A Lost Diary

While digging up the past I came across a diary of sorts. It was not an ordinary book by any means. The front cover had been ripped off to leave the title page exposed. Well worn as it might be—it still was intriguing.

The attic where I sit is dark and gloomy, cobwebs hang wherever they might attach themselves. I am sitting smack in the center of the room away from the eerie webs of the past—below a dim light that hangs from a frail fixture. I prepare myself, wishing to absorb whatever lies within the pages of the book on my lap.

Faintly I hear my mother singing to herself while doing chores. A tune of happiness and sunshine. The gloom of the attic once again takes me back to my task at hand.

You will never experience what I have at this darkest hour. You will never know the fear that I find as I sit in this very place below the dim light that hangs above me.

Wait—this is creepy. I suddenly realize that I was possibly sitting in the same exact spot where she was while writing these words. She, was the author of this diary a she? Why did I assume this. Focusing on the words before me, I read on.

In this house, the layers below me do not speak to me. I once reached out looking for a chance to go to where the voices traveled up from—only to be shoved back into this forsaken room. I no longer desire to go. Food is brought daily, left by the door. I once wished to know what it was like to be loved—no more. Today I begin my journal.

Not that I don’t feel loved, but I feel a connection to the person whose words I am reading. I close my eyes trying to imagine what kind of life they had. Was she an unwanted child put away to be forgotten about? Maybe she was being punished for being bad and this was her time-out room. Whatever it was, there was a story.

There is a noise near the window. Rising I look to see what it is. Peering out I see the massive oak tree shuddering its branches. A storm was coming. I return to my cozy spot in the center of the room below the hanging light fixture—once again absorbing myself in the words on the pages of the diary.

August 31 He usually comes around midnight, the boy from the woods. I don’t know his name, but he knows mine. He nearly always alerts me with a pebble knocking on the windowpane. He came tonight. I stood in front of the window looking down at him. I heard him whisper my name in the breeze. Sarah, Sarah, come play with me. I walked away, afraid of what might become of such an encounter. Maybe tomorrow.

September 1 I woke early to find my breakfast cold outside the door. Maybe you ask why I don’t leave if the door is unlocked. Stairs trail down on the other side. The walls hug them so as not to venture apart. I went down once to only find another door. I don’t understand why she has locked me up here. I don’t recall doing anything so terrible that it warranted this. My memories have evaded me. I don’t even recall what she looks like—my mother.

I was here for a while before she left me this material to write with. In my anger I ripped the cover off. Quite some time later—can’t be sure how long—I began writing this diary. Today being day two.

Lunch was a PB&J sandwich and apple juice. She seems to want me to eat and not just wither away up here. Supper was a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the brink of coldness. My appetite was holding on as my stomach shrunk from the small portions I was fed.

He’s here, I wonder if he will speak more than my name.

My legs are cramping as I sit here. I wonder if her legs cramped not having the exercise needed to keep her healthy. I wonder if they ever met—her and the boy in the yard. The light flickered as the storm brewed in the not so far distance. The book still in my hand called once again for my attention and fell open several pages ahead.

October 25 Fall is coming. The leaves on the great oak outside my window have already dried up. Nearly bare branches wave as winter wishes to come early. He was here again although he didn’t whisper my name. He paced back and forth, occasionally looking up at me. At one point he ran to the edge of the woods and turned raising his arms as if asking me a question. Why does he come for me? Who is he? Who am I for that matter.

I yearn to touch his dark curls—to have his arms wrap around me in a strength I never knew. Who is he that calls to me?

Tears run down my cheeks as I close the book and hold it close to my heart. The stairs are dark as I slowly drag my fingers down the cold walls, thinking of Sarah. I open the door that leads to the living space where my mother was cleaning.

“Hello dear, what have you been up to?”

Startled as she interrupted my thoughts, I answered. “Oh, I was just exploring the attic.” We have only lived here for a couple of months. Curiously, I questioned her. “Do you know anything about the people who lived here before us, or even before them?’

She had a curious look in her eye as she contemplated my question. “No Dear, Why do you ask?”

“I found a book, well rather a diary. Apparently a girl was locked in the attic. There is no year in the diary, just the month and day. It is odd.”

“What is so odd about it?” Mother ask.

“I don’t know. It’s just the stuff she says. Like they didn’t feed her much and they kept her locked up there.” A concerned look covered Mothers face. “Oh, and there was a boy that visited from below the window. I don’t know if they ever met—I haven’t got that far yet.”

“That is odd. Does she give her name?”

“Sarah.”

“You know I do remember a girl from early school—her name was Sarah. She disappeared or rather stopped attending school. Everyone assumed they home schooled her. We never seen her after that.” Mother stopped as if to contemplate her thoughts. “I didn’t know where she lived.”

“Could be her, but I wonder what happened. She doesn’t say why they locked her up, like she didn’t know.”

“Can I see the book that you found.”

“Sure!” I excitedly run back up to the attic and grab the book that lie in the center of the floor below the hanging light fixture. I started toward the door, it slammed shut—I screamed, startled by the suddenness. I'm not sure what just happened, however, I am pretty sure the book has no intention of leaving this room.

“Are you ok up there?” Mother shouted from below.

Taking a deep breath I walked back to the center of the room and placed the book back where I found it. Once again walking to the door—the atmosphere more calm—I turn the knob and open it.

Scampering down the stairs I nearly run into my mother. “Are you okay?” She ask.

“Strangest thing—the book would not let me bring it down here.”

“What do you mean it wouldn’t let you?” Concern once again covered Mother’s face.

“Just that Mom,” I said. “It would not let me leave the attic until I put it down.”

Mother looks at me horrified. “That’s creepy.”

“I know right.” I said. I’m sure a horrified look is covering my face as well.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to go up there and see what the fuss is about.” She nudged me as she walked passed to climb the steep steps.

“Where is this diary?”

“There Mom,” I point to the center of the room below the hanging light fixture.

She walked right over there and picked it up. “Is this it?”

“Yeah.” I answered.

“There are no words on the pages. Are you sure this is it?”

“Let me see.” I swiped the book from her hands. Had I been dreaming. ”Mom, I swear the words were here.” I turn the book over and flip through the blank pages. Suddenly, I feel ill. “You said you remembered her—Sarah.”

“I think too much has gone on in the past months. Why don’t you go take a nap and we will go out for dinner when you wake up.” She turned and walked back down the steps.

Still holding the book, I turn it in my hands. Once again, I open it, this time more toward the end.

December 10 Today is my birthday—or at least I think it is. It is hard to know if I counted the days right when I first was locked up here. No cake or presents. Maybe they forgot.

He’s here! I must go with him. I promised myself I would go if he came on my birthday. He is waiting for me by the edge of the woods. I must not keep him.

That was the last entry. I walk across the room still holding the diary. I hear a pebble hit the window.

Across the way, I see her running only to stop and turn to wave at me. He waited at the edge of the woods. They walked through the snowy tree line, leaving behind footprints that were blown away in the winter breeze.

I purposely lay the diary in the center of the attic floor, below the hanging light fixture. I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me, I leave the past where it belongs.