Journal Entry 5
I’ve learned and experienced a lot more since I started transcribing Justin’s book, and this record is quickly becoming more of an insurance policy for my safety than an outlet for some kind of relationship angst. I think I might be in real trouble here and I don’t understand what’s going on. But before I get further into that, I will post the last portion of Justin’s writings and then come back after to explain what has happened since I first read it.
When I entered the tunnel for the first time, I walked for what seemed like hours. The path would slant up and down, wind this way and that, but the strangest part was that I never grew tired. Whether it was just my exuberance at finally being free of that room or something suffusing the sweet air I was breathing, I went on until I reached a branching path. I took the right most of three options and went on. Five more decisions later, always taking the rightmost option, and I found myself approaching a wall.
I feared that my journey was either at an end or I would have to try and breach the wall to continue, but as I drew closer it faded away and my passage was clear. I was in a basement much like my own, but different in a variety of ways. There was no wall and door partitioning part of this basement into a cell, and the space was entirely bare of any possessions or furniture. After glancing around the basement for a moment, I crept slowly up the steps and eased open the door to the kitchen. The room was bereft of any signs of life or habitation, and the only noise was some distant sound from outside.
Exploring the rest of the house, I found much the same. There were no signs of anyone living there. When I looked out the window upstairs, I began to understand why. This version of the house was sitting on the bedrock of a small island surrounded by blue sea as far as the eye could see. That wasn’t entirely true, I suppose, as I could see a larger landmass near the edge of the horizon to the west, but that did nothing to change the fact that this house was wholly isolated and remote. In the span of thirty minutes I had walked the length and breadth of the island twice, and it confirmed my suspicions that I was alone in this corner of whatever strange world this might be.
Well, almost alone.
Two hundred yards from the house the Ghost Tree stood proudly, its leaves blowing gently in the breeze coming off the water. It couldn’t be the same tree, of course, yet at the same time I felt sure it was. The tree was somehow connecting this place and where I was from like an umbilical cord of some kind. My mind was torn between taking in all the strange and beautiful sights and marveling at the implications of this hidden, alternate world.
In the end, the joy of being in fresh air and sunshine won out. I spent an hour walking the small stretch of sandy beach in front of the house and looking at the exterior of the house itself. It was strange. This house was like mine, but it wasn’t the same. For one thing, it was in far too good a condition, with none of the age or damage that had existed on mine when I last saw its outer walls. For another, there was no sign that a person had ever lived there at all. I saw no screws or nail holes, no faded stains from a piece of furniture or a plant. I had the thought that this wasn’t the house at all, but rather the idea of the house. The perfect ideal.
The idea was compelling, and for some reason it temporarily mollified my need for further explanation. Still, I couldn’t stay here indefinitely. I still needed clean water and food, and I wanted to ensure I could find my way back to my world before I stayed too long here or elsewhere—if there were other worlds at the end of those other branching paths. With a heavy heart, I went back inside. Going back down into the basement was the hardest part, but I forced myself down those steps and into the place that served as my hell in another version of the world.
The wall began to dissolve at my approach, and on an impulse I bent down and scratched the number “2” onto the floor in the area where the bed was in my version. I wanted to keep track if there were multiple places too similar to discern, and that seemed the best way on short notice.
Then with a deep breath I walked back through the wall and into the tunnel. To my surprise, I backtracked rather easily, and within a few minutes I was walking back into my cell. After looking around the room briefly to ensure it truly was my cell, I scratched a “1” into the floor beneath my bed. I then lay down on my bed and began to formulate a plan.
I would store up food and water for the next two days and then venture back out on the third. Ideally, I would either find the tools in some other world to secure my freedom here or find a world that would be more accepting of me than this one. Either way, the last two days have been the hardest of all my time here, I think.
The anticipation of new places, of more freedom, is so wonderful I can hardly bear it. The fear that it won’t work for me a second time, or that my plan will be discovered, fills me with the deepest dread. But I am at the precipice now. I have made a crude supply bag out of my pillowcase and the wall, which has been dormant for the last two days, is now already fading away like morning mist in a patch of sunlight.
It may be that these are the last words I write in this precious book that has been my sole confidant in the darkness and light of these past few days. I hope the end of this story, chronicled or no, finds me well and safe and free.
Journal Entry 6
That was the end of the writing of Justin Paring. When I finished reading it, I went back down to that room and I saw the number “1” scratched onto the floor as he described. But more than that, I saw what looked like a thin, red root sticking out between the bricks on the far wall. It was just outside the edge of the black, spongey man-shape on the wall, and when I stepped back I saw it was actually close enough to one shadow hand that it looked as though the root and finger were moving to touch each other.
I felt a thrill of excitement and fear, and before I knew it I was reaching out to touch the root myself. A sudden noise from upstairs brought me up short only inches from contact. It was Phil coming home. Still determined to not share what I’d discovered, I hid the book and went up to greet him, trying to spin vague tales of unpacking and home improvements while counting the hours until he was asleep and I could think what to do next.
Ultimately I decided it was a good thing that Phil had interrupted me. I needed to learn more about all of this before I made any rash decisions. I started by asking Phil for the name of the real estate agent that had sold us the house. I had been present for the signing of some paperwork at the end, but I had never dealt with the agent.
But Phil told me that there was no agent. He had bought the house from an estate administrator who had listed the house online. That was strange, because I felt sure he’d mentioned an agent before, but I couldn’t say for sure. He asked why I was wondering, and I made up the excuse that I wanted to know if the old owners had the names of specific paint colors they’d used in the house. In typical Phil fashion, he accepted this without further argument and finished getting ready for bed.
The next day, I went to the library, which unlike every movie or t.v. show I’ve ever seen, was grossly unhelpful in finding out any details about the creepy old house I was living in or the prior owners. I was running out of ideas when I passed a sign that said “Historical Society”.
It was apparently a quasi-museum to local history, though its small size and overwhelming devotion old farm equipment and pictures of the main street fifty years earlier didn’t give the best impression of its depth or breadth. Fortunately, the woman that ran the place was very friendly and knowledgeable. She said that her great-grandmother had actually been a distant cousin of the Paring family.
“They were an odd bunch to be sure. Kept to themselves, especially as the boys got older. Then people started noticing that Justin was nowhere to be found. Never came to town or went to church any more. But it was a different time back then. People tended to their own business more, and they weren’t going to ask questions if they didn’t have to. Rumors were that Justin had run off or died and the parents just couldn’t take it.”
“So nobody ever saw Justin again?” I felt a mixture of sadness and relief welling up inside me. Sadness that Justin’s terrible life had been real and relief that he might have finally escaped it to a better place.
She shook her head. “No, but then the rest of the family didn’t last long either. One night, someone came in on them and killed the parents and the brother. Or at least that’s what people figured. There was blood and they were all missing, though no bodies were ever found.”
I couldn’t help but feel some grim satisfaction that they were punished for how they’d treated Justin. Whatever he did to them, it wasn’t enough. But the woman was frowning now.
“I could have sworn I had a picture of them. I know I did. I swear, this is going to drive me crazy until I find it.” She looked up from talking to herself and patted my arm with a smile. “I’m sorry, honey. But I tell you what. Give me your number and I’ll send you a copy of the picture if I find it.”
Half an hour later and I was back down in the basement. Enough with being safe. I wanted to see how much of it was real. I reached out and touched the root, feeling a surge of power flood my body as I did so. Falling back against the rotten mattress, my hand punched through the fabric and onto rusty springs. I jerked my hand away, fears of tetanus dancing in my head, but I saw no cut or scratch. Besides, I had other things to think about. Like how the wall in front of me had just dissolved.
Still feeling the rush of energy crackling across my skin, I stood up and began walking forward. The tunnel was just as he had described, and I could smell the sweet, glowing air wafting into that dank secret room as I…
I felt my phone buzz once. Then again.
Stifling a wave of irritation, I took out my phone and opened it. There were two new text messages from a number I didn’t have a name associated with. When I opened it, I realized it was the woman from the historical society. The first text was a message. It said:
Found it! This is a picture from Easter of 1901. The Baptist Church took family photos for all the local families that were members. This is the Paring family from left to right. John, Stewart, Edna, Justin.
The second text was the picture itself. It was black and white, of course, but of surprisingly good quality for its age. Zooming in on my phone, I filled the screen with the faces of each person in turn.
John, his smile friendly but sad.
Stewart, his eyes hard and stern.
Edna, her face open and warm.
Justin…Justin…it…it wasn’t possible.
I texted the woman back, asking her if she was sure. If she was sure that the person in that picture, the person on the far right, was Justin Paring back in 1901. A moment later she responded that she was certain, was something wrong?
I didn’t reply back. I had no response to give that would make any sense. Because the person in the picture, years younger looking but unmistakably him, the person she said was Justin Paring…I knew him. I knew him very well.
It was Phil.
Just then I heard the front door open upstairs. He was home.
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Credits
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