The Last Diary of Dorian Page

A cool September wind blew across the lake from the north, stirring the autumnal leaves and sending them cascading to the ground. The disordered tides of orange and red, danced across the moonlit yard, meeting in mockery of the many brooks that could be found draining back into the dark waters that flanked the property on three sides. Alexander watched them idly for a moment, as they seethed across the yard. He looked on as they met in eddies before the wind changed direction again, disturbing the momentary harmony, and inspiring yet another configuration. The current breeze was merely the vanguard of the harsh polar winds that would fall upon the landscape in the weeks to come, and the moonlight dance of the leaves would soon come to an end. Buried beneath snow drifts that would linger for 5 months or more, in this northern part of the country.

As if to remind him of this, the wind picked up and blew sharply across his face, breaking Alexander from his detached reverie and sending a shiver up his spine. He had not come here to watch leaves; he had come here for the book. It was with this singular objective in mind he had entered his car that morning and made the ten and-a-half hour drive through the endless forests of the Canadian Northwest. Why he had spent virtually all of his newfound inheritance, and why he had so suddenly deserted his partner and job, with little more than a text-message and a hastily written email. No doubt there were several people trying to get in touch with him at that very moment, but there was no cellular connection for a hundred kilometers in any direction, and even if there was, he had left his phone in the car.

He stood there now, bearing only a flashlight, and a key, mailed to him earlier that week from the realtor. She had been surprised when he called and wanted to buy the house without so much as a single viewing, yet she seemed to accept it when he said the property had sentimental value. It no doubt helped that he was the only person who had expressed interest in the property since it went to market more than a year ago. Even still, not only had he spent his newfound inheritance, but a significant chunk of his own savings as well. His grandfather had inherited the rights to several acres of oil fields in the United States, which had passed on to Alexander when he died in the spring of the previous year. Not only was Alexander now receiving monthly royalty cheques, he had inherited the American account within which his grandfather had been saving the payments made to him. After converting the currency into Canadian dollar, his bank account had inflated to the tune of $20.000. His partner had encouraged him to take them on a lavish vacation to Europe and spend a month or more touring the great cities, but he already knew what he had to do with his newfound wealth. Within two weeks of receiving the money, he had finalized the purchase of the house, something he wouldn’t have had the means to do otherwise, and was in his vehicle, making the long drive from Guelph up to the largely untouched woodlands that infested Ontario’s northern regions.

It had been twenty years since he had been to the property. His last memory of the place was waving goodbye to his grandparents from the back seat of his mothers’ car. He remembered the warmth of the sun as it shone down on the immaculate hedge rows and the meticulously maintained boards that made up the deck. Now, the ferns had grown wild, and cast grotesque shadows that stretched across the yard, and even from where he was standing, he could detect the rot that had taken root within the building’s baseboards. As he ascended the steps to the door, he gripped the railing tightly, as where some of the ancient boards groaned angrily at his intrusion, some others simply sagged beneath his step, the moisture of a decade of neglect having seeped into their cores. Not that the railing would be of much aid anyways in the event of a broken board. Though it had metal posts, they were rusted and hollow, barely anchored by the decaying woodwork that his grandfather had so painstakingly carved out. There was no doubting that this building was dead. When he reached the front door, he hesitated again, but only to steady his breathing. He had come this far, the time for doubts had passed. Slotting the key into the lock, he turned until he heard a click. While the brass doorknob was rusted at the edges, the lock it seemed still worked. Though it would hardly deter a robber, as the door was so fragile that Alexander was amazed it hadn’t been caved in by the strong gusts from across the lake. He had many times considered returning to this place in the last several years. He could have just as easily forced his way inside and took what he wanted, but somehow that never felt right. Whatever his grandfather had left for him inside that journal, was something sacred. Though his grandparents were gone, the notion of technically stealing from them had always been a deterrence. Now though, he could proceed without fear. He pushed the door open, the decrepit hinges not protesting as much as he had expected and passed through the threshold.

He knew where to go. He turned on the flashlight, for the moon no longer illuminated his path, and proceeded through the foyer to the kitchen. The boards creaked audibly beneath his boots. while the architecture would have dampened over time with the annual freezing and thawing, the boards inside were at the very least sheltered from the worst of the elements. The kitchen was bare, save for a few cast-iron pieces of cookware hanging on the wall above the counter next to the oven. An old blackened thing. Gas powered, and long since cold. On the far side of that same room was a wood stove, which would have provided heat for the building. A small stack of cracked and peeled logs still lay next to it. Alexander’s mind was once again assailed by nostalgia, half-forgotten memories of playing in front of that fireplace while his grandfather sat on the couch reading the news. The furniture was gone now, though you could still detect where the pieces had once lay, as the dust layer was subtly discolored in certain uniform sections on the floor. Alexander turned his flashlight away. The past he was searching for in this place was significantly older than his childhood memories. He proceeded into the next room and examined the floor. This room, what would have been a combination dining room/ living space, was completely barren. It wasn’t quite as dark as the rest of the house though, by virtue of the large windows that took up the wall space on three sides. Though they were blackened with grime, the moon was full, and the night was clear, so a faint glow was still cast throughout. Not that it was needed. Even without the flashlight, Alexander could have navigated to his destination in the dark. He had only been into the basement once, but it was enough. Moving to the North-Eastern corner, he tapped his foot a couple of times, listening for the hollow sound that would indicate the presence of the cavity below.

Kneeling, Alexander moved the flashlight across the floor until he saw the protruding handle and latch that marked the door to the basement. His initial attempts to slide the latch yielded naught, as rust had crept up and into the space between the pieces of metal. For a moment he wondered if he would have to break it down, he had not brought any tools beyond what he was now carrying. However, after some jerking, the latch came free and slid backwards, freeing the door to move. Opening it, Alexander had to cover his mouth and nose, as the stagnant earthy air that escaped the place was truly foul. All that had been kept in the basement was dried preserves and various tools and knick-knacks that could find a home nowhere else. The basement did have a concrete floor, but nature had evidently found a way to break inside and find purchase. Shining his light downwards he could see the floor and the thin treacherous stairs that stood between him and his goal. For the first time since entering the house, he felt uncertain. The clearance between the two floors was about six feet by his estimation. His grandfather had been a tall man and made sure to provide himself with clearance when planning the place. If, the stairs connecting the two floors happened to break under his weight, he could find himself trapped down there. Not an encouraging prospect when he had no cellular service. He swallowed hard; he wasn’t about to turn around empty handed. Placing the flashlight in his mouth, he turned around, and descended the stairs as though it were a ladder. He gave a silent thanks as he felt his feet connect with the floor, and the stairs were still standing. Turning around he shined his light and examined his surroundings. The aged shelves were still there, but any preserved foodstuffs had been removed. No doubt thrown out by whatever poor soul had the job of clearing this place out. Beyond that it was empty, or so it seemed. Alexander’s light focused on a section of the far wall, where the concrete appeared to be crumbling in places. This could be said for much of the basement, but this break in the brickwork was intentional. Crossing the room, Alexander again placed the flashlight in his mouth and started to pry out the loose brick. It came out easily, and Alexander cast it to the side where it broke into three pieces on the floor. His anticipation was getting the better of him now. Reaching inside the crevice, the corners of his mouth turned upwards when his hand closed around a small rectangular shape. Pulling it out into the view of his light, he chuckled when he saw that he was indeed holding the notebook. $20.000 and two thousand kilometers had finally brought him here. When he could finally lay to rest the words, his grandfather had spoken to him on that bright summer afternoon all those years ago.

Stepping backwards from the wall, Alexander tripped over the broken brick he had discarded and fell backwards, unwilling to drop the notebook, he dropped his flashlight as he reached out in vain to find something to grab on to. There was nothing however, and he cried out in pain as the sharp edge of one of the stones drove upwards into his back. At the same time, he heard a sickening crack, though this did not come from his body, but his flashlight, which had collided hard with the stone floor, and gone out, leaving Alexander submerged in the darkness. Panic flared in Alexanders chest, he rolled onto his feet, and looked down at the book in his hand, he still had it, he could feel it, but it was too dark down here to read without the flashlight. The moon. He had to get outside, or even at least back up to the room with the windows, he had to know what was inside the book. Clutching the small diary to his chest, Alexander cleared the space between himself and the stairs in quick strides and began to ascend as fast as he could manage. Another cracking sound was heard, followed by another, and the last thought that passed through Alexander’s mind as the stairs gave way beneath him, was that he had neglected to tell anyone where he had gone.