Chapter 7
The night made its home in tiny Flat Top Mountain, Tennessee. Two days had passed since their arrival and they seemed to drag along as a desert caravan. The suns were early, but were barely seen in their full glory. Evenings slept in and still retired beneath the earthen mounds early.
All the while, their grandfather hummed and smoked his pipe on the porch, listening to the birds sing. Abigail clung to her books and phone (when she could actually find service).
Tonight, the sky shed its tears on the green and brown tresses beneath it. It’s wailing funneled into the ears of the poor souls within 20 miles. The room seemed chilly for a midsummer night. Shivers raced through his bones. Logan searched for socks and a hoodie. Applying them to his ghostly flesh, he rubbed his hands together and let his teeth chatter. Logan’s phone was lying on his bunk unresponsive; cold, suffocating in its loneliness.
Logan tore his eyes off of his hand-sized computer and gazed at the partial library across the room. Age had surfaced many of the books' bindings, or what was left of them. He had been a bit of a reader in his elementary days, but hadn’t yet settled on a solid story in years. For some reason, a story seemed to be the remedy of his debilitating boredom.
He descended his perch and made his way to the dyed tree bark. A fair few dusty hardbacks, thick and thin, crowded the space. A large portion of the middle shelf was occupied by tall, thick, cardboard-bound encyclopedias in alphabetical order. Each spine revealed its identity. A score or two of history books were at the ready, as well as classical novels older than Grandpa Johnson himself. Poems compiled over the years of Edgar Allen Poe were nestled in between other books as well. He chuckled to himself, “No wonder Grandpa Johnson had so many kooky stories”.
Logan's eyes traveled again over each book. So many options. “Oh, Logan, just pick something! It doesn’t have to be anything with-”. He stopped. What appeared to be leather-bound journals sat neatly on the very top shelf. “How could I have missed those?”
Grabbing a small wooden desk chair, he stepped on top. As Logan peered at the three diaries, he noticed they were all different shades. Time had made these artifacts weary of use. He grabbed the one to the left.
He opened it. The pages were yellowed and smelled of-well-ancientness. Black ink tattooed the first piece paper.
June 23, 1955
Dear Journal,
School has been out for a couple weeks now. Not much is brewing here, as usual, except one thing: Jack and Cody. Normally, I would be with them, running through the creek after chores, camping, going to the county fair...not this year.
Sounds familiar…
Logan jumped off the chair and ran up to his bunk.
They’re gone. Just like that. No hint. No good-bye. They’re just gone. I haven’t the foggiest idea where they went. There’s been talk around town. Some say they fell on hard times and lost their home. Others say their father was caught in an affair, and they left to keep it quiet.
There isn’t one thing they say about them that I believe. If something was wrong, they would’ve said something to me. I think...
The smell of bacon danced its way into his nostrils. He moaned inwardly. “Just a few more minutes. I have to look at the next-”
“Logan,” a voice called, “come get it while it’s hot sunny!”
Logan sighed and placed the open book down, climbed off his mattress, and scurried downstairs, his mind intrigued.
“Either one of ya youngin’s fancy a game of chess?”
Abigail looked up from her 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, “No I’m all set”.
Logan sighed, “Sure, Grandpa J, I’ll take a gander at that board”.
“Well goodie,” the old man said gleefully, “I’ll have to, uh, pull ‘er out here”. As he did so, Abigail stood and yawned, “I am heading to bed.”
“Alrighty then, little miss,” Grandpa Johnson conceded, “good night, my dear”.
“Good night, grandpa. Good night, Logan,” she yawned.
“Night”.
The game ran on between the sly ancient and the sprout. Logan’s head drifted back to the diary. There was something about it, but nothing he could quite put his finger on. Sure he could connect with the author a little. Something though, he could tell, lurked beyond the first page.
“So, your head seems to be in another world there”, Grandpa Johnson pried, catching him off guard.
Logan caught himself, “Oh, uh, no I’m, uh, just focused”.
He raised his grey brows, “Betcha it’s not the game”.
Logan shifted from his black knight to his grandfather’s face. “Um, well, it's a book that I found.”
His grandfather raised his eyebrows.
“I just started it. I keep thinking about what might happen next already”.
“Oh ho”, his grandfather chuckled, “I once knew a young man like that once.” His grandfather seemed to take a slight turn down memory lane and veered back into the present lane. “Who’s this author?”
“I’m not sure. I think it might be some sort of-,” he struggled to find the words. He couldn’t tell him it’s diary. A man’s thoughts were a secret to be guarded by few. “Maybe a, uh, autobiography. But it’s, uh, unique”.
He paused and peered at the ancient across from him.
“Oh yes. Each story of each person is unique. It will always teach you something. Each one is worth reading for the sake of learning, at least.” He leaned forward. “So is the watching of a seasoned gamer win,” he grinned as he moved his queen diagonally to the black king. “Check mate”.
Logan smiled and dropped his head, then lifted it again. The two chuckled as they collected their pieces and stowed them away.
“Where did you get that book?”
“The old ones in my room. I was needing some-inspiration”.
Grandpa Johnson chuckled, “There's plenty. Be careful with inspiration.”
"Doesn't inspiration just give you good ideas?"
"Oh it can, but ideas always become something else." There was a twinkle in his eye that Logan could not simply identify. It pierced his soul.
"Like what," he asked.
The elder moved in a little closer, "The adventure of a lifetime."
Logan puzzled for a moment.
“Welp, mmmhh, I better get some shut-eye. The morning comes when I only blink anymore.”
Logan nodded, “Good game, grandpa”.
“Good game, sunny. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Logan treaded up the wooden stairs and entered his room, pondering his grandfather’s words. “What kind of adventure lies in simply finding a way to survive two weeks with your grandpa?” he thought. He shrugged.
Upon climbing up to his bunk, he reached for the book. He was waiting to read it. But he had a feeling that this book was the one waiting; waiting not for simply reading, but to come to life as he followed suit.
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