Entry 5

Dear Future Me,

I went through some of this old house here, and you got to know what’s inside.  I mean, assuming this whole amnesia thing is actually a thing and not because of the stupid therapist, you know.
So, I did some snooping in the attic first.  Cause let’s be honest, it’s the closest and I can hear the old fart wheezing from a mile away if he came up those narrow stairs.
So I opened up the first chest, and I found clothes.  Like, old clothes from like the sixties or some shit.  Men’s and woman’s.  Was it his and his wife’s at some point?  I say that only cause there looked to be clothes of every shape and size in there.  Plus, a few wigs.  Like, actual proper stuff and not the shit I bought at Halloween last year.
And I opened the next chest.  And there’s more clothes.  This time, from this era.  I mean, there’s stuff in here that I would wear.  Literally, like it’s my clothes from home or some shit.  And some boy clothes too.  That’s a little too weird for my tastes.  Like, I get keeping shit for nostalgia reasons.  But having clothes from this decade which you possibly could never have worn?  That’s going to be a big yikes from me dog.
And that’s all I found in that place.  All I found were clothes ranging from right now to like the dinosaur times.  So it’s safe to say that my great great great great great grand uncle has some of the weirdest fetishes.  I have no idea on how to take that.  I mean, I guess he has a hobby?  If you can call collecting clothes from every place under the sun a hobby.
If I was younger, I guess I would have entertained myself with dress up with all of the clothes and wigs.  I could literally could have pretended to be anyone.  Is that why people like to play pretend on stage and all that?  Is their life so miserable that they need to escape?
I mean, if I lived their lives, maybe.  My own life sucks ass right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to escape like that.  So I tried to keep a mental catalog of all the stuff up there and where it was.  A lot easier said than done, since there is so much crap up there.
I went downstairs from the attic costume shop to the third floor.  The empty room filled with landscapes were the same.  Though, I swear there were more paintings in there than before.  Or at least different ones.  I mean, I don’t remember half of them, but I also wasn’t looking real close at them the first time.
I will say that the quality improved, only a little.  What was the old fart doing, hosting a painting class for ghosts?  And were these their works?  If so, this must be some sort of beginner class or something, cause even we could do better than that.  Right, future me?
Then I went to the other door, the one that had the scratching under it the first time I tried to enter it.  There was no scratching right now.  And all that I could hear was the snores that came from the first floor.  Yes, they’re that loud and annoying.  I hear them all the way upstairs and there wasn’t any real way I could stop them from entering my attic bedroom.  I think they came through the pipes or something like that.
I unlocked the door with my bobby pins.  Which, let me say, is a lot harder than most people give credit for.  And I opened the door.  And… I am still confused.
Future me, there’s a cat.  Okay, not a cat, but like a dozen of the little things all around the place.  They range from black to white to calico to sandy red to brown to muddy blond.  They're all in a pile, in a cat nap pile.  All save for the sandy red one, which is staring out the window to the backyard.
Other than the cats there isn’t much else in the room.  A few sofas and a couple comfy chair.  A lot of them have been ripped at the bottoms and on the arms due to the cat claws.  I should know, I have my own little hodge-podge colored kitten back home I got for my birthday this year.
But there’s no food or water that I can see in the room.  There’s no bowls or cat trees or little cat nips or cat toys or anything.  But, all of the cats look strong and healthy.  How do they get fed?  Did the old fart keep food somewhere in the kitchen or in his room or something?  But I’ve never heard him come upstairs at all.  Well, at least not up to this level.  I would have heard his squeaking floorboards or his wheezing and huffing and puffing.
I don’t know what to think, to be honest.  Before any of the cats can escape, cause that red sandy feller on the window sill was giving me that stink eye, I close the door.
And of course I hear the old fart starting to move downstairs.  I don’t want to get caught, so I rushed back up and here I am, writing on top of a pair of old chests that contain medieval clothing and a variety of shoes from all eras.
Clothing and wigs in an attic museum, paintings that are slowly getting better in a blank room, and a dozen cats who get mysteriously fed in a locked room.

What the hell is this place, future me?  And why, oh why, do I feel the forest breathing down my neck?  I mean, it’s summer and almost noon.  It’s getting hot enough up here I want to switch to wearing nothing but my underwear, but the stupid forest still looks darker than ever.
And I hear a calling, like the trees are whispering my name over and over again.

What the hell is this place?  I’ve been here for ten days and I don’t know how much longer I can last here before I die of boredom.

Robin