Entry 6

Dear Future Me

It’s been a few days.  I was able to take a peek at what my great great great great great grand uncle has locked away on the second floor.  And let me tell you, future me, it’s pretty weird.  So, first off, he hasn’t noticed that anything is different yet.  Which is good.  I mean, the lock on the third floor door with all of them cats inside is still unlocked.  I had forgotten to do so the first time I was in there, but he never said a thing to me about it.  When I passed by today the door was still unlocked; I tested it as I snuck myself downstairs.
So there are two doors, one on either side of the tiny landing that makes up the second floor.  I tried the first one, the one above the kitchen and not the one above his bedroom.  I wanted to save that one for later, in case if I needed to bolt I could with having done at least a little something something.
Once I unlocked the door I went inside and closed it as quietly as I could.  Aaaaand it’s a painting studio.  Literally a painting studio.  It looks…modern I guess?  There’s a lot of windows facing the forest which would give it a ton of light.  There’s a fan overhead and one by the tiny ass window facing the street.  And there’s paint supplies and canvas and easels all about the place, as if it were haphazardly thrown in there.
There’s a sink with a drying rack, where there’s this real old, and I swear moldy, rag hanging on the neck of the faucet.  Next to the sink on the thin counter is a literal fuck-ton of brushes of all shapes and sizes and colors.  An apron that literally says “kiss the chef” is hanging on the peg on the door.  It’s so smothered in ink that I almost couldn’t read what was on there.
Was this what the old fart was up to at all the weird hours of the day?  He’s a painter?  Which led me to believe that he painted the stuff in the third floor mini art gallery for the elementary school kids.  I think that they are all his.  And if that was the fact, then man does this old fart suck at painting big time.
I mean, everyone has to have a hobby, I guess.
There’s no new canvases filled with paint at all in the place.  He either brought them upstairs to the third floor and hung them, or, he never did any painting recently.  I don’t know, I didn’t look in the mini art gallery on floor three.  Which then begs the question, much like the cats, how does he get up there without me knowing?  It’s not like he does it when I am gone from the house, since I am always here.  It’s not like he does it when I am asleep at night, it’s so bloody hot at night I could hardly get any of my forty winks.
I snuck back out of the room and went across the landing.  Thank god that the floorboards weren’t as shit as the ones going up to the third floor and beyond.  Thanks that I’m so light it hardly made a difference if I stepped on them.  Plus I was being al sneaky like, so no one could hear me.  I was wearing my favorite thigh-high-cat-tights that Julie got me.
AND HOLY SHIT CAN’T SHE FUCKING TEXT BACK????  I EVEN TEXTED HER AGAIN YESTERDAY BUT NOOOO, SHE CAN’T BE BOTHERED WITH ANSWERING HER FUCKING PHONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ahem.  Anyways, I was quiet, alright?  Now future me, you have no idea what was behind that last door, do you?  Cause you have that memory loss thing, right?  Well, let me tell you, what happened in there is utterly and fucking utterly strange.
All there is is a mirror.  All there is is a floor length mirror.  There’s nothing behind it, nothing above it, and nothing beside it.  I mean, there’s a dim bulb that I turned on above it, but there’s no windows or even wallpaper in there.  It’s all gray plaster.  What does it mean, then?  What does this mirror do?
I checked all around it for like a good ten minutes.  There was nothing.  And the whole time I could hear the snoring and the subtle wheezing of the old fart right below me.  I eventually gave up and went upstairs.  I’m not sure of what to make of this place.
The attic is a literal museum cum clothes hoard.
The third floor has a gallery with paintings which are slowly getting better with no conceivable way he changes them.
The third floor has a room full of cats with no food or water inside it.
The second floor has a painting studio that’s more modern than anything else in the house.
The second floor has an unfinished room with a floor length mirror.
The first floor is… well, actually, the first floor is pretty normal to be honest.
But the old fart which lives here has got to be the most eccentric old man I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

I don’t know what to think.

Robin