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.

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.

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

An excerpt from The Eccentric Diaries of Kristopher Krum.

The whistling persists again today in the valley below my hill. The unnamed books from the cellar say it's an omen, a sign of poor will to come.

Against my better will I walked to the foot of the hill where the grass grows above my head. The wind tossed the tassels about. They licked at my hair and tickled my cheeks. I smelled warmth in the distance. A fire, maybe.

From the window of my cabin I see an ocean of manila stalks pocked by dark and rigid cattails. The sky is always clear. The sun is never to be seen. The kitchen faucet continues to drip. At least the floor no longer creaks beneath my feet.

I wondered about the books and the signs and the soft sounds serenading me as I cooked a dinner of pasta and tomato paste. That's all I have left for hot meals. In the pantry are twenty more cans of the paste, thirteen more boxes of short and thick noodles, more jars of pickled meats and vegetables than I care to consider.

I wonder how long until I need to open them.

I marked another "X" on the calendar. Tweny-two days since my mother and father had left.