The sixth of June in the year of nineteen hundred and twenty seven

An excerpt from The Eccentric Diaries of Kristopher Krum.

I teased the notion of escape by testing the earth behind the forest of grass that encases me. It was cold on my toe, which I dipped into the ground as if contemplating cold water.

The whistling grows ever mournful each day, and I find myself entranced by its call. I count away my hours watching for something. Anything.

I discovered a new book beneath an upturned box in the cellar. A crack ran down the cover. Every page was torn vertically down its center. Half is missing. I skimmed the first page. It seems to be a work of fiction. There was a hole in the ground and a rope on a tree and a girl with unkempt hair.

I'll read more tomorrow.

The sky remains light. Two months, fourteen days since the sun last set. Father never said a word about it before he left. Mother would whisper to herself occasionally. "Not again. Not again."

Twenty-three days since they left. I consider searching for them. I ponder the whistling.

Another "X" on the calendar.