The Diery

By Nancy Carlton

Margaret Ann is in a rut that is beginning to feel like a grave. Why do other people have success, beauty, and happiness? When will it be her turn?
Lacking a friend to confide in, she purchases a diary. This little red book will be her confidante. Little does she know that this book, which Margaret Ann with her substandard spelling aptitude calls "Diery," will not be a passive listener. Indeed, "Diery" has advice to give her...and more.
Taking up Margaret Ann's cause as a mission which must be accomplished at any price, Diery leads her on a wild adventure where no holds are barred and nobody can be allowed to stand in her way. Murder and vengeance are now just the cost of doing business, and someone else always pays.
As the frustrated young women discovers talents she didn't know she had and utilizes the expertise and resources provided by her friend, Diery, she climbs to new heights of personal glory and falls to new depths of selfishness.
While other people pay with their lives, it is full steam ahead toward that elusive goal of "total happiness" for Margaret Ann, but she finds that the road is sometimes very rocky. And her "Diery" may not be the true friend she thinks it is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Carlton
• Release date: Aug 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201028138

Book preview

Chapter One

As soon as Margaret Ann stepped through the door from the cold November bluster into the little bookshop, the wonderful, welcoming scent of leather flooded her senses. It was an olfactory embrace, hugging and warming her. She needed it.

She was pleasantly surprised the shop wasn’t just top-to-bottom new best-sellers and celebrity-authored drivel. There were classics, serious books, large books, and most importantly, there were leather-bound journals, diaries, and date books. The diaries were well-made with gilt-edged pages and a gold fleur de lis on the cover. Best of all, they contained a generous five hundred blank pages for the new owner to fill up with anything his or her heart desired.

In her naivete, Margaret Ann had no idea what kinds of secrets some people told to their diaries. On one hand, she felt she didn’t have many secrets worth telling, but on the other, she wanted at least one safe, honest confidante in her life.

The diaries came in a choice of three colors—black, brown, and oxblood red.

Margaret Ann chose a red one and clutched it to her chest as she headed to the counter without bothering to browse any further in the cozy, little shop. She had found what she had come for.

Is that all, Miss? the chubby, balding, middle-aged man behind the counter asked her.

Yes, that’s it.

Mr. Holder, at the back of the store, will put your name on the front in gold leaf for free if you like. We offer that service with the purchase of real leather goods, he said with a friendly smile.

Margaret Ann’s face brightened. Her name in gold leaf on the front. Yes, I’d like that. She flushed slightly.

The clerk directed her to the counter at the back of the shop where a man

sat, stooped over a brown journal, using a small, soft brush to sweep away the remaining tiny particles of gold from the name he had just inscribed.

You want your book to look pretty like this one? Mr. Holder asked.

Yes, please. She pushed the book toward him.

All righty. What’s your name?

Margaret Ann Calder…. Is it all right if I have it say, ‘Margaret Ann’s Private Property’?

Anything you want. It’s your book.

My book, she thought, to keep my secrets in.

She breathed a satisfied little sigh, and Mr. Holder went to work on her diary. Within twenty minutes, he handed her a lovely red book, emblazoned Margaret Ann’s Private Property.

She walked out of the shop with her treasure, feeling happier than she had felt in a long time. She had bought a friend. She wondered if there were secrets worth telling to her brand new, red leather confidante. After a lifetime of bad breaks, bullying, and self-doubt and a recent work layoff and apartment eviction, she was a despondent thirty-year-old once again jobless and living with her parents. It was nice feeling a moment of satisfaction.

Chapter Two

In her parents’ guest bedroom, the same room she had slept in as an awkward teenager, the light was a soft gray when Margaret Ann awoke around 8:15 the next morning. There was a cold drizzle pattering quietly outside her window, and the house was quiet except for the worn-out central heating system that squeaked and screeched as it came on. Even though she felt the slight stirring of the air in the room, the old ducts never seemed to put out quite enough warmth.

She tried to curl up under the covers and get comfortable enough to go back to sleep, but her bladder opposed the idea, so she sighed, stretched, and sat up. As she slid her feet into the moss-green, wool slippers her mother had given her for Christmas, her glance fell on the book she had written in until past midnight and dropped on the faded carpet when tiredness had finally overtaken her. It brought a slight smile to her lips and a tiny sparkle to her eyes. I’ll be adding a lot to my story today. She stood up and padded off to the bathroom.

At the end of her brief morning routine in the bathroom as she turned off the light, her slipper brushed against a thing she hated—the scales. She had never been sure its readings were accurate, but she’d grown up weighing herself nearly every day. Someday I’ll get back to one-derland, she always told herself. Never again will my weight start with two hundred and.... Stepping on the scale, she was surprised to see the needle stop at 190.

Her mother and father had already left for work, so Margaret Ann had the house to herself. Scavenging the refrigerator and cabinets for something to eat, she found the pickings disappointing. Half an English muffin with margarine and grape jelly would have to suffice. She’d wash it down with orange juice and the rest of a two-liter bottle of store-brand cola.

Carrying her breakfast into the living room, she was careful not to spill her juice again. The sticky, wet splotch from the day before still hadn’t dried completely, and the gray-blue semi-shag carpet did not need one more stain. She set her glass, bottle, and plate down on the cluttered coffee table and found the remote control for the television under the local supermarket sale circular. She clicked it on and kicked off her slippers tucking her feet underneath her on the couch. It was 9:00, and the game shows were on. I’ll only watch until I finish my breakfast. Too much else to do.

The two amber prescription bottles of pills with her name on them remained untouched and dusty amid the uneven piles of junk mail, food scraps, and a few toenail clippings.

The meager snack of a breakfast didn’t take long to finish, but she remained on the couch long enough to watch the lightning round of the game show. She clicked the remote control and tossed it onto the coffee table. Rising, she left behind her jelly-smeared plate, her empty glass, and the two-liter bottle with just a swallow of cola remaining.

Deserting her wool slippers, she barefooted it back to the bedroom where she scooped up the red book from the carpet. Rifling through her nightstand drawer, she came up with three ballpoint pens, each a different color, with ink matching the color of the pen’s barrel.

The idea was to use blue ink for ordinary entries in her book, green ink for things that made her feel happy, and red for important stuff that needed to be remembered or accomplished.

All the entries she made the night before had been in blue ink because they were mostly introductory stuff—stream-of-consciousness blurbs—setting the stage for her relationship with her new friend, the red leather book that was Margaret Ann’s Private Property.

She stretched out across her bed, which was, of course, unmade and opened the book. She quickly skimmed the eight and a half pages she had written the night before. My handwriting is pretty good. As for my spelling, well, it makes no difference. Nobody will ever read this but me.

Turning to the first blank page, she started. Dear Diery, so far my day is pretty boring and blah. My mother told me I should clean my room today while she is at work. Who does she think she is to tell a thirty-year-old young woman to clean her room? And besides, Mom is a lousy housekeeper.

The wall phone in the kitchen rang, and Margaret Ann sighed. "Who, besides my parents, even still has a landline telephone?" She got up to answer it, begrudging the effort.

Hello.

Margaret Ann? came the voice at the other end of the line.

Yes. Who is this? Margaret Ann hesitated, not recognizing the caller’s voice.

You there alone?

Who is this? Margaret Ann was irritated and a little leery.

Whose name will be first in your book?

What? Who is this?

A sharp click on the other end put a stop to the conversation.

Margaret Ann stood in the kitchen, telephone receiver in hand, mouth open in stunned silence. Her brain began to race. Who was that on the phone? What should I do? Call Mom? Call 9-1-1?

She hung up and hurried to the front door to check the lock. Then she checked the back door lock and every window in the house. She felt a tightness in her chest.

After a quick stop in her bedroom to pick up her red book and grab her pens, she pulled a rickety rocking chair from the corner of the living room over to the center, away from the doors and windows. She sat in the chair, rocking, hugging her book and humming fragments of songs from her childhood. She uneasily spent the rest of the day watching television, worrying, and feeling sorry for herself.

Her parents pulled their cars into the driveway, virtually one right behind the other, at half past five. As soon as she saw them come through the back door, she relaxed, stood up, and laid her book in the chair, deciding not to tell them about the phone call that had ruined her day.

Chapter Three

Getting out of bed the next morning took more time and effort than usual. Margaret Ann felt hung over. She hadn’t consumed any alcohol, of course, but the two large supreme pizzas her mother had brought home for supper had been enough to put all three family members into a gluten, fat, and salt-induced haze.

After stepping onto the scale, which curiously registered 185, she headed to the kitchen, thinking of the left-over orange soda she was craving. Eschewing a glass, she carried the two-liter bottle back to her bed. Taking the red book from her nightstand, she opened it to the place where she had left off. The blue ink pen had been left inside the book as a place marker. Clicking it on, she wrote:

"Dear Diery,

Sorry I just tossed you on the nightstand and left you last night without telling you about my day. It was an odd day, and I seem to have forgotten a lot of what went on, but I was pretty full after five slices of pizza last night. My mom took the easy way out and brought home pizza instead of cooking. I had plenty, yet somehow, I lost five pounds. I think there’s something wrong with the bathroom scale.

Anyway, I ended up sitting on the couch all evening, watching Murder, She Wrote and then Deadly Females. By the time those shows were over, I was too sleepy to talk to you, so here I am this morning.

When I left off last time, I had pretty much brought you up to date on the basic stuff in my life. You know, the ordinary small talk things. Next, I will start getting down to specifics. You will soon know me better than anyone does.

A funny idea I had is I wish there was some way you could actually talk back to me like a human friend would do. Like, tell me your background and your thoughts and feelings. It would be awesome if I could say, ‘Hey, Diery, does this outfit make me look fat?’ and you could say, ‘Why, not at all, Margaret Ann. As a matter of fact, I think you must have lost weight.’

If you really want to help, you could also give me fashion tips and cheery inspirational thoughts to brighten my day. That’d be so helpful…."

The house phone began ringing, so Margaret Ann dragged herself out of bed and grabbed the receiver on the seventh ring. She figured the caller might have already given up and disconnected, but she uttered a cursory Hello just in case.

What took you so long, Margaret Ann? It was the same voice from the day before. Were you working at something?

Tremors immediately rocked her as she struggled to decide whether to

run for safety or to demand the caller identify himself. Finally, Margaret Ann pushed out the words. Who is this?

As if you didn’t know, silly lady. The reply was followed by a short, shallow laugh.

I’m calling the police! Leave me alone!

The line went dead, and the phone dropped from her hand. She picked it up and replaced it in its cradle without even being aware of what she was doing.

Worrying she was alone in the house except for her new friend, the red book, she hurried to her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She tried to organize her thoughts. Call the police she vaguely heard in her mind as if from a distance, but then she sensed a much louder message coming through: You don’t need anyone. Your friend, Diery, is here.

Stretching out on the bed, she picked up the pen and looked at the page she had left a few minutes earlier. What is this? She stifled a scream as her eyes fell on the words written in a lovely, printed scroll in all red capital letters:

KYMBERLY AMBER TOWNSEND

LOVELY NAME, BEAUTIFUL HAIR.

ARROGANT RICH GIRL, IT JUST ISN’T FAIR.

NEVER A KIND THOUGHT ENTERS HER HEAD.

THE WORLD WOULD BE HAPPIER IF SHE WAS DEAD.

The room seemed to be spinning as Margaret Ann pushed herself off the bed and ran to the bathroom. Locking the door, she spun to look at herself in the mirror. What is happening? she asked the image in the looking glass. No reply was forthcoming.

Her pulse was racing, and she felt a wave of nausea. Leaning against the wall, she willed herself to calm down. Think, Margaret Ann.

She remembered the two bottles of pills on the living room coffee table where they had sat, unopened, for weeks. Maybe she should give the pills another try. They had a few side effects, but maybe she needed a little help to relax her mind.

Ask Diery came a quiet, soothing voice in her head. Ask Diery what to do.

Timidly, slowly, she eased the bathroom door open and tiptoed over to the bed. She picked up the book and focused on the page she had last seen.

No red letters. No poem. Nothing scary.

She sighed, almost groaning. She picked up the pen and wrote:

"Dear Diery,

I got a scary phone call asking whose name would be first in my book. Then, I got another call saying I knew who was calling me. But I don’t. Then, I saw red writing on the page that I did not write. It gave a name. Kymberly Amber Townsend. She is a girl who made me miserable for two decades. She was wealthy and gorgeous and mean. Guys never even noticed me as long as she was anywhere around. Stupid males didn’t even care she was such a snob.

There was a poem about her on your page, saying the world would be happier if she was dead. I was pretty freaked out because I didn’t write it, but there it was. Now it is gone. What should I do, Diery?"

Pausing to wait for a reply, Margaret Ann felt a sleepiness coming over her. She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Gray clouds had covered the sky and dimmed the ambient light in her room. A cold, spattering rain was falling, and dead leaves were being blown around in miniature tornadoes through the back yard. Occasionally she heard an acorn hit the window. Somehow, a nap seemed to be what she needed more than calling the police, more than taking her medicine, and more than waiting for an answer from her diary. She drifted off.

The dream was strange. She walked through her back yard, crunching leaves underfoot, heading toward the vine-covered gate in a dilapidated rock wall. The gate separated the yard from an overgrown half-acre where no house had ever been built but various neighbors had discarded left-over scraps of building materials along with various and sundry other appliances, old cars, and household debris.

The gate was not locked, and the vines had dried up for the winter, so Margaret Ann opened it without much trouble. She picked her pathway through the overgrowth and trash and soon was standing at the edge of a road that had been paved at some point in time but now was pocked with potholes and patches of tar and gravel.

She glanced right and left, but she needn’t have worried about any cars coming. The whole area was quiet. She decided to walk toward the part of the street that had the nicer houses, so to the right she went. Within one hundred feet, the street suddenly changed from the run-down road she had started on to a newly paved avenue with neat, concrete sidewalks on each side.

She realized the rain had stopped. The air felt warmer. There were unfamiliar smells wafting through the neighborhood. The first one she recognized was fried chicken. Then, a lilac scent from someone’s dryer vent, one of those nice fabric softener sheets. Then, strangely, she caught the faint odor of bleach...or alcohol...or some kind of medicine.

As she approached the driveway entrance of the sixth house on the right side of the street, she suddenly felt a strong impression in her mind. This is the one.

Without even questioning the source or the meaning of the idea, she turned down the driveway. She switched to a hunched-over tiptoed gait and hurried to slip behind a hedge lining the driveway. At the end of the hedgerow, she looked around to see if anyone was outdoors and possibly watching her, but she saw no one.

She could hear a television set playing inside the house and the sound of water running. She went to