The Bertie Mansion

IV

In his room, Jeremy the First's journal drew him in from the bedside table. He ate the remainder of his meal on his bed, contemplating whether it was wise to make an appearance with the journal downstairs. His mother might steal it for herself as she was the history buff for the three of them. Jeremy was only in it for the secrets. He was crossing his fingers about a hidden passage.

When his dinner was finished he set his plate to the side, ensuring he wouldn't dirty the journal. He ventured over, picked it up, and flipped it around in his hands, examining the spine and the way it bent as if read countless times over its lifespan.

He opened to the front and on the inside cover was a classic This journal belongs to: followed by Jeremy in childish writing. The first entry was for April 5, 2192. Jeremy the Third blinked. It was almost illegible. The handwriting fit with the ten years of age his grandfather would have been, precise letters non-existent. The spelling was atrocious, the grammar odd in places, the sentences redundant, and had the charm of a kid who doesn't know what the hell he's been put up to. His eyes and brain hurt trying to read it.

So much for secret passages. Skimming through the mainly blank pages showed that a whole year of writing consisted of what Jeremy the First had eaten for breakfast, how boring school was, what he ate for lunch, whether he played pirates or bandits, and what he ate for dinner.

However, as he flopped down on his bed in defeat, inspiration struck. If there was an entire box full of journals, the habit must have stuck with his grandfather for years, and years meant improvement. This called for another investigation in the attic. He grimaced, but made up his mind that he could do it.

Jeremy snuck into the kitchen to be rid of his plate－his mother and brother were still eating and would clean up later－before sneaking back up the stairs and undoing the stairs and trapdoors. The box of journals was exactly where he had left them, undisturbed by anyone or any ghost.

He glanced over journals from his grandfather's younger years, noting when his great-grandfather went off to fight in the Great War. Jeremy the First became the man of the household at eleven years of age, and then two years later he had no household.

Jeremy had forgotten his grandfather became an orphan. It made him realize how lucky he was to have Jade still in his life, as many problems as they had had with each other over the years notwithstanding.

Jeremy the First seemed to grow an interest in making sketches and the journals became not only a way to rant about his day but additionally became a sketchbook. Luckily both his writing and drawing improved over time and the entries started to have variety. By this time he had moved to the Findale Manor to live with his grandmother, and met a girl called Roberta.

Jeremy wiggled his eyebrows. From the absolute gushing about her going into the journal, it

sounded like a good old-fashioned crush was going on even if his grandfather hadn't known it yet. Jeremy the Third's grandmother wasn't a Roberta, though. She must have been a first and passing love. Roberta did seem really cool, so he couldn't judge his grandfather too much. She actually fought a boy after school just because he was bothering her.

A car engine started and he clambered over a series of wooden chests to look out the closest window, holding onto the bars in front of it to peek out. He saw the family car drive down the lane, on the way to the store at last. When he turned from the window he caught a glimpse of white that flitted away. Creaks ensued. Always those damn creaks.

"Hello?" he called. "Willy? Did you get yourself out of the trip and dress up in a sheet to scare me? Because it's not working."

When there was no response Jeremy chalked it up to fabric blowing in a non-existent breeze. He was very tempted to check the windows for a draft, just to know for sure. Then he decided he'd rather not know and figured he was seeing things because he thought he should see things. Shaking it off, he rolled his shoulders back and returned to the box.

The journals seemed to have moved in his absence but that was just more paranoia. Inanimate objects couldn't move by themselves. He decided he simply forgot where he had placed them in his haste to get to the window.

The attic gave him the creeps now; he resolved to leave and read elsewhere. He hefted the box in his arms, walking slowly to the stairs. He maneuvered the steps with the heavy load, careful not to fall on his face. Breaking his neck was probably not going to go over well with his mother when she returned.

He placed the box in his room, gently lowering it to his desk chair. Then he scratched his chin and considered the floor by his bed. Reaching the books to read by the light of his bedside lamp would be easier if he put the box there instead.

He was filled with restless energy as he stood, debating that decision, causing him to pace, carefully, the length of his room. His mother had undoubtedly taken the scenic route to get marshmallows and wouldn't be back for a while. He wasn't a kid anymore, he was able to handle himself and should be excited to be alone in the house. He shouldn't be freaking out about a ghost that didn't exist.

Just to be safe, he went back to close the door to the attic and turned out its lights from the switch in the hallway.