Val's Journal is a series of five entries found in Outlast 2. They document Val's thoughts and feelings as she goes from becoming one of Sullivan Knoth's most trusted followers to the founder of the Heretics. They are read in the form of documents throughout the game, but are not found in chronological order.
Three more were sent today to live among the Scalled, their sores too florid to disguise. They had seven children between them, all of whom Papa Knoth has sent with the others into my foster care. I now have more than forty orphans under my wing, who love me desperately, as only can a child abandoned by the parents they thought were as natural and dependable a fact as the rising sun. And I love them. As I will never have children of my own, and have so much love to give. When God leaves them, too, I will be there with comforts and guidance.
What do these dreams mean?
A quiet sky. Six more of my own children (though no blood of my own) met the blade this morning. I wept as at the slaughter of the issue of my own loins. I cut Marcus' throat deep enough for the knife to scrape against spine, but still he was writhing on the pyre. And Papa smiled and sang about gathering at the river. All the voices of Temple Gate joined in chorus.
Only one voice was absent, and conspicuously so.
God should have answered by now. Whether by words or action: God please give us an answer. Fulfill the promises of your prophet.
We have sent such oblations into the earth by blood and into the sky by flesh burnt to smoke that this continued silence is a message in itself. Do any love God as I do? As often as I do?
More children dead. Knoth says there is no sin in such infanticide, as all are soldiers in God's army. Martyrs fallen on the field in defiance of the Archfiend. All those babies with slit throats and charred flesh will be waiting immaculate for us in paradise.
Papa Knoth also says that our sins find us in our dreams. Our sins find us in our dreams. But my dreams are nothing but the murder of my children. And I wake laughing, and aroused, and often wet with the involuntary lust of sleep.
I woke this morning thinking I was wetted with the blood of a child's slit throat. But it was wetness of my own making.
The others are having similar dreams. We have dug a tunnel so that we may meet in secret. We gather and share our visions and wonder at their meaning.
I feel increasingly this is a message. But nothing holy.
Tell me more. Give me more. You have a thousand names and I know none of them. I know it is not God. I know it is not Yahweh, nor Ezekiel, nor any dog leashed to that gas-bloated corpse, swollen on the heat of his own shit and rotting meats. Give me pleasure. Fuck me and cut my skin. Burn me and caress me. I am a membrane seeking penetration. Be aroused at my awe. Let my fear give you appetite. I love you, I love you, I love you. Tell me what you want. Tell me your name and I am yours.
I cut the children's throats in dreams and wake filled with sex and appetite. I love you, I am yours. I cut the throats of Knoth's sheep in waking life and sex floods me like the fear of fire in a child. I love you, I am yours. I could fuck and burn the world for all my joy. I love you. I am yours. I will purge this world, soft with rot, of all but ecstasy and terror, so that you may build your throne on the charred remains. I love you, I am yours. I know now as surely as I breath what I never knew of that flaccid, distant God. You love me. I am yours.