren't you leaving?" the butler reminded me gently from behind. Taking a deep breath, I forced a polite smile and approached Leonard Burton slowly. I was dreading every step I took as scenes from my past life flashed before my eyes. He had pushed me out of harm's way just before the accident happened. His diary had been full of his yearning for Yelena Lynch, the name he had murmured in his dream subconsciously. "Leonard," I called out softly.

Slowly, she opened it. The first thing she saw was handwriting, familiar and bold. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest tightened as her eyes fell on the neat scrawl of a name on the first page: NATHANIEL MULLER This was Nathaniel’s diary. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, with trembling fingers, she turned to the first entry. ********** July 21st, 2016