The Collection

“Hey crazy! I know it’s a long shot because it’s miserable outside, but me and Jazz are going to the movies, wanna come?”

Keeton says, pulling me from my blissful trance. I turn from my bedroom window to face her, “I love that you still ask after all these years. You know my place is here amongst my books on days such as these.”

“Amongst? God you are so weird. Okay, just wanted to make sure”.

The rain drizzles at a steady pace keeping everything shrouded in gloomy wetness. These kinds of days are my favorite. My two roommates think I’m insane. Don’t get me wrong, cotton ball clouds on a sunny day are great. But rainy days are perfect for staying in pajamas and burying my nose in the sweet smelling pages of an old book. I can almost hear Mr. Darcy calling me from the shelf across the room.

“We out, bye.” Keeton and Jazz grab their rain jackets and leave. I drift to my book shelf but, having a craving for something new, decide on a trip Bourton and Holmes

The bell jingles as I push open the door to my favorite used bookstore. I call it my secret garden because it’s so intimate and quiet. The best kept secret in Manhattan.

“Sky, what brings you in, I thought days like these are “pajama days,” the store manager teases.

“Hey Craig. You are correct, but I want something new that I don’t own or that I haven’t read twice. Got any suggestions?”

“Sure do, third shelf on the right. I just got a shipment yesterday.”

I head to the shelf and rifle through the worn covers. One book catches my eye, it looks new and perfect among the tattered used books. Its black leather is smooth and has a sheen, the binding is like it was made yesterday. I pluck it from the shelf. It fits in the palm of my hand but feels heavy for being so small. The cover is title-less, opening the book I find that the pages are blank.

“Hey Craig, what’s this new journal doing over here?” I call out.

He responds from the front desk, “Bring it up here, let me take a look.”

As he looks it over I grab a copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God, you can never go wrong with Zora Neale Hurston.

“That’s odd,” he says with his glasses sliding down his long, slender nose, “I don’t remember putting this up there. I don’t carry journals, but if you want it it’s yours.”

“Thanks. I haven’t journaled in a long time. Maybe this is a sign to start up again.” “Here ya go Sky, have a great day,” Craig said, handing over the bagged books. I thank him and head back home.

My morning alarm jolts me and a copy of Dracula falls from my chest and hits the floor with a thud. I stumble to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Settling in at my desk, the journal I found is sitting on a pile of stories I have yet to finish writing. Plenty of ideas, not enough gumption, I think to myself. I grab the journal and run my fingers along its perfect spine. Opening it I notice a raised area on the inside cover. I feel around it, tracing the shape of a rectangle that is protruding just enough be noticed. Grabbing my letter opener, I carefully cut open the cover to reveal what’s inside: a folded check for twenty thousand dollars made out to ME! Alarmed and confused I scan the check and read a name I don’t recognize. The check is signed in swirling loops by a Mr. Charles M. Kraver; then I see it’s dated over 200 years ago! Questions race through my head. Why is a 200-year-old check addressed to me? The name could be a coincidence, but there aren’t exactly a lot of Sky Soundings in the world. Why was it hidden in the cover of a journal? And who is this Charles M. Kraver? I open my laptop and type the name into Google. A singular news article appears:

Millionaire Recluse Dies Under Mysterious Circumstances

March 14, 1813: The body of millionaire Charles M. Kraver was found this morning when police were called to investigate an odor coming from his residence. Along with the body, a note was found stating that Mr. Kraver would hide his wealth for others to find for centuries to come. No other details have been released at this time. Mr. Kraver was best known for being extremely private as he researched his belief that human souls can be collected and stored in inanimate objects after death.

Chills run up my spine as I reread the article wondering how this could be possible. I call my roommates, “Jazz, Keeton, get in here!” They rush in and I hand them the check and show them the article.

“Do you think this is real,” I ask? “And if it is, how the hell is a 200-year-old check addressed to me?”
 “Does it really matter? You just got twenty grand! Let’s go celebrate!” Jazz said, already planning a beach trip.

“I mean it’s great, weird, but great;” Keeton said, “you should take it to the bank to have it authenticated.”

“Thanks Keeton, for actually being some help! Is the bank open?”

“By the time you get there it will be,” she assures me.

I dress quickly in mismatched clothes I grab from my closet. Rushing down the sidewalk I clutch my cava-bag like a priceless first edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The large, old bank is hollow sounding as I enter. I approach the teller, unfold the yellowed, fragile check and ask her if it’s good. She looks it over, and her eyes dart back to the date.

“This check was made out in 1813,” her slightly raised voice echoing off the marble floors and turning every pair of eyes towards us.

“Yes, I found it inside the front cover of my journal. Is it real?”

She checks my two forms of identification and runs the check through a processor.

“Well I’ll be,” she says, “it’s real. Usually checks are only good for 90 days, but this is a special account. It’s still active and the funds are available. You are twenty-thousand-dollars richer.”

It was real! The check was real. Charles M. Kraver said he would leave his wealth for people to find. Maybe he just wrote a random name and I lucked out. I mean, it’s got to be a one-in-a-trillion chance, right?

The next day I call my student loan advisor and tell him I am officially breaking up with him. It takes almost half of my new found wealth, but I am officially debt free! Then I decide to put this mystical journal to good use; a story like this has to be written down, and who knows, it could become a best seller. But when I open it, someone has written an entry, and a super morbid entry at that.

April 19, 1820

Today I spent the last of the money I found all those years ago. It took almost seven years; I now have everything I want in life. Sadly, I will never get to enjoy it, as the money was the only string holding me to this earth, and I unknowingly severed it. Truly, I must tell you, the discovery of the diary will be my last regret. If it is found in my place, do not –

Lily Amsted

I knew my roommates were crazy, but this is already creepy enough. I ask them about the entry, but they both deny having anything to do with it. Jazz says he was out all night and had just woken up. Keeton claims her handwriting is slop compared to this, and she’s kind of right. But still, I don’t believe either one of them; who else had access to it? But with their denials, I decide to let it go.

As the weeks go by, I spend more of the money in small ways. I bought dinner for Jazz and Keeton, got my mom a present, and myself an antique record player. But with each purchase my roommates continue the ruse, sneaking new entries into the journal. The one after the dinner was “William Jones” who died in 1875, and the one after the present was by “Keagan Cleary” who kicked it in 1927. I google each name with their supposed date of death and never find a trace of them. It’s obvious they never existed; my roommates created them to scare me. Fortunately, days after the record player purchase there still wasn’t an entry. One of the two usually sneaks one in the same day or the next morning; I’m hoping they have given up.

At 8am I get out of bed, get my tea and take the record player out of its case. Jazz and Keeton burst into my room with way too much energy for this time of day.

“It’s about time you opened that thing! I’ve wanted to play with it for days,” Jazz said.

“Jazz, it’s not a toy, it’s a beautiful piece of machinery that I am going to use as soon as I write my journal entry.” Ignoring me, the two begin arguing over which record they will play first. I laugh and grab my journal, flipping past all of their fake entries, I find a clean page. I date the top and interject, “Hey! You do remember whose record player this actually is, right? Now, go away so I can write in my journal. Oh, and I’m glad you’ve stopped putting bogus entries in here.”

“What are you talking about,” Keeton asked, “we haven’t written in that journal. We told you neither of us is Lily whatever her name is. Besides, you’ve already written your entry for the day.”
Looking down at the journal I see a full page entry in my own handwriting. I throw down the journal in a panic.

Jazz picks it up asking, “What’s got your panties in a bunch?” He opens it and flips to the latest entry. ‘Today is the day I die.’ Man that’s messed up! Why would you write something like that?”

“I didn’t. The page was blank! I just dated it, that’s all!” I see the fear in their faces.

“Is there more? What else does it say,” Keeton exclaimed?

Jazz keeps reading, his voice is shaking.

March 12, 2021

“Today is the day I die. The strings holding me to this earth have been severed and my soul has found its home here. My only wish is that you not forget me when I vanish from this place.”

“How did it get there,” Keeton asked?

“I don’t know, I don’t think I want to know. Because if that can just appear, then so can the other entries.” I say.

Freaked out, we decide the best thing to do is burn the journal, ashes to ashes and all. We carry it to the living room and toss it in the fireplace. It erupts in flames; the pages burn quick. “Hey, don’t worry,” Keeton says, “it’s gone. We’ll start fresh tomorrow without any potentially haunted objects. Let’s go get those pancakes you love and try to forget about all this.”

“Hey, I’m Jazz and this is Keeton, come in! We’re so glad you answered our add. Let me show you around. This is the living room and kitchen, and your room would be back here. We’ve had this extra bedroom since we moved in after college…. well that’s weird. Keeton, why would you leave a blank journal in the middle of the extra bedroom floor?”

“I didn’t, it’s gotta be yours.”

“No it isn’t. But it I like it, so finders keepers! Hey, there’s something under the inside cover…”