Wanderer
Wanderer
By
James Lincoln
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead or undead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by James B. Lincoln
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1470022259
ISBN-10: 1470022257
Cover design by James Lincoln
Third Edition
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The following account is from a journal recovered by the HK Team from the house of the unnamed author. Hopefully this can help shed additional light on the incident that occurred in the foothills of Cleveland National Forest.
Entry 1
The attic door creaked and popped with dust and paint as I opened it from its spot in the ceiling. The wooden ladder unfolded and slid down onto the carpet. Mandy sat at the bottom, wagging her tail, while I climbed up it. It was a rickety old ladder and I was always nervous to use it. I had almost forgotten it was there until I finished reading The Hobbit last night, my last available book.
I could go up to the school library and get a few more books, like more survival books, but after what happened the last time I don’t plan on leaving my house. I remembered the box of books my mom had put in the attic years ago. She loved books and for some reason never got rid of any of them. She had them all piled up in their room until finally my dad made her box them up so he could put them in the attic.
I was completely dreading going up to the attic. So far I had managed to steer clear of it. All of the family photos and knick-knacks are up there in boxes. I took them down off of the walls and mantle a few days after I boarded up the house. I couldn’t bear to look at them knowing they were never coming back.
It was hot up there and I instantly started sweating. No matter what time of year it was, it was always hot up there. I scanned the boxes piled up around the attic space with the flashlight I had brought, careful to stay away from those certain boxes filled with old memories. At this point I wouldn’t care if the box was full of old romance novels, I needed something to help pass the time.
I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping myself busy, but there’s only so much one can do. First it was the cleaning. I would spend hours rolling a lint roller over the carpet. That didn’t last long because it took about three rollers to complete the house and we only had twenty-four rollers. It seems excessive, having that many lint rollers, but then again you didn’t know my Mom. Luckily after the rollers were gone I found a manual vacuum stuffed in the rafters above the garage. It made cleaning a lot easier.
After that I discovered gardening. Again. With that activity I killed two birds with one stone. It kept me sane and we were able to have fruits and vegetables in our diet other than the canned crap in the garage, although I could never keep that orange tree alive. Boy do I miss oranges.
It didn’t take long to find the box of books right up front. I was lucky there weren’t any items in there to upset my fragile emotional state. Unfortunately, it was mostly made up of those old romance novels, but I was able to salvage a few titles. One I’m particularly excited to start, and the other, surprisingly, is this journal. I remember my father got it for me on my birthday. I don’t know what he was thinking when he got it and I didn’t really want it, so I hid it in the box full of books before he stowed them away in the attic.
For some reason it doesn’t affect me like I thought it would, bringing back a flood of memories. Memories I would be quick to push aside to avoid the pain. Maybe it’s the thought behind the journal, something to help cope with the feelings instead of push them aside. At first I was apprehensive about it. I’ve never been one to write down my feelings.
My apprehension didn’t last long though. I decided to fill it with the trials that I face day to day. Maybe someday somebody will find it and learn from my failures, and successes.
Entry 2
Home was a two-thousand square foot single story house on a quiet street behind a golf course in the unincorporated part of town. My parents got a killer deal on it. I heard there was someone murdered in the house, but I never found out for sure.
On the north side of the house were the three bedrooms; two regular, one for me and one for my sister, Emily, and my parent’s master bedroom. When you walked in the door, directly in front of you was the family room, or was it the living room, I never could figure out the difference. This was the room we were never allowed to be in except when we had guests.
The south side of the house was where you would find the kitchen, dining room, and what I would call the living room, where the TV was.
The garage sat off the west side of the living room.
Attached to the dining room was a small sun room that led out into the backyard.
The backyard was tiered, with steps leading up the center to the gate that led to the golf course behind our house. The first tier was a flat cement courtyard, where you could gather or put lawn furniture. Currently a system of wires strung up by PVC pipe ran overhead where I could hang my buckets to catch the water when it rained. The second tier was made up of the garden where I grew the various vegetables I
