The Journal

A Story by Ramsey

I was heading off to college out of state, so I probably wouldn’t see my beloved grandmother for a long time. My dad had suggested that I spend my last weekend here with her. So, there I was, sitting with my grandmother, reminiscing about the past. I enjoyed hearing her stories. They filled me with wonder and awe. I loved imagining my grandma when her face wasn’t filled with wrinkles and her hair was golden blonde, not white.

I knew Grandma had been lonely since Grandpa died. It wasn’t hard to tell. I thought she liked having me around. She seemed to smile bigger and laugh louder when I was with her.

On this last Saturday, Grandma suggested we do something different. "How about we go up into the attic and take a look at some of my old pictures, hm?" She asked me, a sweet smile on her face.

My stomach filled with excitement. I've asked her for as long as I could remember if we could look through the stuff in the attic, but her answer was always no. I never understood why.

I nodded my head eagerly and kept repeating the word "yes." Grandma chuckled and began to rise from her cushioned chair. I followed her like I was a dog and she had food. She moved very slowly and cautiously. I was afraid she might lose her balance and fall over. I stood close to her in case she needed my assistance.

We carefully made our way to the room where we could enter the attic. Grandma pulled a string hanging from the ceiling. The square door opened, and a ladder unfolded to the ground. Dust fell from the small hole in the ceiling. I coughed and waved my hand through the dust,

trying to clear it away. When I finally stopped hacking, Grandma had begun her climb up the ladder. I was close behind her, ready to save her if she fell.

I let out a sigh of relief when Grandma made it safely into the attic. She was panting, but she didn’t fall. I gave her a few moments to catch her breath as I inspected the dank area.

The attic smelled stale, and boxes with water stains were scattered all around the room. Light shone through a single bulb, casting shadows on the walls. The floor felt unsteady under my weight, and I was afraid to stand up, even though the ceiling was high enough to stand.

I hesitantly got to my feet and began opening boxes. Grandma followed suit. We found old photos, baby clothes, trophies, old toys that I assumed were my mother's, among other things. I listened to her stories about the objects, filling my imagination with images of her going on dates, cheering at high school football games, meeting my grandfather, and all the other pieces of the puzzle that created my grandma. I was absolutely amazed. I looked at my grandma like she was a goddess.

While going through a pile of polaroids, Grandma became swept off into another land. I knew better than to bring her back into the present. I had never seen that sparkle in her eyes that appeared while looking at those pictures.

I eventually drifted away from her and found a small, unlabeled box. I curiously opened it to find a small, leather bound journal inside. The cover and pages were stained with red splotches. Assuming it was an old diary of some sort, I flipped open the journal and began to read.

The top of the page was dated November 17, 1967. It was my grandma's handwriting. She was 21.

"Today marks victim 6, lasted 72 hours. Male. Mid to late 30s. Cause of death; bleeding out."

I was confused. Why did my grandma write about this man? Why was he victim 6?

I continued reading. "Harry enjoyed this one. Said he liked how he screamed." Harry was my grandfather. Horrified, I kept reading, hoping to find some answers.

I read the first hand, detailed account of how this man died. Died at the hands of my grandparents. This man, without a name, tortured and murdered by my sweet grandparents.

I refused to believe it. I turned to a different page. "Victim 13, 12 hours. C.O.D., electrocution. Female, late teens." Again, there was a descriptive story of this woman's death.

The entire journal was filled with accounts of the murders. And the murderer was in the room with me.

I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the grotesque stories in the journal. I didn’t wish to perceive them as true, but the sheer amount of details made me believe that Grandma didn’t make this up.

"What did you find there, dear?" Grandma's voice snapped me back to reality. Her once sweet words sent chills of fear down my spine. I couldn’t let her know I found this book. What if she tries to make sure I wouldn’t tell anyone, ever?

"Oh, nothing." I slammed the book shut and threw it back into the box. I smiled at Grandma, hoping my overenthusiastic grin would hide the terror in my eyes.

Grandma's smile faded. "No, what did you find?" Her voice was stern, and she emphasized each word like she was talking to a toddler. She put the stack of pictures she was looking through away and moved in my direction.

Panic rose in my chest. The fear in my stomach grew into a monster clawing at my insides. The feelings became more intense the closer my grandmother got to me.

I was frozen with fear. I should have found something to show her, to cover the fact that I had discovered her dark past, but I couldn’t move. My legs were glued to the floor and my arms went numb.

"It's really nothing, Grandma." My voice cracked, but my grin stayed plastered on my face.

Grandma stopped pretending to be friendly. What was left of her fake smile disappeared. She seemed to be bristling. Whether it was from anger or fear, I don’t know. "Tell me what you found. Now."

I contemplated my decisions. I could stay, but she was a murderer and I didn’t like my odds. I had to run. I was faster than her. I could make it. I could drive to the police station and tell them what I had discovered. I realized that no one would believe me.

I had to take the journal.

Without thinking any longer, I tore open the box that contained the journal. I grabbed the wretched book and stood up as fast as I could. Grandma caught her eye on the journal, and a flash of recognition went through her eyes. At first she looked scared, but it soon turned to anger.

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. My chest was pounding, my heartbeat deafening. Grandma was clenching her fists. It looked like she was debating trying to fight me into submission. I planned out my escape. If I could just get past her fast enough, there would be no way she would catch up to me. She was frail, slow, weak. But I had to go around her. She stood between me and the ladder to my freedom.

I finally got my feet to move. I bolted to the left of my grandma. She managed to get ahold of my arm, but I twisted free. I climbed down the ladder faster than I ever had before, jumping off the last few rungs. I ran out the door of the house and leaped into my car. I jammed my keys into the ignition, praying my crappy car would start. Thankfully it did, and I sped down the street and straight to the police station, the journal sitting in the passenger's seat.

I parked at the police station and ran inside with the book. I was crying, and I probably looked ridiculous, but I was too scared to care. I was too afraid to look back to see if Grandma was following me. She could have been right behind me for all I knew.

I slammed through the doors of the station and a receptionist came running to help me. My vision was blurred and my knees were wobbling, about to give out. The receptionist kept asking me what was wrong but I couldn’t answer. I fell to my knees and she held me and yelled for help. Officers came running to us. I felt like I was drowning in my own tears. One of the officers pulled the journal from my hands and started flipping through it.

"Who wrote this?" He asked me, concern in his voice. I tried to create words, but I couldn’t. They turned into more tears and panic. Everyone stared at me.

"My grandma," I managed to stutter. My mind was a blur and I couldn’t focus on anything. A few of the officers ran out to their cars. One of them took me by the arm and led me to their squad car.

The officer kept telling me, "I need you to tell me where her house is." I got into the car and tried to get my brain to work again. I took deep breaths and nodded my head. I had to do this. These people needed justice and closure and my grandma needed punishment.

The officer started driving, and I directed him to my grandma's house. I prayed she was there and didn’t chase after me. We got outside her house and her car was there. I began to panic again. The officer kept telling me that I was okay, I was safe.

I stayed in the car as all the officers went rushing to the house, busting through the doors. There were at least five squad cars. An officer knocked on the window of the car, and I stifled a yelp. It scared me a lot. I couldn’t stand being back here. I opened the door and got out. I stood by the officer and she asked me if I was okay. I shrugged and she hugged me. We stood there for a long time until an officer came out of the house and whispered something to the officer hugging me.

The officer that came out of the house looked at me and said, "Your grandma is dead."

I didn’t feel anything. Part of me wanted to be sad. Part of me wanted to be relieved. So much had happened, I didn’t know what to feel. The officer led me into the house. I clutched onto her hand. I began to tremble, and the officer held my hand tightly. She pulled me to the room where the ladder to the attic was. Laying on the floor by the ladder was my grandma, in a pool of her own blood, a gash on her head.

"She must have fallen when she chased you down the ladder," the officer said. I stared at the corpse of this woman I used to love, but now despised with all my heart. She was dead. My murderous grandmother was dead. I was free.