Jack's Journal
November 1, 1925
Beecher's Hope
To say that I am confused would be an understatement. Nothing like this happened when I married Jen, only once Arthur was born in August. Dad's musty old hat moving inexplicably, the smell of cigarette smoke when neither Jen nor I have smoked for years, mysterious footprints in the snow after that odd storm last week, headed toward the barn. I am a scholar, I should be beyond this supernatural mysticism. But I'm also the son of a frontiersman and an outlaw, and I've heard so many odd stories...I can wave away what happened before, but today…
The Mexicans say that on the night of October 31, the gates of heaven temporality open and allow the spirits of the beloved to return to Earth. The ancient Celts said something similar. I never thought anything of it, but maybe there's something to it…
I saw my father today. Just as he was when he died (minus the bullet holes). The same hat that sits in my room, the same revolver that I carry to work, and that stupid scar from when he tried to get himself eaten by wolves. This wasn't something out of the corner of my eye, I looked right at him for a few seconds and he, I think he, he he spoke to me. Said my name.
I was too shocked to say anything. I could barely breathe. Despite all the words I've said and written, I don't know what I would have said if I were able to say anything at all. He disappeared all too soon anyway. Despite his many faults, I do miss him. Can't believe it has already been over fourteen years.
I hope Arthur will never have to Arthur will never have to experience the same thing. I will live to see my son become a man, an old one preferably. That's my priority now. I can be angry without letting it become my identity. Being a father, husband, and professor is more important. I indulged in my revenge once when I had nothing to lose, indulging in it again could cost me everything.
I've let the wooden crosses that mark the graves of my mother, father, and whatever Uncle was deteriorate for far too long now. They should rest easy, with new granite markers worthy of them, ones that will last for centuries.
I'll do Uncle the dignity of finding his real name too. I can get the police records from somewhere. So it begins.
...
December 25, 1925
I found Uncle, or rather, Christopher Colter! A wonderful Christmas present. I wonder if there's any connection to the mining town.