The eighth of June in the Year of Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Seven

An excerpt from The Curious Journals of Kristopher Krum.

I have resolved to leave the hill.

Tonight I packed a satchel. Two cans of tomato paste. A two-quart pot. One jar of pickled sausages, which I cringe at the thought of opening. I found a folding knife in the bottom drawer of my father’s dresser and placed it in my pocket. I packed a spool of wire, an extra pair of socks and a deck of cards, just in case.

I also plan to bring the half-book I found two days ago. The story makes no sense with most of the text missing. A character by the name of Stella holds a significant role, and at about the mid-point of the book appears a genealogy of the Krum family. I wonder if it’s my family? But I don’t recognize any names.

My father had red hair, rectangular spectacles and an inclination for nibbling on anything in his hands. I always figured him for an intellectual. He spoke little and played less, but he always found ways to share his affections, particularly by gifting trinkets to me when mother wasn’t looking.

Before he left, Father dropped a kaleidoscope in the doorway. I went after him to return the device but instead saw my name scrawled along its side. He gave gifts unconventionally.

There’s a trick to this kaleidoscope, though I have yet to discover what. He never leaves simple toys. I tried twisting it, throwing it, dipping it in water. Nothing seems to change.

I think I’ll bring that with me tomorrow, too.