The lock clicked—a sound like thunder in the damp cellar air. My hands froze on the ancient trunk, its wood worn smooth by time and my childhood dreams of gold. Thirty-eight years I’d fought this stubborn relic, forging tools, mastering locks, chasing my grandfather’s cryptic last words: “Without cutting?” Now, the moment had come, and I wasn’t ready.


Sweat stung my eyes as I stared at the lid, my heart drumming a rhythm of anticipation and dread. What if it was empty? What if it wasn’t? I’d spent decades chasing this moment, ever since I was eleven and my grandfather pulled me aside, his voice low and mysterious. “That trunk,” he’d said, pointing to the cellar, “holds more than you can imagine.” I’d dreamed of gold, jewel-encrusted daggers—anything to escape the monotony of my IT helpdesk job. But life moved on, and the trunk remained locked, a silent taunt through every annual visit to my grandmother’s farm.

Until tonight. With a key-like tool born from my own hands, I’d finally won. But victory felt like a trap. I stumbled back, the click echoing in my ears. My hands shook as I grabbed a beer from the cooler, the cold glass grounding me. What if this was a mistake? My grandfather’s laugh rang in my mind—“Keep trying, kid… one day, when you’re ready, you’ll open it without cutting.” Was I ready?

I drained the beer, then another, and drifted into a sleep haunted by visions of treasures and journeys. When I woke at dawn, the cellar was silent, but the trunk seemed to hum with secrets. I couldn’t walk away now. With a deep breath, I nudged the lid. It creaked open, releasing the scent of old leather and dust, like an antique shop frozen in time. But instead of gold, I found… books. Old, untitled, leather-bound journals, their pages yellowed and dense with faded ink.


“Why books?” I muttered, flipping through one. The handwriting was meticulous, the sketches vivid—ships, symbols, cryptic maps. I escaped back to the house by the fire and my grandfather’s rocking chair creaked as I sank into it, the weight of the mystery settling on me. These weren’t the treasure I’d expected—but maybe they were the map to something greater. Something hidden. Somewhere in that cellar, I felt it: the real secret was watching, waiting for me to find it.

Two weeks later, I sat in my chaotic kitchen, wires dangling from a hacked smart fridge, my laptop buried under journals and highlighters. The sun’s pink-orange glow couldn’t pierce the haze of burnt toast and coffee—or my exhaustion. Waffles eyed my dangling headphones, ready to claim them, but I barely noticed.

Work stole another four hours at 3 a.m., but the journals stole my sleep—184 mysteries I couldn’t crack. Since opening the trunk, I’d felt an unexplained void, the journals whispering in my dreams—a sketch of a cross within a circle, etched beside “Beneath the stone, the truth waits.” What had I missed?

V rubbed my back, suspiciously well-rested. “Morning, babe. You’ve been staring at those books all week. What’s got you so spooked?”

“Work called at 3 a.m. again,” I groaned. “Beats golf, right?”


The toaster popped, startling me, as my phone rang. I sighed, expecting work. “WHAT NOW?”

“Dang, Bro,” Cecelia laughed. “You sound rough.”
“Sorry. I thought it was work again. I cracked the trunk”, I blurted. She chuckled, skeptical. “You’re both crazy.”
“Laugh all you want, sis,” I said, “but I’m a Castaway—and I need your help. There are 184 books.”


“184? You think they’re worth more than the farm?” she teased, the only one allowed to call me Johnny.
“They’re not just books,” I snapped. “They’re the key to something bigger—something hidden.”
“You’re chasing ghosts, Johnny. That farm’s just dirt and debt—unless those books say otherwise.”
“Meet me there next weekend,” I said, winking over the phone. “I’ll bring the books. You handle the boring crap.”
“Whatever,” she retorted, her grin telepathic. “I’ll call realtors to appraise the place.”
As we laughed, I flipped open a journal, and there it was again—the cross within a circle, staring back at me. Whatever waited at the farm, I wasn’t ready—but I had to find out.

John's Garage, Late Morning:

I retreated to my sanctuary, the garage, where stress melted away like wax under a blowtorch. The white 64 Chevy Nova big-block gleamed in the corner, its chrome accents sharp enough to blind if the light hit just right. My pride and joy. The faint scent of cherry hung in the air—high-octane fuel, the lifeblood of that beast. Everyone asks about the car, and I always say, "All you need to know is it’s wicked fast."


The garage was my fortress, a chaotic symphony of tools and memories. Not messy, mind you—I’m a Boy Scout at heart, ready for anything. The walls were a mosaic of specialized gear: automotive wrenches, machinist calipers, forging hammers, sprinkled with hotrod posters featuring bikini-clad marvels. Living in a house outnumbered 3-1 by females (4-1 if you count Waffles), this was my home within a home.

I’d counted the books before hauling them back from the farmhouse—184 in all—but laying them out now, sprawled across the workbench, the sheer volume hit me like a freight train. No titles, no labels, just leather covers, each a little different in color and embellishment, like they’d been crafted across decades, maybe centuries. When combined with the books already on my bookshelf, it’s obvious I have far too many.


I leaned back in my creaky stool, staring at them. I’m a data guy, chained to my laptop all day. I tried to imagine hand writing 184 client reports, 500 pages each, and my brain short-circuited. And the illustrations—God, they were good. Detailed, vivid, all from the same hand, I’d bet. If this was one person’s life, it wasn’t just a journal; it was an epic. Where the hell do I even start?

I grabbed a stack, flipping through pages. Dates scattered here and there—maybe I could sort them chronologically—but after an hour, I’d wasted time and gotten nowhere. My eyes ached, and my coffee was cold.


One sketch caught my eye—a map of the farmhouse, a cross marking the cellar wall. Below it, in shaky script: ‘The tools of war lie hidden, guarded by stone.’ I shivered, picturing that lone stone wall behind the trunk.


The kitchen door burst open, and my daughters tumbled in, a whirlwind of elbows and giggles, nearly tripping over each other. "DAAAD!" they shouted, collapsing in a heap on the concrete floor.

"WHAAAAAAAT?" I shot back, grinning despite myself.

Right then, Waffles leaped into the fray, slobbering licks across their faces. "HA! Stop it, Waffles!" my eldest yelled, shoving him off. "Dad, do you want a sandwich? Mom’s making lunch, and we’re hangry."


"Uhhh, I’ll grab a bite in a bit, girls. I’m trying to figure this out, and I’m getting nowhere."

"What are you trying to do?" my eldest asked, brushing dog hair off her shirt. "Maybe we can help."

"There are 184 books, and I don’t know where to start."

My youngest wandered to the end of the row, said "it’s the green one," plucked the third book from the bottom, and handed it to me.


"Here," she said, matter-of-fact. … I flipped through the brittle, tea-stained pages, and she pointed to a sketch—a map of the farmhouse, a cross marking the cellar wall. Her older sister walked over as if in charge. ‘What’s this, Dad?’ Below it, in shaky script: ‘The tools of war lie hidden, guarded by stone.’ I shivered, picturing that stone wall behind the trunk. A folded blue paper slipped out, drifting to the floor.


"What the—? How?" I muttered, picking it up. I handed it to her. "Kid, you found it—you read it."

"Ooohhh kay!" She snatched it, careful not to crease it, and unfolded it like it was treasure.

"John," she read aloud, "The books entail the legend of James Castaway, your 12th generation back great-grandfather. These tales and artifacts have been passed down for generations for care and protection. All of these items have been left by James and his sons in original condition. I did my best to organize them by the infrequent references to years throughout the legends, so please try to keep them in order."

"Crap," I thought. When I’d moved them, I hadn’t cared about their order—just dumped them in boxes. A couple of photos might help, but I’d already botched it. "Great start," I mumbled.

"What?" my daughters chirped, sensing weakness.

"Nothing," I said, waving it off. "Keep reading."

"The collection identified through these books has been deteriorating through the years."

"Wait, what?" I thought. The books were the collection, weren’t they? Before leaving the farmhouse, I’d walked through it—bare furniture, thrift-store clothes in the closets. What collection?

The letter went on. "Please be a good steward of this collection, protect it, and share the legends for others to learn and enjoy. In one of the final journal entries, you’ll find text that’s hard to read, but I believe it includes: ‘When the time is right, there will always be a Castaway ready to carry on and protect the collection for all to enjoy.’ All past Castaway generations successfully protected but have not unlocked the ability to piece together and solve the stories found in the collection.

Protect the collection, John. If it falls into the wrong hands, the Castaway legacy ends—and so does our line."
With Love, Grandpa

Ready for Chapter 2? Click to continue: The Road to More Questions