STALKER

Chapter 22 - 9th June

Although I am trying to be as realistic and historically accurate as I can be in a story about time travel, I have taken liberties with a few things so just go a  long with me. Also, I have no idea if the translations are accurate. I've seen some translations from other languages to English in other stories and they are pretty horrific...hopefully, it's not the case here. I've tried to keep it brief.

Violence warning.

Yesterday after seeing the contents of the hidden niche, I closed the panel and walked away. I went about the rest of the day as if I saw nothing unusual. I distracted myself with a night out with my mates, where for a brief time I felt like my old self, my pre grumpy puff of smoke self who was happily self-absorbed and didn't do feelings. As for John he moved about the house lost in his own thoughts and stayed well away from me. I have no idea how his mind works, so I'm not sure if he's letting me process this new twist to his story; or he regrets exposing, hopefully, his last secret.

It took me a full day to go back into the room, and even then I was reluctant.

I should have been happy that I now had a secure place to hide my journal, instead, I was being a woos and felt scared to open the panel again. My gut told me not to. The gun had made the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand on end; it tied my stomach into a knot that only a lot of scotch and coke finally dissolved. Obviously, it was significant, most probably something important I should know, otherwise John wouldn't have shown it to me. The fact that he was showing it to me now...well...that's significant too. I suspect it was a knee-jerk reaction to our last face-to-face conversation, although I'm not sure what point he is trying to make.

It was strange how the room that had, only the day before, been welcoming and cozy, now made me uneasy. I stood in the middle of the room staring at the panel. I'd just finished writing up my last entry and had the journal in my hand ready for its new home. I also wanted to start reading the new journal. I was hoping it would fill in the big gaps in Granddad...damn it John's story. I knew the basics but the nosy, voyeur in me wanted all the details. Then again this could be a Pandora's box situation. I am overthinking.

Have you ever had that irksome sort of dream, where you want to do something but your body totally refuses to oblige? That was how I felt. I just wanted to get on with it but I continued to stand there like a giant nob. How long can you stay staring at a wall...I can now tell you from personal experience....along while. Eventually, I thought if I didn't do it right then and there, I would probably never go into that room again. I gird my loins so to speak, and walked straight up to the panel, opened it, put the journal on one of the shelves, and slammed it shut. All the while holding my breathe. I didn't want to breathe the same air as the pistol. I imagined I'd be contaminated with something bad. I'd gone so far beyond overthinking this I was on a whole new frick'n level of anxiety.

I wasn't being logical, not that my life ran along those lines anymore. Forcing myself a second time I opened the panel and reached in for John's journal. Tentatively, I Iran my fingers across the lettering on the top, and felt nothing, no tingle, no sting or zap. I picked it up and examined it. What a relief. It was 4 by 9, thick with a dark leather cover, mellowed beautifully over time. On the cover, faded but still clear enough to read was embossed the name, John Morrison. The gilt had long since worn away but it was still a beautiful thing. I flicked through the pages quickly and noted the dates, it was exactly the time period I hoped for. It ran from the very end of 1941 to early 1943. It covered the period John's Halifax on a mission over  Belgium, through the months he was in hiding, and presumably his return to England. I wondered why he had kept it, it was the period of his life that he wanted to keep private. Then I noticed the inscription on the inside front cover. It was softened by age but the beautifully sweeping, old-fashioned handwriting still held a potent message, even though the ink had seeped into the mottled paper.