February 20

Well, last night was very interesting. Ellen said that she had received several threats...threats for money. Everyone knows that old Eleazar had money-the speculation is on how much. And now poor Ellen is getting threatened with her death if she doesn't fork some over. Problem is, she confided in me that she doesn't know where--or even if--such money exists.

If it wasn't for that look in her eyes, I would have burst out laughing. It's ridiculous. How could someone die and not let their wife know where--or even if--the money lies? But then this is old Eleazar we're talking about-the meanest (though according to Ellen, he was only crusty in public) man alive, according to the rest of the town, anyhow. Whether I believe them or Ellen, I'm not sure.

I'm what they call a "newbie;" I've only been here in town for about a year or so. Most folks have grown up here and their parents grew up here and their parents...they don't despise me, though. Their kids are leaving; and I'm a nice, responsible citizen.

Anyway, Ellen doesn't even know if Eleazar had a will. Or a lawyer. Or money. She started crying at this point so I didn't ask any questions. Maybe I have a bit of a "reporter's nose," though, 'cause I was itching to ask, for instance, how she lived, if she had to ask for a daily allowance, whether he had business meetings, if so, who, when, where, and how often? Whether she knew if he had speculated in anything; if he had any rich relatives; whether he had relatives who were particularly angry about his fortune (were they at the funeral, I wonder? to see if they got something out of the will?)

I did see that at least two of the relatives were staying at her house. There were hats and shoes in the entryway when I entered and I could here conversation in the floor above; Ellen said that her sister and nephew were here right now. Whether that means they are staying for a week, and whether there are more than just those two, I don't know.

In the end, I figured out that Ellen wants someone to snoop around. And since I was so kind to her in town (apparently people with grudges against Eleazar are taking it out on Ellen; who would have thought? and her being so nice and sweet all the time) she asked me. Me. Why not Scottie? Why not someone who snoops for a living? Instead of someone who writes about dead people? On the other hand, maybe this is my "big break." Maybe this is my chance to prove I can write something other than obituaries; to prove that I can find my own story, instead of being handed a biography by a weeping widow and rewrite it into flowery tear-inducing words and combinations.

So, my mission on the side of my day job, for the next week or however long Ellen can wait for me to snoop around, find a) whether Eleazar had a will; b) find where he had this will (or who has it; either will work); c) get hold of it to find out where and what and if Ellen's money abides.

February 19

I talked to Rosie this morning and she prayed for me. I feel a lot better now. I had to dress up in black for Ellington's funeral-won't it be sad if I'm the only one there? I'm writing this at the little sandwich shop down the street from the office. I'm on lunch break, and I won't be back at the office 'till after the funeral. I'm getting paid for my time at the funeral, though, because I'm to write an article on it. What I'm going to write about though, I'm sure I don't know. I'll be replacing Kat's social columns, since she refuses to go. It's the biggest social function happening this week besides some party or something...I normally don't read her columns. I'm reading them right now, though, to see how she writes and what she writes about.

Oh, wonderful. She writes about clothes. I can do that. It's one of the things that I can actually do.

(Later)

The funeral was...interesting. I wrote a "perfectly phenomenal" article...but Kat reserves the right to edit as she sees fit. Hah! She'll probably add her own expertise so that it sounds just like her and no one will notice that it's not her. Oh well. Obituaries appear to be my specialty in life.

Anyway...oh yes, the funeral. It was mostly old people. By eavesdropping and socialized (maybe I have a talent for it. The old ladies thought I was "perfectly charming" and "sweet") I found out that most of them were Ellen's friends and came for her-not for old Eleazar Ellington himself. There were a couple younger people who either had bored expressions or sour bitter expressions. I found out that those people were family-ones that were required by social decree to attend-although it seemed like there were no social edicts demanding even false emotion. Perhaps Eleazar Ellington is simply an exception to the rule?

I did notice, however, that Ellen did not hire any mourners-as some rumors had hinted towards. Kat will probably edit out that part of my article. She was shocked how quickly I wrote up the blurb. But I write best when I still have all my fresh impressions and haven't processed them yet.

Ellen looked very seemly in her widow's clothing and was not faking her emotion-either that or she is one of the world's best actors. I personally don't think that she was, because she was softly sobbing the entire time. Someone had emitted the part of the ceremony in which people usually come up and say nice things about the deceased-very tactful on their part, I'm sure.

I waited until after the ceremony, during the reception, to speak to Ellen. I said I sympathized with her loss...and all the other proper things to say. She had a strange look in her eyes, though. As though she was confused, scared, and had something vitally important to say to me. But she simply murmured thank

My phone just rang here at the office. It was Ellen. She said she had something she needed to discuss with me. She asked if I could meet her at her house in twenty minutes. I explained that I had an editorial meeting in an hour. So I'm going over there for dinner. I wonder what she wants?

February 18th

So tomorrow is old Ellington's funeral. I can't get that out of my head. Ellen came the other day after reading my "perfectly lovely little thing" and invited me to the funeral. She looked so downcast and in need of encouragement that I said I would love to-which was true, if only for her sake. She left looking so happy but I think she left her depression behind-with me. I sat down at my desk with a sigh and good ol' Scottie came over and asked me what was wrong. I replied that I was just depressed for n0 reason. With a wry smile, he said, "Does the source happen to start with an "E"?" I smiled back, then picked up an assignment, signaling that our conversation was now over and that I didn't want to talk. He looked like he was about to argue, then grinned towards the wall behind me and walked back to his desk against the wall opposite me. I looked behind me of course, and saw nothing. I frowned and turned back to my work. I had to get my work done.

Ten minutes later, I sighed and grabbed my coat. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't think. All I saw was Ellen's hopeful face and the feeling that her depression had been thrown onto me. I walked outside, craving fresh air. As I opened the door, a biting frost hit my face. I gulped in the fresh air, getting momentary relief from the depression. I glanced across the street toward the grocery, wishing I had someone with me who could cheer my mood. I sighed and glanced down the street. At 11am, there was a good amount of traffic but the noise seemed somewhat muted. I couldn't shake off the feeling of depression. I felt like I was drowning, suffocating, smothering, under the desolation of...I don't know what (I'm still depressed, hence my writing at two in the morning. I'm going to be exhausted tomorrow).

Anyway, Rob didn't come out to meet me. For some reason I was disappointed. Maybe it's because I'm a hermit? Because I don't have any friends but him and Scottie? Because I never see my old friends from Hamville anymore? Maybe because I only socialize with professional writers that race to the top and don't speak to me? Maybe because I think about dead people all day and need alive-people contact?

Great. Now I'm all wound up; I can't possibly go to sleep after that.

Is this the price of success? Feeling depressed and all alone, without friends?

Maybe I'll talk to Rosie tomorrow...she's always been able to cheer me up.

February 8

Well, I finally found you. It's interesting how long it can take to find things after one moves...you were in a box of miscellaneous items that I haven't needed in positive ages, hence my disuse of you.

I think the thing I miss most about my little house is my nighttime walk. And yes, Rob. He actually came over to the office the other day during lunch break to ask me why I had moved. I explained about how I was renting and the lease had expired and how I was now in an apartment. I think I rambled for hours but I had to, for I had just finished a most miserable case. It was old miser Ellington. Everyone knew that he was rich and snobby and made his wife work like a slave so when he died the town celebrated. Then poor Ellen (his wife, you understand) came to the office and asked me to write a "right pretty little thing about poor Eleazar". Rumor has it that she's always loved him, as long as they've been married and after looking at her tear-streaked face, I have to agree.

Anyway, about Rob...he had quite good timing. Right after I had finished writing and scrounging my poor brain trying to find the right words to say about that man (as if anyone's going to be at the funeral! poor Ellen...). But, anyway, Rob has good timing. Very good. Too good. Almost as though he knows me...or just watches me through a window-if he does this he is a creep!

But, no more a creep than Scottie is, I suppose. Scottie works here at the office. He's a investigative journalist and has quite the nose for good stories. He drops by and helps me write up my stories sometimes, when I'm looking more morose than usual...or, as he says, "'bout as bleak as a dead corpse". He's quite the cheerful, chipper sort of person. Last week Harry, the boss, gave me an investigative report job. Sent me down to a morgue.... Let's just say I came back and was able to write quite the descriptive epitaph. Yeah...Scottie was on the way to his job so he gave me a lift. And on the way, gave me a crash course on investigative reporting. In short, I learned that one must be like Sherlock Holmes to get a good article. And I was observant like a good girl and got praised by Harry for a job well done. When I started writing obituaries, the staff had a hard time believing that I had never taken any classes in writing beyond high school. I had really good teachers, though. Problem is, they assume that because I can write good obituaries I can write good articles that require good investigative skills!

But at least I have a job. Scottie and Miss Kim are always telling me to be optimistic and that I let the "subjects" inhabit my mind far too much. But I can't help thinking that the "subjects"-the people I write about-were real people and had real lives and leave behind grieving people. Mom always did tell me that I was good with people and genuinely cared about them.

Ah, yes, and Miss Kim. Now there's a character. She has this presence about her that requires respect. Even Harry (who "don't give titles to no one", in his own words) calls her "Miss Kim". She is a prim and proper, but very very efficient woman. She handles phone calls, mail, correspondence, and all sorts of things. She also brings a change of clothes to work and stocks up aspirin and protein bars enough for the whole office. We joke that she is our "mama" because whenever we need something, there is a 99.9% chance that she has it.

Well, I'm tired enough now to go to sleep. All this time that I haven't been writing in you, I have been reading books that Miss Kim gave me. They're so dry and dull that I go to sleep quite quickly. But after Ellington today, I needed someplace to vent.

And it's not fun to walk around the block here-far too many apartments and late-night partiers.

June 18

Well, my dear horror-diary-maybe I shouldn't call you that; hopefully I'll have some non-horror things to write about soon. Today was just like any other day, writing up plenty of obituaries...is it just me or are people dying more than they used to? Actually, here's the problem: that the editor used to toss together an obituary whenever it was needed but now I have that entire job with no help. And people apparently love my "gift". So they would rather send their obituary-request to me instead of any other paper. Good for my job, bad for my sanity. Anyway, I need to get my mind off that. Grrr, that's why I have you! So I have something else to think about!!

I've been reading my last post and...well, I'll tell you about Rob now.

Honestly, I don't even know who he is. I go walking at night to try and distract myself from my work...about nine o'clock every night. Sometimes I saw this guy walking down the street but all we would do is nod, say "hello", and keep walking. After about two weeks of doing that every night, I decided that it was time to say more than "hello". After screwing up my courage, I went on my walk but he wasn't walking that night. The next day was especially excrutiating at work and I went walking for two hours, around and around the block. When I was nearing the end of my third trip around the block, Rob came out of his door.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," I replied with a small smile. I remembered my resolution from the previous night to say more than that so I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it.

"This is a wonderful place to walk, isn't it?"

I nodded, "Indeed it is."

"Do you work at the newspaper office? I've seen you walk in there every day...I work across the street at the grocer's."

"Oh, yeah, I work there. That grocery is really cute. It has some very interesting little items that one can't find elsewhere." Anything to keep the conversation going, I thought to myself.

"Yeah, I'm one of the few full-time employees. The 'little interesting things' is what keeps us in business." He paused for a second then continued, "What do you do at the newspaper office?"

"I write columns." Why do you want to know, I asked him in my head. My face must have been telling of my mistrust because he said,

"Oh, I've always thought that writing is one of the most amazing jobs a person could have."

Phone just rang. It's my mother. She'll probably keep me up till I'm tired enough to fall asleep. Good-night, Diary.

Grim fear

Fear gripped me as I wrapped my fingers around the latest deposit from Miss Kim, the receptionist for our newspaper. I grabbed a deep breath from the inmost part of my being and hastily took a glance at the first sentence. "Speared to death by his brother," the sentence started. I didn't want to read the rest. This was the worst part of my job. I had to read how the people died and what they were like. And then make it sound pretty and make all the old ladies at the funeral cry, whether they knew the deceased or not. I am a very dramatic, over-reactive sort of person and that is what landed me this job with the Oval Eagle Reporter. I can write well and people gush over my "gift" but what they fail to realize is that I can't turn this "gift" off; I have to deal with it all the time. Nighttime is the worst. That is why I have resorted to writing in you, my diary. If I write in you, then maybe I won't...but no, I shan't write it. I will not jinx myself. Unless a major turn-around happens in my life, I doubt that I'll have anything in this diary but the sort of things that horror stories are made of. I can't even walk by the movie theatre in town anymore because of all the horror film posters. Only unimaginative people who don't work as obituary-writers watch those films. And now I'm rambling, trying to keep my mind off...

Good-night. That's enough for tonight. I'm just writing in circles, trying to use up all my nervous energy. Maybe I'll go take a walk. Maybe I'll meet Rob again. (more about him in another post)

Farewell for now, my dear horror-diary.

I write obituaries

I write obituaries for a living. Don't know how many people can say that they do that.