The Diary

Victor sneezed amid clouds of dust. The smell of mothballs was always present in his grandmother’s house, but here it was unbearable. He kept waving the feather duster, winding between furniture and drawers without knowing where he was going, until he came upon an old chest that caught his attention. It stood among a collection of monkey heads and a totem made of grotesque faces, carved in an age long forgotten. Its shape was simple and banal—no decorations, no seals, no marks. Victor set the duster aside and knelt before the chest. He lifted the lid, which yielded with a faint groan.

Inside were three objects: a quill, an inkwell, and a diary. It was bound in leather, and on its clear, gleaming surface a name had been burned into it: Victor.

Everyone in the village feared the grandmother, but only her family knew what she was truly capable of. Victor’s mouth went dry at the thought that she might be using her arts against him. He knew he was not exactly her favorite grandson. There had to be a reason she had him dusting an old, abandoned attic.

He took the thick notebook and began turning the pages. The handwriting was crude. Strange, Victor thought. The words seemed made of puddles rather than strokes. He brushed the ink with his fingers and felt a tingling sensation. Then he read:

Victor was walking along the forest path with his friend Pedro. The two boys laughed under their breath. They had slipped away from school to go to the village circus…

Victor remembered that day. He had been seven years old. He had stolen a few coins from his mother to buy the tickets. No one had ever found out. A heaviness settled over the boy’s chest and arms. He glanced over his shoulder. Suddenly, he felt he was not alone. He turned the pages. He read several more moments from his life, narrated in horrifying detail. Soon he was unable to go on. Tears and fear blurred his vision. He twisted the diary sharply and the pages spun, crackling like dead leaves. He reached the end. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he read:

Victor sneezed amid clouds of dust. The smell of mothballs was always present in his grandmother’s house…

He stopped. The notebook was now warm like living skin, trembling in his hands as new letters formed to narrate what was happening. Victor dropped it and crawled toward a wardrobe.

On the floor the notebook breathed. With a sigh, the last page turned. The paper sweated black drops that twisted into crooked lines. Into letters.

Victor lost control; he had seen too much, but it was already too late. He sprang to his feet and ran toward the staircase. The old steps gave way beneath his weight, and Victor fell. His dear grandmother found his cold body at dusk. Now he sleeps in the garden, beneath a mantle of lilies…

… "

–Continue reading in its original Spanish language at fictograma.com–