Journal Entry 1
So I just found a strange note in the basement. It is just one sentence, and it says, “Come live in the ashes of my heart.” Weird, right? It’s a bit of strange excitement, but I don’t think it's enough to get me out of this funk.
I moved into this house two days ago, and already I regret it. I’m tired and filthy, but that’s not the problem. And the house itself, while very old and sometimes creepy, is also very beautiful in a lot of ways. It’s certainly nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived before, even if that isn’t saying much, and what I just found in the basement is the most interesting thing I’ve run across in a long time. The problem is that I never should have moved here with Phil. After being with him for two years, I knew in the back of my head that there were problems that went beyond the normal growing pains of a relationship. I think Phil knows it too, and that’s why he suggested the move to a new state, as though the stress of moving and the isolation of a new town was going to somehow bond us closer together rather than driving us apart.
But let me be clear. Phil is a good guy. He drinks too much at times, and he doesn’t always have the best judgment, but he is generally responsible, kind and loyal. I just don’t think he’s the right person for me. I knew it before I agreed to move, I knew it when we closed on the house, and I certainly know it now, sitting in a room packed with boxes stuffed full of reminders of our lives.
But still, I can’t put all the blame on him. I was fool enough to go along with it, both of us playing relationship chicken, revving our engines and careening towards each other faster and faster, daring the other to be the one that says “No, that’s enough. This isn’t working anymore.” And I think I’m just about there.
I started keeping this journal based on a self-help book I read once that said that when you have a difficult decision to make, journaling to keep track of your thoughts and feelings over time can help you see the objective reality of your inner self better than relying purely on memory and your subjective thoughts and feelings at any given time. So that’s what I’m going to do for the next few days. And when I look back at it, if I’m still feeling like I do right now, I’m going to tell Phil it’s over.
But back to what I just found in the basement. First, you need to understand that when I say this house is old, I mean it is old. I don’t know a ton about styles of houses, but the realtor said that it was “Victorian style” and may have been built during the Victorian era, as the land records for the area first account for the house in 1884. But that’s also how far back the local records go for anything, and the house was already here, so it’s hard to say when it was actually built.
In any case, like I said, the house is beautiful. It’s made of light gray brick with dark gray fans of shingles draping the various peaks and curves of its roof like the feathers of some large wintery bird, and the room inside are a strange mix of large open spaces and tight alcoves and hallways. And while the entire house has a certain…weight to it, I kind of chalk that up to it being so old, and most of the weird feelings I get come from when I’m in the basement anyway.
The basement is surprisingly clean, being comprised of two large rooms devoid of any furnishings except for a row of empty gunracks that are built into one wall. My initial thought was to replace them with bookshelves at some point, but now I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be here long enough for it to matter. Anyway, enough about that. It’s time to talk about the note I found.
So I was moving some boxes down here when I noticed something sticking out of one of the walls. It was a piece of folded paper, so yellowed with age that I was afraid it was going to crumble when I opened it. It held, however, and I saw written inside that single line in beautiful handwriting.
Come live in the ashes of my heart.
I checked the place in the brick I had pulled it from and saw there was a gap in the mortar. I didn’t look closely at the time because of the lighting, but I think I’m going back down there with a flashlight and check it out again. Something is weird about that room anyway. I haven’t measured it, but I would swear that it is several feet shorter than the other room, and while there are reasons that could be the case, I almost feel like the brick wall with the note was built later than the rest to divide the basement. The brick looks slightly different than the rest, or at least I think it does.
Who knows? I’ll write more when I’m done checking it out. If I’m going to write this stuff down, I would like it to be more than just my complaining about my boyfriend problems. Fuck, I’m so lonely out here, and my job doesn’t start for two weeks. Anyway, signing off for now.
Journal Entry 2
There’s something behind that wall. I went back down there, shined a flashlight into the gap in the mortar, and it goes all the way through. The hole was too small for me to see and shine the light at the same time, so I got a screwdriver and poked out some more of the mortar until I could remove the brick. I couldn’t see much, but there is definitely another room over there and I thought I saw part of a bedframe.
About that time is when I heard Phil coming in upstairs. For some reason I didn’t want him to know about it yet, didn’t want to share my discovery. I had the uncharitable thought that I didn’t want him to “Phil all over it”, which is a general phrase I sometimes think of when he gets involved in some conversation or activity and just…lessens it somehow. Fuck, I sound like a bitch right now. I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that he can’t just enjoy something strange like this. He has an almost hostile reaction to things he doesn’t understand, and he would immediately want to either dismiss it or come up with some rational explanation. I just want to savor the mystery of it, even if just for a little while.
I put the brick back quickly and went upstairs, managing to avoid mentioning the note or the hidden room I had just found without strictly lying to him. I’m writing this before heading to bed, and I already have plans to go buy a sledgehammer in the morning. I’m going to see what’s in that room.
Journal Entry 3
So breaking down a brick wall, even an old and slightly crumbly one, is harder that I thought it would be. I kind of assumed that since I had so little trouble getting the one brick free, the rest would crumble in pretty easily, but not so much. I went to a local hardware store and bought a small sledgehammer, avoiding the cashier’s chipper questions about what a little lady like myself was going to use such a big hammer for, and when I got back to the house I went to work on the wall immediately.
The biggest problem wasn’t swinging it—it’s heavy, but I’m in good shape and I made sure I could swing it well before I bought it. The problem is the vibration. Every time it hit the bricks, shockwaves went up my arms all the way to my shoulders. I put on some gardening gloves I rooted out of a box in the garage, and it helped a little, but my hands were still buzzing and numb by the time I was done.
Still, after a little over an hour, the wall was about a third gone, which was more than enough to let me in and allow in more light. I had also picked up a small electric lantern at the store, and when I turned it on, it sent a wash of cold, white light out across the dark contours of the hidden room.
What I had seen before was a bed. A rusty iron frame bed with a thin mattress that was half black with rot. Next to the bed was a wooden nightstand that contained a few candle stubs in holders and on small plates, and against one wall was a cedar chest with what looked like some kind of leather-bound notebook sitting on top of it.
My heart was in my throat at this point. I had either found an old bedroom that had been walled up without ever being cleaned out, or I had found where someone had been imprisoned at some point. I considered calling the police, but there was no sign of the body, and there was such a sense of age and musty disuse here that I felt sure that any victims, if there were any, would be long gone by now anyway.
I was doing another sweep of the room with the lantern and my flashlight when I saw the shape of a man. I screamed, dropping the lantern and backing toward the opening in the wall. Then I realized what I was seeing wasn’t an actual man. It was the silhouette of a man painted or burned into the far wall.
My breathing still quick and painful, I looked around for several moments to make sure that I wasn’t mistaken, that there wasn’t some stranger in that abandoned room with me. But I saw nothing. Bending down, I got the lantern and gave a quick peek to the empty space underneath the bed and nightstand table before standing and walking to the silhouette.
Up close, I could see that it looked less like paint or burning and more like a form of mold or rot, though it was still undeniably in the shape of a man half a foot taller than myself and half again as broad. When I reached out to touch the black area where his chest would be, the wall had a slight spongeyness to it that made me pull back my finger quickly. Wiping my hand on my pants, I went over to the chest and sat the leather book aside. Inside the chest were clothes. Most the size for a large man, though some towards the bottom did look somewhat smaller. All of them were in surprisingly good condition, particularly given how old-fashioned they looked.
I felt a strange kind of guilt going through those clothes, as though I was prying into the private world of a stranger. I guess in some ways I was, but time had made the point moot all the same. There was nothing left but this dark room and the handful of belongings left behind. And, of course, that book.
I picked up the book and stepped back out into the main part of the basement where the light was better. The book seemed to be pristine, with signs of age but none of mold or decay. There was a leather cord tying it shut, and as I gently unwound the cord and opened the book, I could smell not only the leather and the pages, but I imagined I could smell the owner of the book as well. A masculine smell, a good smell that made the experience of holding that book and seeing the words written on the first page more personal, more powerful, than I can really describe.
The handwriting was the same as that note I had found stuck in the wall. It said “*The Last Testament of Justin Paring. Completed June 12, 1909. May this find its way into kinder hands than I have known.”
I’m about to start reading it, and I will try to transcribe it here as soon as possible. This feels so…important. I’m going to have to explain the room to Phil when he sees the wall, but for now at least, this book is going to stay a secret. Until next time, journal. Keep my secrets for me.
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Credits
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