Storms and Scarabs

by H. R. Hobbs

  “The next entry is dated March twenty-first. Let’s keep reading.”

  Brock had just said the words when the bell rang. They both groaned. That was the end of the story for now.

  As they followed their classmates into the school Brock asked, “So, exactly where in the house did you find the journal?”

  Still uncertain whether he could trust Brock or not, Mitch responded with a question of his own.

  “You promise not to tell anyone?”

  Brock nodded.

  “I found it when I was exploring the attic of our house.”

  “Really? That’s so cool. Did you find anything else?”

  “No. My mom came home before I could do any more searching.” He paused. Should he tell Brock about the trunk? “If I tell you what I was really looking for, do you swear you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone? The attic was always off-limits when my Pops was alive. I’m sure my parents wouldn’t be happy knowing I was up there snooping around.”

  Brock made an X over his heart. “Cross my heart.”

  Mitch waited until the crowd of students entered the school and then whispered, “I found the journal when I was looking for the key to an old trunk that belonged to Pops.”

  “Holy cow! What do you think’s inside of it?”

  Mitch shrugged. “I have no idea. I didn’t find the key. Maybe he took the trunk with him when he went to war. It’s really old and banged up.”

  “We need to find the key to that trunk! It’s probably full of cool stuff!”

  We? Mitch bristled at the word. Since when had this become a partnership? Like the Hardy Boys or something.

  “I don’t know . . . maybe I should talk to my parents first.”

  Mitch knew his excuse wasn’t going to work. Brock’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement.

  “How about Saturday? We’d have lots of time to look around in the attic on the weekend.”

  Now he really did have to ask to his parents. Which was going to be hard, because he wasn’t talking to them right now. But he knew he was going to have to do it if Brock was coming over.

  Mitch sighed. “I’ll talk to my parents tonight and see if it’s okay with them.”

  Brock smiled from ear to ear. “Awesome! We’d better hurry up. Mrs. Patterson will freak out if we’re late.”

  Brock rushed into the school. Mitch took his time, already regretting that he’d agreed to talk to his parents. He was still mad at them about the move and hated having to ask them for anything. But if he wanted to find out more about Pops, he was going to have to bite the bullet and ask.

  Chapter 4

  “You want to what?” his mom asked that night at supper. He couldn’t ask his dad because—surprise—he was still out in the field.

  “Look around in the attic. See what’s up there,” Mitch told her for the second time.

  Alyssa sat at the table texting—which was against the rules, but as usual his mom didn’t notice as she placed supper on the table. Starting a fight with Alyssa wasn’t going to help him get permission, so Mitch didn’t bring her attention to it.

  “Why would you want to go up there? It’s just a bunch of dust and things your grandparents had no use for.”

  “I’m just curious,” Mitch told his mom, shrugging. “There might be some old stuff up there that’s pretty cool.”

  “Pops was always so secretive about what was locked up there, I don’t even know what you’d find. I’m trying to get the rest of the house in order before I tackle that job.”

  Mitch didn’t want to let on that he’d already been in the attic, afraid of his mom’s reaction. He shrugged again, trying to pretend he didn’t care either way. “Maybe I could clean it up a little while I’m there. Alyssa can always use the room to store all her junk.”

  Alyssa didn’t look up from her phone. “Watch it, runt.”

  Obviously she’d picked that one up from Eric.

  “Alyssa, we don’t talk that way to each other,” his mom chastised her.

  Mitch gave his sister a satisfied smile, which she returned with a glare.

  “I guess it’s okay,” his mom said. “But I’ll have to talk it over with your father.”

  The smile that had started on his face vanished. Mitch wasn’t surprised. Why did his parents always have to talk decisions over with each other?

  Figuring he might as well get all his requests in at once, he asked, “Do you think I could have someone over to help me?”

  His mom couldn’t keep the smile from her face at the news that he’d made a friend. That smile tempted him to tell her that Brock wasn’t really a friend. He was still mad at her. But he decided not to rock the boat.

  “Who did you want to invite?” she asked between bites.

  “Brock Turner. He doesn’t live far from here. We ride the bus together.”

  “Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll give his mom a call and invite him over.”

  Mitch thanked his mom, which kept the smile glued on her face throughout the rest of supper. Maybe she did know how hard the move had been for him.

  That was four days ago. Mitch and Brock read more of the journal any time they had the chance, which wasn’t very often. Without fail, the minute they sat down to read more of the journal, Eric, Alyssa, and even nosy Emily seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if summoned by the journal itself.

  The good news was that his dad said it was okay to go up to the attic.

  “I think you’ll be disappointed, son—it’s just old clothes and newspapers up there. But we could use the extra space. Your mom and I don’t have time to do it, so knock yourself out.”

  Mitch leaned back on the couch so that he had a view down the driveway. Brock should be here any minute. Brock’s mom said she’d drop him off by 1:00 p.m. Where were they? He checked the clock again.

  Five minutes later, he heard a loud rumble coming from the direction of the driveway. A beat-up truck roared up the lane. Brock’s bully brother, Eric, was driving. A woman sat in the passenger seat.

  Mitch ran to the door, followed by his mom, who had been doing dishes in the kitchen.

  The woman, presumably Brock’s mom, came around the front of the truck. She was tall with long blond hair that lay in a braid down her back. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and worn sneakers. Brock was right behind her.

  “Afternoon!” Mitch’s mom held out her hand. “I’m Sandy Howell, and this is Mitch.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

  “Lisa Turner and Brock. It’s great to meet you. Brock tells me the boys have offered to help clean up the attic. I can’t get Brock to clean his bedroom, so good for you!” She bumped Brock with her hip, then turned and surveyed the farm. “I always loved this farm. I’m glad to see you come back and carry on the family tradition.”

  Mitch’s mom brushed the stray hair that had come out of her ponytail. “It’s a lot of work, but Ray is determined to make a go of it. There are things that need to be updated—George wasn’t much for ‘new-fangled’ farm improvements—but we’re getting there. I’m glad Mitch has made a new friend. He’s probably feeling neglected, with his dad and I being so busy.”

  Both Mitch and Brock shifted as the conversation went on, anxious to get to the attic.

  “Well, I’d better let you two get at it.” Brock’s mom patted him on the back and turned back to the truck. “Eric and I are off to town for some supplies—if I survive. Eric may have his learner’s license, but I feel like I’m putting my life in his hands every time I get in a vehicle with him.”

  She waved out the window as the truck roared down the lane.

  Mitch grabbed Brock’s arm and headed into the house.

  “Hold on, boys,” his mom called, following them into the house. “If you’re going to clean the attic, you’ll need some garbage bags.” She grabbed a handful from the cupboard under the sink.

  Mitch groaned and took them from her.

  “Hold
on. I’m coming up with you.”

  “Mommmm . . .”

  “I haven’t been up there in years. I just want to have a look around and give you some ideas of what’s junk and what’s not.”

  “All right.” Mitch’s tone conveyed how unhappy he was with this latest development, but he and Brock followed his mom up to the second floor.

  “Be careful on these stairs,” she told them as she opened the door. “Your grandpa couldn’t get around up here at the end, so he started storing things on the stairs.”

  His mom wound her way up to the top with Mitch and Brock close on her heels. There was barely enough room for the three of them to stand at the top of the stairs.

  “Okay, any newspapers or magazines you can throw out.” She bent to the stack by her feet. “I don’t know why your grandfather felt the need to save all these, but they’re a fire hazard, so you can pitch them. I think if you start with that, you’ll be busy for most of the afternoon. Good luck!”

  She picked her way back downstairs as Brock and Mitch started to fill the garbage bag from the stack on the landing. When they were sure she was back downstairs, they dropped the bag.

  Mitch led Brock to the trunk.

  “This is it.” He pointed to the side of the trunk. “And here’s the sticker that shows it was his. We need to find the key to get it open.”

  Brock pointed to dresser. “Is that where you found the journal?”

  “Yeah. I only had time to search the top drawer. Maybe we should start by looking in there.”

  They picked their way to it and Mitch pulled open the second drawer.

  “Eww . . .” Brock waved his hand in front of his nose. “Your family really believes in the power of moth balls, don’t they?”

  Ignoring Brock, Mitch shoved his hands under the clothes and felt around.

  “Nothing.”

  The next drawer was the same.

  “Well, where should we look now?” Brock asked.

  “Let’s fill a garbage bag in case my mom comes back. We might uncover some places to look.”

  They got to work, starting with the newspapers that covered the dresser. That filled one bag. The next bag they filled with magazines that were stacked on the floor next to the trunk. As Mitch tied the second garbage bag, he looked around the attic.

  “It doesn’t look like we’ve done anything,” he said, discouraged.

  “What about that rack of clothes over there?” Brock pointed to the corner of the attic. “Doesn’t that look like a uniform? The journal said your grandpa was joining the Navy.”

  Mitch squinted through the dust. All he could see were a bunch of old coats on sagging hangers.

  “Can we even get over there?” he asked.

  “I think so. Follow me.” Brock carefully moved through the bags and boxes.

  “Maybe the key’s in here?” Mitch picked up a wooden box from a plastic container on the floor and gave it a shake. Something rattled around inside.

  Brock backtracked to stand beside Mitch. “What is it?”

  “I think it’s a jewelry box. My mom puts keys and things in hers. Maybe my grandparents did too.”

  He lifted the lid, silently hoping the rattling had been keys and not some old rings. But that’s exactly what was inside, along with some pins and a couple necklaces. He dug through the jewelry to see if there was a key hiding at the bottom.

  “No key.” Mitch snapped the lid shut and put the box back in the container.

  “How about in here?” Brock reached over some pictures leaning against the wall and grabbed a bowl off the window sill. “Maybe it got thrown in here.”

  Mitch peered over Brock’s shoulder to look at what was in the bowl. Some picture hooks, nuts and bolts, washers, and—ta-da!—two small keys. Brock fished them out of the bowl and handed them to Mitch.

  Mitch didn’t think the first key would fit and, after picking his way back to the trunk as quickly as possible, he discovered that he was right. The second one was small enough, but when Mitch tried it, nothing happened.

  “Dang it!”

  “Did they work?” Brock called from the other side of the attic.

  “No.”

  Mitch stood and made his way back to Brock, dropping the keys back in the bowl.

  Brock was going through the rack of clothes they’d spotted earlier. He held the uniform up for Mitch to look at. The blue was faded and dusty. One white band was on the arm. A cap was shoved in the pocket.

  “It’s your grandpa’s.” Brock pointed to where howell was stitched on the front.

  Mitch pulled the cap out of the pocket and they both heard a tinkling sound.

  “What was that?” Brock asked.

  “Something fell out of the pocket when I pulled the cap out.”

  With little room to maneuver, the boys knelt and felt around on the tiny piece of floor that was visible.

  Finally, Brock held it up. “It’s a key!”

  Mitch shook his head. “It’s too big. The one I just tried is smaller than that. It fit. It just didn’t open the lock.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  “Okay, but you’re wasting your time. It isn’t going to fit.”

  Brock hopped over the attic’s contents to get to the trunk. Mitch carefully picked his way behind him.

  Crouched in front of the trunk, Brock stopped and looked at Mitch before trying the key.

  “I hope this works,” he whispered.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Mitch warned.

  “I’ve been holding it since we came up here.”

  Brock took a deep breath and slid the key into the lock. It fit perfectly. As Brock turned the key, the sound of the latch opening echoed through the attic.

  Both boys froze. Mitch was convinced it was loud enough for his mom to hear and she’d be on her way up to investigate. When they didn’t hear footsteps, they slowly flipped the latches at each end. Mitch thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest. Just as they were about to lift the lid, Brock looked at Mitch.

  “What if there’s a skeleton in here?”

  Mitch’s heart ticked up another notch and he shivered. The last thing he wanted to think about was skeletons and dead bodies. That stuff freaked him out, but he wasn’t about to tell Brock that.

  He snorted. “Yeah, right. Why would Pops have a skeleton in a trunk?”

  “Well, you said he wouldn’t let you come up here. Maybe that’s what he was hiding!”

  “Will you quit? There isn’t a skeleton in here.” At least, he really hoped there wasn’t.

  Brock gave him a look that said If you say so, then said aloud, “On three. One, two, three.”

  The smell of moth balls wafted out of the trunk as the boys let the lid rest against the wall.

  “More clothes?” Mitch didn’t try to keep the disappointment from his voice.

  Brock waved his hand in front of his face. “And moth balls. Your grandparents were definitely serious about keeping bugs out of their stuff.”

  “Well, that was a lot of work for nothing.” Mitch went to close the lid again.

  “Wait!” Brock put his hand on Mitch’s arm. “You found the diary under some clothes. Maybe your grandpa hid something under these.”

  “I’m not digging through clothes again. The dresser was bad enough.”

  “I’ll do it,” Brock volunteered, and began moving the clothes to one side.

  “Hold on,” Mitch said. Between the clothes he’d caught a flash of red. Lifting the clothes off the top, he pulled out a bundle of photographs tied with red ribbon.

  “Careful,” Brock said. “That looks really old.”

  On the top was a picture of a young man wearing the same uniform they’d found on the rack. The guy in the picture was skinny with short brown hair. Mitch had never seen a picture of Pops when he was in his twenties. He only remembered his grandpa with grey hair and a big belly. He stood in front of an old car wit
h his arm around a woman. They were both smiling.

  “Is that your grandpa?” Brock asked.

  “It might be.” Mitch squinted to get a closer look. “I’m guessing if this is his trunk, that’s who it is.”

  “Who’s the lady?”

  “My grandma, I’m guessing.” It kind of looked like her, but Mitch hadn’t seen any pictures of her at this age either.

  Leaving Mitch to look through the rest of the pictures, Brock went back to searching through the trunk. Taking more clothes out, he lifted a small wooden box from the bottom.

  Mitch looked up from the picture he was studying. “What’s that?”

  “I have no idea. Hopefully not a bunch of boring old pictures.”

  A brass latch held the box closed. Brock flipped it up. Nestled in the center of blue silk lay a metal cylinder.

  “What is it?” Mitch whispered.

  He’d never seen anything like it before. The cylinder was covered in a dull brown tarnish. Brock lifted the cylinder from the box. When three more sections slid out of the end of the cylinder, he nearly dropped it.

  “It’s a spyglass!” Brock breathed in awe.

  “A spyglass?”

  “Yeah, like pirates used to sight land or ships to attack.” Brock held the spyglass up to his eye.

  “Holy cow! That’s too cool. Do you think my grandpa used it when he was in the Navy?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s possible. How old do you think it is?”

  “Really old. More than a hundred years, for sure.”

  Brock looked through the eye piece again. “Except there’s something wrong with it. When I look through it all I see is black. I don’t see anything.”

  “Let me try.” Mitch looked through the eye piece. “You’re right. Maybe the glass is broken.” He shook the spyglass but didn’t hear anything rattling around inside.

  “What have you got there?”

  The boys jumped. It was Mitch’s mom, standing at the top of the stairs.

  “A spyglass? We think it was Pops’s. We found it in this old trunk,” Mitch explained.

  “Let’s see.” Mitch reluctantly placed it in her outstretched hand. She studied it and then held it to her eye. “Well, it looks like it was a spyglass, but I think it’s broken.” She studied it for a moment longer. “Your grandfather travelled a lot. He probably bought it as a souvenir on one of his adventures.”