Barreling through my apartment door, my hands shook with near blizzard like shivers. Fumbling with the locks, my brain hung suspended in an abyss racked with questions, twisted logic and unrealistic thoughts. I had dad’s journal in my hand. The longer I stared at it the more it seemed real. The very book I’d watch dad take notes in every time he brought me to his lab.
But how could it be real?
Hurriedly I slammed a chair in front of the door and then settled down on my faded brown couch and propping the journal open against my knees. There was no settling back for a pleasurable read, no, far from it. As I flipped through the pages, I could hear dad’s voice narrating the descriptions, theories and the images as he crafted each entry. As I got deeper into the journal, there before my eyes sat dozens of pictures; ranging from faces to limbs and internal organs, with several annotations scribbled in the margins.
Flipping back to the title page, my eyes stung, my arms, chest and legs ached but I fought to stay awake. Tightening my grip on the book’s spine I took several controlled breaths and let the tears flow. Everything from the job to my exhaustion, and pain, even getting paid; it all seemed trivial. Every rational thought beat against my soul, telling me the journal was a trick and a childish dream. I touched the paper, the drawing the impressions pressed into the next page. I ruffled the pages. It was real and there it sat, undeniably right in my lap. Nicholas Capet inscribed right on the front page. Running my finger across his name, memories flooded into my mind. I hadn’t thought about the day he left, I never really wanted too.
Until now. I traced the journals cover. It was right here in front of me. I bit my lip terrified I’d wake up any second. Now more than ever I wanted to know the truth.
Risking a few minutes, part of me terrified the book would vanish the moment I got serious. I removed my coat and boots and tossed them aside. Then moving from the couch to the old red armchair wedged in the corner. Dusting it off with my hand I pulled my knees to my chest and ignoring the sores I rested my cheek against the arm rest. It had been easier when I had been younger, but I didn’t care.  
Sinking into the cushion I let out a yawn, but I shook my head and sat upright. Delicately moving from one page to the next, in my mind’s eye I could see dad’s smile as he added some details to his pictures or added an entry. With precise pressure, he curved, arched, angled lines detailing organs and muscle tissue, or sometimes fur, scales, or skin depending on the entity.
The longer I looked at the book the more I felt relaxed and awake, at least, awake enough to function. Falling back, I flipped through the pages and dad had immortalized there.
“I drew scribbles while dad always could produce a masterpiece.”
Without fail, despite the stereotype of doctors having horrible handwriting, he always wrote with a flourish, every single word danced across the page with such an acute precision it could come across as a cursive typeset.  
 January 17th 2147,   Subject: trolls  
            Breed: naturalists, capable of controlling nature and instilling vitality in dead soil or rotting plants.
            Notes: I have discovered most naturally bred trolls tend to absorb dangerous cells when they perform their rituals for the safety of trees and plants. Normally, the residual effects do not impact their physical condition because they have terrific immune systems, and often they can expel it into noxious/insidious/invasive plants that are causing problems for an ecosystem that is suffering from a number of environmental factors. I believe, and the further facts that I have documented while examining the corpse, prove they are connected to nature, and work with colony like efficacy in their efforts. I suspect that they can share or exchange illness and vitality if they can’t overcome it on their own.  

“If they can’t overcome the effects on their own,” I repeated. The medical lingo flew over my head, but the conclusions stood out to me. He didn’t try to mask anything; his wording was straight and to the point. Turning the page, I scanned the troll’s anatomy diagram along with the detail notes about its physical structure and characteristics.
It wasn’t long before my curiosity turned into suspicion as I noted a single line of text, written beneath the troll’s illustrated feet. Separated by a drawn box to ensure no confusion for the reader.   
 If my suspicions indicated on the diagrams are correct, I have to admit I am confused, why did this one die?
   The proverbial lightbulb hummed in my brain as I flipped through the pages, each one documenting a death, with concerns and questions: A banker from Eastern Credit Central, a vampire? The blonde woman, I remembered her from an autopsy, a former High School Track coach, the dragal? Did dad suspect someone had murdered her?
  “Dad what on earth did you discover?”
With no sense of time, I continued my search, covering fourteen different entries, all documenting entities dying under mysterious circumstances. Reaching the last few pages, his suspicions continued. I’ve traveled to several states and made contacts with different apothecaries and potion masters in Europe. There is something going on, something that doesn’t make sense. The magical communities are suspicious the burnings were provoked to scare us into submission, what if the hover state governments know a lot more than they’ve let on? What if someone started educating the public to see through glamours and other charm-based concealments?  
On the page he had written several one liners, lines that appeared to have attracted his attention, but not enough information for him to think about, or comment on.
Three missing kids were found in the forest showing signs of scavenger characteristics and primitive humanoid responses.
And the next:
There have been several reports that blood banks have been vandalized, and three individuals were found dead…I noticed the angle of the teeth marks are not consistent with vampire….
After years of debate and experimentation I’ve found several corpses have been infected with various organic poisons, natural and man-made, long since forgotten in history. It took some time, but I noticed an odd discoloration beneath the fingernails and in the nasal cavity. I believe there is a conspiracy going on, something that had been misjudged and something the Family has gone to great lengths to keep hidden. This may require further, perhaps even unofficial research. I don’t like some of the implications when I’ve addressed some concerns professionally.
The Family? At first glance the phrase stuck out to me referring to general families, but… questions popped and flatted as I considered the implication. Turning the page my eyes fell on a new picture; and unlike the medical ones, this one had intricate details of a thriving city looming beyond a hillside beside a body of water. Along the right side, were the words “Nicholas and Eleanor forever.” On the other side dad had written the phrase “The rise of the Green.”
 On the back of the page dad continued, a tiny paragraph scrunched up along the spine. Today the world named the sky, the Green. And we’ve determined it has a mysterious past. I believe there is a source; something unexpected and, something that will completely change the nature of our society if it isn’t dealt with.  
The Green is madness.
Dad had written on the last page, unlike his usual eloquent style; this passage looked unorganized and sloppy, severely lacking the finesse, as if he’d written it in a hurry. I could still read it, even though dad had scribbled it out before adding a revised line.
Beneath it, he had amended the wording, The Green could cause madness. And again, his words seem to personify his hesitation and they felt disjointed. For a third time he altered the phrase, The Green is hiding madness?
Odd, I thought, Scientists and doctors have never contributed the Green to any psychological issues, apart from superstition which mainly keeps most people in doors. How is the Green hiding madness? On the last few pages, lines of strange code ran from the spine to the edge of the page. It wasn’t in English or any other comprehensible language. Several pages were covered in figures, and symbols. Some looked vaguely like Roman numerals, like I had seen on clocks, but I was in no way an expert.
What did the old man say? “She would know what to do with this information, what am I supposed to do with this?
The answer found me at the bottom of the page.
Crimson, I have discovered the origin of the Green. Find Me.