Belief: An Epistolary

Saturday, January 8.

With my family divorced and dad gone on a business trip to Europe, I got, well was forced, to visit my grandfather Lawrence at his home. He's nice, but it's like Mom said a few years back, he's certainly just a bit senile at his age. The stories he tells are somewhat interesting, but totally fantasy.

Saturday, January 15.

Dad's gone for another three weeks, so besides cooking for myself (he'll be happy to know I've been having my vegetables), I had to visit Grandfather Lawrence again. This time, he seemed a little different. His resolve was back, chastising me every time I nodded off, the old fart. Then, he got deadly serious with me. "Boy, this is something you need to hear. Something that your father refused to believe. Something that makes me seem crazy. But, I will swear to you, under the Lord, that all of what I'm about to speak is the truth." "Yeah, sure grandpa. Just like every time." Lawrence sighed. "Just like your father, aren't you? You're not ready. When you are ready to listen, let's talk."

Friday, January 21.

It's hard to believe, but Jessica's dead. According the news, a motorist found her, almost dead at the roadside. Despite a massive blood transfusion, she was too weak by the time she reached Meadowview Hospital. Damn. It's so hard to really comprehend. She's, I mean, was my neighbor and friend for so many years, it's hard to imagine her gone, just like that.

Saturday, January 22.

I again visited Grandpa Lawrence's house. He seemed different this time, a bit more distanced. His age must be getting to him. He finally looked up at me and asked me, "How much do you know?" "About what?" "Who you are. You were named after you great-great grandfather's friend." "Yeah, what about it?" "Our family legacy is what counts. It—." My cell phone rang. It was Conrad. "Grandpa, I'm afraid I'll have to come back later." After I left, I called Conrad back, who informed me of the news. It turns out that the dorm mistress had been found back at the college, lying in a pool of her own blood.

The police interviewed everyone on the floor, but as it turns out, no one actually saw or heard the murder. Man, Ms. Rossini's piercing eyes were just plain creepy. As the police were taking her away, I noticed something. Her right arm was outstretched, pointing towards the other side of the room. There was a faint trail of blood. "Excuse me, lieutenant!" He walked over, looking at me, a bit puzzled. I showed him the trail, which led to one of the windows, the only one unlocked. "Could he have jumped?" "Listen son, you seem to have forgotten that is the fourth floor. That window goes straight to concrete."

Sunday, January 23.

I was back my grandpa's house. I told him of Ms. Rossini's murder. He took it in quietly, pondered for a few minutes, and laughed. He's officially nuts, but, of course, I already knew that. He turned in his armchair towards me. "Grandson, you know, with the terrorists lately, that evil never sleeps. Only the vigilant have a chance, and then it is still a hard battle. What I once did with my father and he did with your great-great grandfather was of the same vein. Evil can wait as long as it needs to. It simply stays under our radar for a while, and ignorant little humanity forgets about it. Evil then chooses that moment to return; easy pickings." He walked over to his old desk, and opened the bottom right drawer. I was a little startled when he picked up everything in it and tossed it on the floor. I walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder. He removed the false bottom, revealing a tattered book and boards around specially spaced to fit the book. He handed it to me. "The Belmonts may have their whip, but we have the book." "Grandpa, are you nuts? The Belmonts are from a video game!" He chuckled. "So, popular culture chose to pick that up, eh? It's always the case." He paused, and started pacing. "History is simply the chain of events we choose to remember. Unimportant details and the things humanity would like to forget are often left out." I opened the cover, and saw the first entry. It was dated 4 November, 1897. I would read it when I had time.

Wednesday, January 26. I started reading through "the book". It's like a round robin story, with each person putting in their share of fiction. That, and macroeconomics isn't nearly as interesting as my professor makes it out to be. Ick.

Friday, January 28. Grandpa Lawrence died in his sleep. I just got the phone call. I guess he'll never tell me the end of the story. The news had an interesting program on an apparently unexplainable murder yesterday; I don't know why I'm marking it down.

Monday, January 31st. Grandpa's funeral. I rescheduled one of my tests for it. I really hate open caskets. No really, and I hate people who say "But don't they look natural" even more. The answer is "No, they look dead." During my peek, I noticed two small red dots just below his chin, and thought, allow it was covered up with perfume, he smelled like garlic.

Tuesday, February 1. Man, I really feel stupid. I finished the family "journal" I guess it's called, and it all makes sense. Unexplainable deaths, fourth story windows, heck, grandpa wasn't merely right, he was dead on. It's evening as I'm writing this, just past eight. I've found my father's old black trench coat, the old A-frame tent, more restaurant salt packets than I would ever honestly admit to having at one time, an old Maltese cross pendant from the jewelry box mom left me, and my dad's kukri knife (which come to think of it, he never did explain where he got it). I'm glad concealed carry is 18 here, because dad's .357 in my front left pocket just takes a load off my mind. I plan to go to the supermarket, and then, well; I've just got a family legacy to work on.

Christopher Van Helsing