The top two diaries were obviously the ones Grandmother wanted me to read. I reached for the second one, curious about what other family secrets it contained.

This one was written with a shaky hand and splotches like teardrops sprinkled the pages. It started with:

Edger was six when he died. I remember blood spewing everywhere. It burst out faster than Mother and I could control it. When he drew his last breath, Mother kissed his cheeks. I pulled a blanket off the bed and covered him.

Mother held his wrapped body and rocked Edgar as if putting him to sleep.

Marcus, my older brother, watched us with an intense expression.

“What happened?” I twisted around and stared at my older brother.

“Little brother got hold of a knife and stabbed himself,” he shrugged and shook his head.

Something about his attitude bothered me. I started to say something, but Mother cut me off with a hand wave.

Her voice raspy with emotion demanded, “Marcus gather your stuff and leave this house forever. I never want to see your face again.”

I turned to her and said, “Mother, I don’t understand.”

“He is a Lost Soul, defiled with evil as was his father. This was no accident, was it, Marcus?”

My brother stood there with an odd smile. “The blood went everywhere. But it was your fault, the scent churned inside me until I had to let it out.”

“Out now! Never to return! Annabelle put all the money from the cookie jar on the kitchen table and then step back. He is not to be trusted.”

“Marcus is only ten, you can’t drive him from home.”

“He’s big for his age. He will survive. Can’t say the same of us if he stays here.”

“You could just end it all with your silver knife. Like you did with father,” he sneered.

“No, Marcus, leave. I will not have your death on my conscience.”

The next day was my twelfth birthday. Mother gave me the knife and explained why Marcus killed his brother. She used the same explanation as the Gatekeeper did later.

“Lost Souls,” she called them.

With the silver knife in my possession, the attacks started when I was in school and continued through my marriage to George, your grandfather. It eased my spirit’s pain when he died a natural death. But the last Lost Soul who confronted me left a devastating scar on my heart and conscience. I have not slept well since.

Over the years, those who threatened me called me the Catcher and talked about my strong scent drawing them. When I questioned the Gatekeeper, he told me it was my title, a Catcher of Lost Souls. The beckoning scent was powerful in the best catchers.

Maybe you already learned this from the Gatekeeper, but I thought it essential to write down the complete story. Your parents’ deaths were not an accident, but an attack by a Lost Soul. I gave the knife to your mother.

She held in her hand for a moment, thrust it back to me, and said, “You’re crazy, Mother. I don’t buy into your superstitions.”

I understand why she rejected the knife. Her husband, your father was a conservative preacher in the local church, and his sermons denounced all forms of magic.

Not understanding all the consequences of what my daughter set in motion by holding the knife, I put it back in my leg sheath. I found out later that the Catcher scent was so strong, even holding it in her hand for less than a minute, attracted evil to her.

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Your parents drove that afternoon to comfort a dying church member and his family. A wild looking, muscular man stepped in front of their car. His long black hair swirled and covered his face, but somehow his gleaming eyes showed through. While swerving to miss him, your parents’ car went off the road and got stuck in the mud. When the man approached swinging a metal tire iron, your father frantically tried to rock it free. Using the tire iron as a weapon, the attacker smashed through the front window, swinging it at them until both were dead. He then freed the stuck car and shoved it over the edge into the lake.

I found out this afterward when he came for me. You were in school so knew nothing about this.

He approached the front porch, swinging his iron weapon. With a loud, hoarse voice the man called out, “Hey sis, I’ve come for you.”

“Marcus?”

He nodded and said, “Yep, that’s me. Your only brother that’s left since I killed the other. I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by. You must have the knife; your Catcher scent is strong. I thought that was taken care of when I killed the two on the road. She had a faint odor, but nothing like yours.”

“What did you do?”

“Killed them with my handy tire iron. I smashed their window, killed them, and then pitched their car in the lake. It doesn’t matter if she was not a Catcher, blood is blood and there was plenty of it.” Marcus swung his weapon in a circular motion.

Breaking free from its sheath, the knife appeared in my hand. I pointed to my brother’s forehead. The shining blade flew at him.

He lifted his metal rod to block it. “Oh no you don’t. I’ve seen this trick before when Dear Mama killed Papa.”

The blade came back to me. I pointed to his feet, first one and then the other. He howled in pain as the knife pierced his leather shoes and stabbed his feet. Hopping from foot to foot, Marcus used the tire iron for a brace. When the weapon returned to me, I pointed at his forehead again. He fell backward, landing on the ground with a surprised expression.

I decided there could be no explaining about him. I tied him to the bumper of my car and dragged him along until finding skid marks on the road. Sorrow filled me as I contemplated what my evil brother did. Beth, you and I were now alone.

I pulled up close to the lake’s edge, untied Marcus from the car’s bumper, and shoved his body into the water.

The last sentence in the diary was barely legible. Her handwriting was weak, and teardrops smeared the ink.

Beth, forgive me, but on your twelfth birthday, I passed the knife to you.

Tears coursed down my cheeks. My grandmother suffered so much. First watching her father die, then her brothers, and finally my parents. The knife was not a blessing, but a curse, drawing death and evil to whoever held it. I stood and picked up the books. Not interested in reading any more history, I went downstairs.

The fireplace was set for the first cold morning. I lit the kindling and waited for the fire to catch. When the flames flared brightly, I threw in the diaries. A card fell out. I started to pitch it in also, but for some reason held back and put it in my pocket.

Sitting on the sofa, I watched as the books turned into ashes. Grandmother’s image materialized in her rocking chair. “You did right, burning them. These books were only for you. Please don’t be angry with me for not telling you before I died. The words were too hard to say.”

“I love you, Grandmother. If I’m angry with anyone, it’s the Gatekeeper. His ghostly tales though the best were full of half-truths, leaving the worst parts for you to tell me. I will not drive by the Forest of Lost Souls and plan on never talking to the Gatekeeper again. Just the thought of my relatives behind the walls, eager to get free and kill again. It turns my stomach.”

“Beth, please be at peace.”

“How can I be? I am condemned to never have children. No child of mine will carry this curse. I will die and not pass the knife on. Has anything been revealed about destroying the knife?”

“Nothing.”

“I will spend the rest of my life finding a way.” My dismal future overwhelmed me. Sobs shook my body.

Grandmother stood and surrounded me with her presence. Her ghostly touch calmed my mind and body. “Your future is not so bad. I’ve seen glimpses of it. Again, be at peace. Now, I have a chore for you. Gather all my clothes and take them to the church. Pass all the knitted pieces to the neighbors. They will need them this coming winter.”

I smiled, even in death, Grandmother was still organized.

The realtor came by the next day for me to sign a sales contract for the house with furnishings. He tried to talk me down to a lower price, “You know it will be hard to sell? Someone died in the house.”

“It was a peaceful passing.”

“Neighbors say they see her ghost walking.”

I studied him for a moment, “You want the house for yourself?”

“No, no. Just considering it may be on the market for a while,” he stuttered.

The house sold in a week for my asking price. I loaded my few belongings in the car, shook hands with the buyer, and dropped the house keys in his open hand.

I drove off without a backward glance. Finished with the past, I was ready to move on with my life.

Before I left, Grandmother appeared one more time. “The card in your pocket. Don’t lose it. That is your future.”

Before I could question her, she smiled and disappeared.