The Other Side by Shela Muriel

The Other Side

By Shela Muriel

On October 19th you had been at home in your attic trying to clean it out and get it organized. The attic was dusty as if no one had been in it for years, which might have been the case. The circular window on the attic wall had been broken, allowing wind to blow through. Outside you hear the wind whistling through the trees. You are just moving some boxes around when you notice a cloth blowing briefly. Wanting to make sure that there is nothing hidden under it, you make your way toward it. The wind continues to ripple it as you inch closer to it until eventually you make it over, and your hand grips the cloth as you pull it back, revealing an old bookcase.

“What is this?” you ask. The bookshelf hadn’t been there before. It looked to be falling apart. You look at the shelf briefly noticing that there had been nothing in it at all, or so you thought. You touch the wood, which was starting to rot, and as you feel the wood, your hand touches a strange button that you hadn’t thought would be on the shelf. Curious as to what it was, you decide to press the button. Suddenly, the back of the shelf slides open revealing an even older cloth covered in dust and smelling of mold. Despite the putrid smell, you pull it off and find an old leather-bound journal.

You are in complete shock finding that the journal was in perfect condition–well, aside from the yellowing pages. Confused, you bring the journal to your room and sit down on your bed. Your original task being completely forgotten, you wonder why there was an old leather journal hidden within the shelf. However, looking at the closed object wasn’t going to give you the answers you are searching for. Thinking that the name of the small leatherbound book would be inside, you decide to open it. Rather than the name of the person, you find a date and old cursive writing. October 1st, 1871 Dear Diary,

It’s the fall of 1871, I’ve been sitting in my home doing nothing but writing. I sit at my desk which is dark wood with ebonized designs all on the front and around the back. My family and I had just moved into this strange new home this past summer. I have to say that, aside from the creepy atmosphere, I find that it’s fairly nice. While I can’t exactly give away this information, I do know that I may actually like it here. At least that’s what I’m assuming. I should probably head downstairs now; my

Sincerely, Frank.

You reread the small part of the journal entry and find out that his name was Frank; however, due to the amount he had written, you aren’t sure who he was or where he was writing. You can already assume that he was writing in your house and in your room, but you feel strangely connected to this individual like you’ve known him all of your life. You flip the page over and notice more writing.

October 5th, 1871 Dear Diary,

Strange things have been happening around this house and I’m pretty much spooked. Last night, I heard something in the attic. Boxes were moved around, and no one really thought about what was up there. I approached my mother and asked her a question.

“Mother?” I said. “You hear the strange movements in the air, don’t you?”

“My son? What do you mean?” asked mother. “You mean the strange movements upstairs? I think it’s just rats.”

“But how could rats move objects?” I questioned. But no matter how many times I tried to explain, mother would not hear of it. She told me that it was all in my imagination, but that must have been some big rodent if it could move objects around. I won’t give up trying to figure out who or what is up in our attic.

Sincerely, Frank.

“Okay? This is weird…,” you say, unsure of how to react. You have a hard time trying to figure out what to do with the journal. Should you throw it out? Or should you keep it with you and bring it to someone who knows what they’re talking about? Shaking your head, you set the journal down and make your way to the kitchen to get something to drink. As you finish getting yourself a glass of water, you turn around only to see the leather journal had somehow gotten to the kitchen without your help. You slowly approach the journal and see that it had been opened to a new entry which seemingly is still being written.

October 31st, 1871 Dear Diary,

I saw again the figure. It was hard to tell, but I could have sworn it was tall with y/h/c and y/e/c. It was freaking me out, this thing was

standing over me watching me write and I couldn’t help but freak out. I told my mother but once again she said that it was my imagination. In a matter of seconds, I felt that I was always being watched and I wanted to figure out who. If anyone is reading this, if you are a spirit, please let me know on the empty page. That way I’ll know I’m not crazy. Sincerely, Frank.

You reread the paragraph wondering if it was even possible that you could respond. You look around your house for a pen, until eventually, you stumble across one. Suddenly, you realized that this stranger had described who you were and what you looked like. Doing your best not to show fear, you walk over to the table and begin to write on the empty page. Rather than a paragraph, you write sentences.“Who are you?” you write. “How do you know what I look like?” You wait for a little bit until eventually, someone begins to write back. The way the sentences disappeared reminded you of that Harry Potter book. You try your best to hide your fear as new sentences appear in response.

“I knew it! Are you a spirit?” the sentence questioned. “I am not a spirit; I’m a real person,” you respond. However, as the sentence begins to disappear, you feel a sudden chill in the air as you look up and come face to face with a stranger. But it does not seem like a human being; it looks more like a spirit. It stares at you for a couple of minutes tilting its head like it is studying you. You gulp and try your best not to freak out, but the stranger continues to stare until it begins to fade away.

“Wait!” you exclaim. “Who are you? Are you Frank?” but the spirit does not respond. In fact, it only disappears, leaving you in your kitchen alone. You look down at the book only to see that it is closed. As you try to open it again, it doesn’t seem to want to open. However, before you try to pry it open one last time, the book begins to disappear until you can no longer see it. You sit there shocked trying to understand what is going on, but it is no use. The journal is no longer in front of you. You search all around the house for it, though eventually you give up, forgetting all about it and trying your best to carry on with your everyday life.

One thing is for sure: You’re never going to go through furniture again.

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