“Doctor, is everything all right in here?” I ask as I walk through the swinging double doors, pushing my way into the crowded room, nudging piles of papers and boxes of stuff out of my way. “It’s so—ow—dark in here, I don’t know how you can see anything.” I make my way over to the desk in the corner of the room, where the doctor is frantically writing something. He’s so focused that he doesn’t respond to me. I don’t even know why I bother asking anymore. As soon as I’m standing directly across from him, he finally looks up, and is almost surprised to see me standing there, even though I’m literally his personal assistant.
“Eh? Oh, it’s you again. Go pick up an order for me, will you? Apothecary on the corner of Oxbridge and Two Forks, can’t miss it.” He shoves an order form in my direction, and I sigh, but the doctor either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, and keeps scribbling on his paper. I pocket the order form and head out, shutting the door gently behind me.
The walk is pleasant, though it is absolutely freezing cold. Though I much prefer the cold to the hot summer heat. I find the apothecary and pick up the order without a problem, and I find myself dragging my feet as I head back to the doctor’s place. Without even really thinking about it, I decide to go the long way back and head through the woods instead of sticking to the bustling streets.
I’m plodding along, letting my mind drift, until something I’ve never seen before creeps into my view. I’ve walked this path hundreds of times before, so I have to take a minute to wonder if I’m just hallucinating. It’s a building. Or, perhaps the word “cabin” would fit it better. It’s small, very small, and it looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. It’s painted blue and has white trim, but nature seems to have taken over and it’s covered in vines. I pick through the brambles and step over branches to take a closer look. The doctor won’t even notice that I’m gone, I have some time. I reach the building and stand on my toes to peer inside through one of the windows. I can’t get a good look, but it looks like a one-room winter cabin of sorts, the kind that a fisherman would use when going far away from home. There are shelves that are pretty sparse, a pile of wood next to a woodstove, a mattress on the floor, and a stack of magazines on a chair. What draws my interest, though, is a sign above the doorway that says Camp Salem: Inn and Marina. I’m instantly intrigued. Mainly because Salem happens to be my last name.
I should go back. I should just leave this cabin alone. After all, it’s someone else’s property. But I don’t go back, I’m too curious now. I try and get to the door, but the greenery is too dense and too thick. Instead, I drag a branch over to one of the windows. There are a bunch of cracks in the glass, and it doesn’t take much effort to break it. I jump up and slide through the window, careful not to scratch myself on any of the broken glass. Within a heartbeat, I’m in the cabin.
The view is pretty much the same as what I saw through the window, just clearer. Whoever owns this place seemingly hasn’t been here in a long, long time. Dust coats everything, and cold air stirs the pages of the magazines from the window that I opened. I walk around the room slowly, taking everything in.
Once I get to the mattress on the floor, I stop. My shoe lands near a book sticking out from under the mattress. I bend down and carefully pick it up. It’s a leather-bound journal, the cover worn down and discolored from what seems to be water damage. Gingerly, I open the front cover. Inside, typed in bleeding black ink, says
Camp Salem Inn & Marina Official Logbook
Below that, scrawled in pencil, says “Happy Birthday, B! XOXO, K.”
I can’t get over the fact that they used my last name. It was likely their last name too, because why else would they use it in the name of this place? But who are B and K? I slowly flip through the pages, making some cursory observations about what it is that I’m holding. Like the inside cover suggested, this is a logbook. A quick glance tells me that most of the entries are surface-level observations. The initials of who came, what time they got there, what they ate, what they saw. It seems like it was updated every time they came. That is, of course, until the entries abruptly end. The last entry is dated a little over a decade ago. No wonder this place looks so dilapidated if they suddenly stopped coming. But why did they ever stop coming? According to the dates in the entries, they were coming pretty regularly, until the entries just dropped off altogether.
I check my watch, noting how long I’ve been away. I should get back. Instead of putting the book back where I found it, I shove it into my coat, then drag the chair over to the window I came in and climb out. I need to get back to the lab, give the order to the Doctor, and then I’ll start properly reading all of the entries. I’m so curious as to who the builders of this place are, and if they happen to be related to me or not. I can’t help but feel excited about this. I love having a project to work on, something to keep me up at night as I try and figure out something new, even if it’s not groundbreaking. As soon as I get back, I’ll study this journal further…and then maybe I’ll put it back when I’m done with it.
Maybe.
