Entry 10

I resolved not to go another day knowing as little as I did that morning. It was a determination I would regret.

August 20

I must apologize again for these seemingly random gaps in the writing. My illness, if it can be called that, has accelerated, for lack of a better descriptor, making it difficult for me to keep a daily journal. I will say more about that, but not this soon. I believe that would be what’s called a spoiler alert, and I may not have prepared you for the shock. Or perhaps I’m not yet ready to move so quickly to an inevitable end…

I’ll admit to having found a certain companionship in this process: me recording my experiences and you, if this journal is ever found, reading about them. I have concluded my own prognosis is grave, and this may be all that’s left of me. My solace? Knowing that it is also what’s left of them. There is some comfort in that, even if it makes me a murderer.

But back to that morning, after the dream, after being shaken firmly but quietly awake by the man named Larry. The others were sound asleep, judging from the snores and the lack of any movement. I was afraid to make coffee, despite it being my morning routine. It helped that there was no way to make it! The cabins had not been provided so much as a hot plate, and I would have to go to the lodge hoping there was at least a tea kettle and a jar of instant crystals. I felt foolish for not confirming any of these things. There were bath towels in the shared bathroom. Toilet paper. Unwrapped bars of soap. A bath mat. But no clock, no television, and only two electrical outlets that I could see. I hadn’t taken the opportunity to explore the lodge—neither its large main room, kitchen, or upstairs. (There was a second story I had assumed was uninhabited—an assumption that proved to be false.)

Fortunately the dream, and being woken from it, had done the job of caffeine. I was quite awake when I slipped on my pants, put on a sweatshirt, and walked out onto the porch where Larry was already watching the sunrise.

He had said very little of himself at dinner. The others, too, had been less forthcoming than I’d expected. It was almost as if they were deliberately limiting what they revealed of themselves, which proved to be the case.

Sitting in the chair next to him, I asked, “What is it you do again?”

He’d said he was a financial manager of some kind, but it had been vague.

“Trusts, mostly,” he said. “Estates.”

“A money man.”

He frowned. Apparently I’d used a slur.

“I like to think I’m more than that.”

“And what of a family?”

“Mine or the men whose money I manage?” He smiled, letting me know of my offense.

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right, X.”

He used my name, which I hope you never know, and with a more familiar tone than I liked. We were not friends. We were barely strangers.

“I have no family,” he said.

I waited for more. Did he mean his parents were deceased? Had he been an only child?

“I’ve never met the right woman,” he said, steering the conversation away from his past. “But someday. I’d hoped it might be here, believe it or not.”

Considering the women on this retreat, I didn’t think it likely.

“I’ve been told I was too esoteric,”:

“In what way?”

“My tastes.”

And? I thought he would explain. Did he hold esoteric philosophical concepts, or engage in esoteric religious practices? Did he have mystical or occult knowledge meant only for the initiated?

I was struck by an insight.  “We all are, I suppose,” I said. “That’s why we were invited.”

“It was an advertisement. Everyone who saw it was invited.”

“But only a select few are here, yes?”

He nodded. I detected a thin smile, as if he didn’t want me to see it.

I wanted to pry further, to know more about this young man with no family, who managed the financial affairs of others. But the door opened, startling us both, and Harlan emerged onto the porch. He looked bleary-eyed as he stood at the top of the steps and peered out at the horizon.

“Must. Have. Coffee,” he said, thrusting each word as a command.

Before I could say anything, he stumbled down the steps and headed toward the lodge.

“Wait up,” I called, and followed him.

Any more information about Larry—about any of them—would have to come later. As awake as I was by then, my morning routine still demanded coffee. I hoped there was some in the lodge kitchen, as well as cups to put it in.

I resolved not to go another day knowing as little as I did that morning. It was a determination I would regret.

– Anonymous