Hidden Secrets

My story begins at the end of a long draught. After a summer of heatwaves and 90 degree pools that did little to cool you off, a cold front was headed straight for town, to everyone’s relief. Lying under the ceiling fan, I waited for the sound of the neighbour’s lawnmower to stir the rest of the room awake.

It was Josephine Grover’s — Josie for short — 16th birthday party. We had slept over, although there hadn’t been much sleeping. With the heavy heat that made for an uncomfortable night and the boy’s incessant jokes, we had finally given in to our fatigue and had fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning.

I was the first to stir awake, but I knew that if I sat up, I would be hit with the suffocating humidity. It was going to be another scorcher. Fortunately, Josie’s big day had been planned around the unusually hot weather. We had planned to head down to the lake to cool off and enjoy the sunny day.

Harrison was next to be awoken by the pesky sunlight peaking through the curtains. He glanced at me with groggy eyes before releasing a long sigh. The rest of the gang soon followed and we slowly but surely made our way to the kitchen.

Josie’s enthusiastic mother stood in front of the stove, cooking us up chocolate chip pancakes. The birthday girl was sat to my right, Harrison was devouring his breakfast at the other end of the table and Michael was on my left, eagerly awaiting his second serving. Once everyone was full, we changed into our swimsuits and hopped on our bikes, impatient to reach the beach. It was a pretty quiet area, even on such a hot day, which meant we would have the whole place to ourselves.

It was one of my favourite days. I think everyone has a certain day, a certain object or even a certain smell that they carry with them, that has been engraved in their memory. I’ve always wondered why some things stay with us while others fade away over the years. That’s the funny thing about memories; for better or for worse, we don’t get to choose which ones follow us throughout our lives.

In the afternoon, storm clouds appeared on the horizon. They were dark and menacing and were perhaps a warning of what was to come. I was the first to point them out, but Josie didn’t seem fazed. It was no secret that bad weather was coming their way.

“Maybe we should get going,” I suggested. “We wouldn’t want to get caught in the rain.”

“Don’t be such a drag,” whined Josie. “We still have at least an hour before it hits.”

There was no need for a reply; a low grumble echoed in the distance and I turned to Josie again.

“Maybe she’s right,” Harrison chimed in.

“If you guys are so scared of a little rain, you should probably just leave.”

I decided to trust my gut and Harrison decided to trust mine. While Michael and Josie stayed behind to enjoy what was left of the day, we grabbed our bikes and headed back. As I had predicted, the sky darkened and it began to rain. The heaviness of the air was replaced by a light breeze — complements of the storm — and a shiver ran up my spine. I had always enjoyed a good thunderstorm. From the pattering rain to the show of lights at night, when the sky would turn white. This time, however, the atmosphere was different. The streets were empty and terraces were cleaned up as the town braced for the upcoming storm. It was a feeling, one I couldn’t quite describe. It felt as though something was just behind the old building or the steeple of the church, watching over the borough as its people coward away from an invisible threat. I had lived through many storms, but this one seemed to hover above everything, waiting for our weaknesses to show.

It began to rain harder and Harrison and I took cover under an old oak tree. I hadn’t taken much notice as to our location until I realized who’s lawn we were standing on.

“That’s old Mr. Miller’s house,” I pointed out.

Creepy old Mr. Miller, as we used to call him. He had passed away a few months before and his house had mostly been abandoned. He had no extended family, which meant most of his things were left as they were when he died.

“Should we go in?” shouted Harrison over the rain. “We can barely see anything, we won’t be able to get home anytime soon.”

I reluctantly agreed, desperate to escape the cold rain. With one last glance down the road, Harrison broke the window and reached inside between the shards to unlock the door. It was just as damp inside the home, however, but it gave us a chance to dry ourselves off.

“This place is a mess.”

Harrison was right. Cardboard boxes were scattered all over the floor, as well as other junk. The house smelled of dampness and mold. The living room still had its original couch, the velvet cushions covered in questionnable stains. It had been completely abandoned after he died, but clearly someone had started the cleaning process. Perched up on the walls were Mr. Miller’s hunting trophies. Their beady eyes looked back at us, as if spying for their master.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be here,” I whispered. “Let’s just brace the storm and get back to Josie’s house. They’ll probably be back by now.”

Harrison ventured further into the house, when suddenly, his foot caved into the rotten floor boards. He let out a string of swears and I ran up to help him. Once he was free, with a few minor scratches, I looked down into the hole he had created. Although the room was dimly lit, I managed to make out what seemed like a box.

“There’s something in here,” I thought aloud and Harrison leant over to take a closer look.

I reached down, firstly grazing what felt like a leather book cover. I pulled a little black book and dusted it off with my damp hand. Harrison watched me intently and we held our breaths as the spine crackled open.

“What is it?”

“It looks like a journal,” I replied, trying to decipher the messy hand-writing.

Harrison continued the search and reached down to grab the metal box. It was sealed with a padlock, but the rusty loop looked easy enough to brake. With one good tug, the piece shattered and we both looked up at each other.

“What do you think it’ll be?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “He was kind of sketchy.”

“Open it,” I urged.

Reluctantly, he lifted the lid, ready to throw the box across the room. His expression, however, went from fear to disbelief. I peered over the lid that was hindering my view and heard myself gasp.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “There must be at least $20,000 in here.”

Dozens of hundred dollar bills were stacked neatly inside the metal box. We sat there quietly, staring at its content as if it were the holy grail.

The black journal fell from my lap and I reached down to pick it up. It had opened on a random page, but the writing on the page caught my attention. I felt the blood drain from my face and handed it to Harrison.

“Those are our names, right there, with our adresses,” I pointed.

“Why would he have this?”

“I think there's a lot we don't know.”