 The following journal entries were found in the New York State Archives in Albany, New York. They are the last six entries from Charles Williams, an agent for the Crown delivering a message from the governor of New York to the governor of Maryland. He traveled with a Mohawk Indian guide whom he referred to only as our Indian guide, never giving his name, and an Irishman named Mr. Fletcher, serving as an interpreter. They took a rugged trail through the Appalachian Mountains. Their reasons for taking such an unorthodox route were never explained. The first several entries were of little consequence. The message they were to deliver was never revealed in Williams' journal. All that was said was that it was of extreme importance. And for the governor's eyes only. Four days into their journey is when the accounts became interesting. July 3, 1712 Dear Loretta, our journey has been a hard one. This land is forested beyond anything I could possibly expect. The views are spectacular though. The rugged green carpeted hills seem to endlessly unfold over the horizon. In the morning, they are tinted blue by the cloudless skies, and you can hardly tell where the skies end and the land begin. Mr. Fletcher and our Indian guide have been speaking more frequently as of late. I'm beginning to feel there are things they are not telling me about the trail ahead. They are becoming suspicious, constantly scanning the surrounding hills, as if they're being watched. I assumed they were merely looking out for bears, but something has changed. Maybe it's just my inquisitive mind filling in the foreign Indian tongue. All my love, Charles. July 5, 1712 Dear Loretta, I can scarcely write after what we witnessed today. As we left a clearing, we came across two lonesome trees with thick branches peering out in all directions. To our horror, we found two lifeless corpses hanging from the trees, their faces contorted and rotting, with black crows picking away at the flesh. It was terrible, Loretta. Getting from their white coats, they were French. What they were doing in this part of the country, I cannot say, but someone did not take kindly to their presence. Our Indian guide became belligerent when he saw them, insisting we turn back. Fletcher says he spoke on and on about the giants who roam in these parts and how this was a warning that we were entering their territory. Fletcher was just as shaken as our guide, rambling on in his Irish tongue about giants and other jabber walks of the old country. The Irish are just as superstitious as the natives of this country. I can hardly blame them, having seen such a grisly sight. But there is a perfectly logical explanation. I have no doubt this was the work of the Indians in these parts, maybe even the Mohawks or other tribes unfriendly to the French. They would probably be willing to help us if they share our enemies. Still, I can't help but feel sorrow for these men. Fellow Christians should at least have a decent burial, and had time not been of the essence, I would have insisted we provide one. Your loving husband, Charles. July 8th. My Loretta, the last few days have been nothing but nonstop talk of ghosts, monsters, and jabber walkies. Mr. Fletcher would fit in easily with the natives of this country. He relayed a story from our guide of how the old gods were stricken down and forced to live on the earth. This apparently is where these giants came from. I laughed when I first heard the story and questioned the Irishman about his merits as a Christian. The story goes that the giants howl, lamenting their fates. They live in the mountains to be closer to the heavens where they had formerly lived and to stay away from humans whom they regard as inferior. Over the years they became dark and twisted, hating all things and cursing the new gods and the humans who worship them. How much of this story is actually from the guide and not a mixture of Irish folktales and Fletcher's imagination, I cannot say. Charles. July 11th. Loretta, for the second night we heard the howls screaming deep, bellowing across the mountain valleys. It's as if Fletcher called down the giants from his story. Our guide has ceased to sleep without another lookout. To appease him, I agreed to have a night watch. I have to admit that my emotions are starting to rule my thoughts as I lay awake hearing the echoes across the dark valleys. I brought a looking-glass for my pleasure, and when the moon is out, I swear I can see rustling in the valley below. It's probably just bears or the wind picking up. Giants are not the main candidate. I really should save my ink for more important updates. Charles. July 12th. Loretta. Well, I'm not inclined to believe in giants. I am convinced there's something dangerous in these mountains. Today we came across another gruesome sight. It took time for me to realize what we were looking at, but in a grove we found several trees painted in fresh blood. We found more and more trees around the grove covered with blood. Until at last we came upon the source. Three black bears badly mutilated. They were disemboweled, missing their eyes and teeth. Blood came from their noses, and they were placed in a perfect circle. I still suspect this could be the work of some savages. However, there were no arrows. It's possible they could have been shot before being mutilated. However, we heard no gunshots, and the kills were clearly fresh. Charles. July 15th. Ink is getting low, so I must be brief. The howls and growls continue at night. We have our muskets ready. Our guide has convinced us that he knows no tribe that inhabits these parts. Fletcher has asked him if it was safer to turn back. He told Fletcher that it didn't matter, that once the giants see you, there is no escape. My task is urgent, and I have no choice but to continue onward. If they knew the contents of my message, they would know that turning back is not an option. July 16th. Our Indian guide has vanished. I know not where. We spend all day looking for him. Fletcher claims he knows a way down the mountain, and I have no choice but to follow as I am unfamiliar with these parts. We'll find a more conventional route from there. July 17th. Early in the morning, we found—I'm not sure how to explain—what looks like an organ hanging from the limb of a tree. I'm not a doctor, so I don't know what organ. The howls continue. The ground shakes at night. The moon hasn't shown itself in days, so my spyglass is useless. We fired off a round of musket fire as a warning shot to whoever is out there. July 19th. Loretta. This is my last entry. The ink is nearly gone. We saw eyes in the distance last night, blood red coming towards us. They vanished when we fired, but the howling—the howling always continues. It's getting closer now, each night. You have my love, Charles. This is the last entry in the archives. I found records of a Charles Williams confirming that he was an agent to King George working in America. There is no further evidence of what was in the message he was delivering or in his journey across the mountains. There is no record of a Mr. Fletcher or an Indian who worked with Charles Williams. There is no other evidence in the archive regarding what could have caused the disappearance of Charles Williams.