Gran's box

It was a tattered notebook. I'm not sure why I even picked it up. It sat there forlornly on the dock, seeming to stare at me as I stepped off the ferry. It had been a bright red at one point, but water and general exposure had made the coloring dull. I picked it up gingerly, with half a mind to throw it away. I've never been able to let litter sit on the ground, whether it was mine or not. But as I walked toward a trash can, I realized something was off. While the cover of the notebook was wet, the pages inside did not seem to be. I flipped it open. Pages full of scribbles met my gaze. At first the handwriting was steady and strong, but as it went on the stroke became more erratic until finally it culminated in what looked like a written scream. Two words, 'Stop me'. I turned towards the trash can again, unnerved. Whoever had used this book last might come looking for it and given the apperance of those last two words I did not want to meet them. I paused though. Stop me? What if this was some poor soul who was going to commit suicide? Or some other horrible crime? What if all I had to do was skim this notebook to save them? Raindrops began to patter on my head. I looked up at the sullen gray sky and sighed. I had been thinking about heading south to Boston for an evening on the town. My little 'town' if you could call a couple hundred people that, in Essex County north of Boston didn't offer much of a night life. But a night on the town would have to wait. I had a notebook to read. Twenty minutes later found me in the small house I rented, curled up on the couch with a mug of tea and a blanket. I flipped open the notebook and began reading: 'The music is what bothers me most,' it began. 'There is this strange ethereal music in the air. Only, ethereal isn't quite right because it is so very very real, almost solid. But no one else hears it. It surrounds me, and it sounds like the strident call of trumpet, but it's not a trumpet making the call, it's a string instrument, but sounding more strident than string has a right to, but then again there is the pounding boom of the drum. And they aren't seperate sounds as in an orchestra, it's all one at once. I just, I can't-' There were several slash marks, as if the writer had grown frustrated. As I turned the page I paused. Just for a moment, I thought I had heard something. Some music of some kind. I put the book down and walked into the kitchen to check my radio. It was off. Shaking my head I looked outside. The sky had gone from gray to black. Rain went from a patter to a pour as I looked out, clanging on the window and the roof above me. I was glad I had decided to stay in now, I wouldn't want to be driving out in this weather. Settling back down on the sofa I began reading again. 'It's not important. The music is just a symptom. You must know this!!! The music is only the beginning.' I shifted on the couch and sighed. I was beginning to doubt that I really needed to be reading this. But, I had come this far, and I had nothing better to do. 'You must also beware yellow. It is not safe after this. I stopped her and I thought it was over. But it has only gotten worse. And now I know, now I understand.' Here there was a doodle in the margin, a large circle with what looked like wiggly lines coming out of it. Tentacles maybe? There was an arrow pointing to it, with the caption 'He Calls' underneath it. As I stared at it, again, just on the edge of hearing, a strange music fell on my ear. It reminded me of a trumpet call, but done with a violin... I sat straight up and looked around. My tiny living room, with only the TV and DVR box besides my couch and easy chair was empty and still. I looked back down at the notebook doubtfully. I was letting this thing get to me. I should just stop reading it. I made a move to put it down, but instead I found myself turning the page again. The writing was frantic now and I knew I was nearing the end of the account. 'I can't stop now. I want to but I can't. Just like her. The river at midnight on 09-20-20**' I raised my eyebrows at that. That