Unable to find the key to the gate in my pocket, I patted all my pockets in the hope that I mistakenly remembered which pocket I had put it into.
Why didn't I just leave it on the keyring?
Yes, I know I was disgusted with my great grandfather, but tossing the key would have accomplished nothing. The symbolism of it, casting away the ONE thing that would grant me access to him, was profound, yet here I was, leaving the truck parked at the end of the drive and just ducking under the line across the path.
Like I said, removing the key did nothing to deter me from getting to the house, minus a minor inconvenience.
The slow walk down the driveway filled me with a sense of dread never before associated with this property. The trees ominously loomed over me, seemingly closing in as I made my way. There was a dark undertone, as if a gray filter had been put before me; shadows threatening to pull me to the woods - the branches trying to pull me from the ground. I picked up my pace before breaking into a full sprint. Abruptly I stopped, so quickly I almost fell flat on my face; feet having taken root where the drive exits the woods and the house comes into view.
I saw him. Poppy. Walking down the steps … holding a severed hear by the hair, dangling and swaying with the light wind.
Only, the head became a grocery bag, tied closed. Just garbage. Poppy lifted the lid from the large rolling trashcan, and threw it in. Seeing me, he put a hand on his hip, the other going into a grandiose wave, smile across his face like he just saw an old friend for the first time in many years. Waving me along, he turned and disappeared behind the screen door, melting into obscurity behind the aluminum mesh.
The old spring groaned as I opened the door, the white paint cracked and chipping off. There Poppy was, sitting at the kitchen table, sandwich in one hand and newspaper opened up in front of him. The journal still sat in the chair where I had left it - out in the open for the world to see.
What if someone showed up for a surprise visit? Would this centenarian kill them to keep his secret? Only I knew this lunatics secrets, unless you count the tortured souls of his victims.
Bypassing the book of the damned, I sat in the chair across from Pop.
"I didn't know if you were comin' back Mattie. You were gone a while," the old man muttered.
I wasn't going to take the time to argue the point that I was gone but a night, I replied simply. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Sighing, he put the paper down, and as he readjusted his glasses, he spoke. "This comes as a shock to you, I've no doubt about that Mattie, but I have so much to tell you, and so very little time left. I can feel the end nearing, and I need to share my secrets – all the tricks I picked up along the way. You are just like me, kid, and I don't want to see you in trouble. Let me help you."
"The only reason I came back was to get the truth! You are so lucky that I don't want to be the reason you die. I came this close," I brought my thumb and forefinger together, a hairs breadth apart, "to calling the police and turning you in. But, I figure with your age, it could very well kill you, and I don't want your death on my conscience. So, I will sit through whatever you want to tell me, and read through your journals, so that when you die, I can give closure to those families. So that the world knows what a sick, demonic being you really are."
Anger flowed through me as I uttered my last words, the contempt tangible.
"Mattie, this is going to take time to for you to understand. I never wanted this!" he exclaimed, emotion welling in his eyes as he stared out the window, the sun coming in through the slated blinds casting shadows across his chest, akin to the universe recognizing and judging him for his crimes. "When I was born, there was a great disease, a flu that affected almost everyone; I was only a year or two old when my Pa died. I never got the chance to meet him, and my Ma couldn't feed us, so she set out to find another man, one who could provide. The man she picked, however, was a drunk, constantly beating her and us kids."
The story he told was one of pain, despair, and ultimately betrayal. It was 1929, the start of the Great depression. Late October, after the markets had crashed and the economic outlook was bleak, Poppy's stepfather became more violent than ever. As he told his story, I was drawn in, picturing the desolate upbringing he experienced. I was living the story as he told it, able to feel the hunger, the fear, and the uncertainty of what tomorrow would bring.
Suddenly, I wasn't in the kitchen anymore. As I looked around in a state of shock, it was a long time ago. I had no idea what was going on, all I was sure of was I was not in control here. It felt like watching a movie in virtual reality goggles. I was unable to physical manipulate anything, move my arms, speak. I was somehow in a memory of Poppy's, seeing it through his eyes.