Quick footsteps were falling on the soft leaves left by the upcoming winter. If anyone would have been looking they would have seen a small boy walking nervously though the woods arms around his waist for comfort and warmth.

It was Tim — the son of a blacksmith from Oakenworth — a village few miles east. He was wearing a woolen long sleeved shirt, a brown vest and dark blue pants. His mother would have definitely reprimanded him for the light clothing, but she wasn’t home when he left. That was intentional — he was heading for the bogs, and his parents would definitely not approve. The bog was off limits for everyone — there were stories of people going missing and strange lights being seen in the night.

It was all because of Jack — they had played dice and after having lost several rounds already Jack had offered a way to get his coins back. Three tosses and if he would win he’d get his money back. However if he lost he’d have to go to the bog and write Jacks name on the big stone. Fearing the wrath of his father Tim had accepted — I mean what are the odds of loosing three tosses in a row. Astronomical he had thought at the time. Well guess who had been wrong. And so here he was — walking.

He was a bit scared — I mean even grown ups didn’t go to the bogs. But if there was one thing Tim had learned from his father it was to keep his word. And he had given it. So here he was, shivering slightly because of the cold and terror, but still moving forward.

The air was getting warmer after a while he realized — even with his poorly chosen clothing for the day it was quite pleasant now. He noticed a clearing in the distance through the trees — must be the bog he thought. It took him 5 more minutes to reach the clearing. It was like a huge field littered with small lakes and lone withered trees as far as the eye could see. A huge boulder stood out from the background in the distance — his target.

Suddenly a frog croaked to his right, which ignited a shiver in his spine. “No one would know if I didn’t go there”, he thought. “I mean no one is going to check. They are all too scared to come here.” With that he turned his back and took a few steps.

“I’d know… Argh!” He wrestled with that thought for a while before he reached his decision. He wouldn’t give others the satisfaction of breaking his word. He turned back to the bog and started walking again.

It was an arduous trek and he took his time. The ground was soft in places and very slippery — if one wasn’t careful they could fall into one of the small lakes or worse. The air was also getting warmer it seemed after a while he had to remove his vest to stop from sweating.

Halfway there Tim noticed a small cottage a few dozen meters from the rock — it was tiny compared to the massive boulder, but a small house all right. Appeared to be from the same material as the rock beside it. Who would build a house in the middle of the bog — especially one said to be haunted. As he got closer he noticed that the door was open, as was the window. Curiosity got the better of him and he changed his direction and headed for the house instead.

The door was not just open — it was barely hanging on to the frame with a single hinge. Not to mention it looked like someone did a serious number on it — battered and broken as it was. “Anyone here?” he yelled. His heart thumped in his ears as he listened, but silence was his only answer. He yelled again, louder this time. Still nothing. He breathed a little easier.

Tim slowly moved into the cottage — there wasn’t much in the lines of furniture: just a table with a chair near the window, a bookcase and what appeared to be a bedframe next to the far wall. It seemed no one had been here for a while — everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and dirt that had blown in through the open door and window. But what caught his eye the most was the table — there was a book on it.

Tim had learned letters a couple of years back and ever since he had been hooked. Sure playing with other kids was fun, but a book — it could take you to another world altogether. And even though books were hard to come by he cherished them that much more — his favorites had been read a dozen times already, but still he loved them immensely. And so the book on the table called to him like nothing else in the room.

“Diary of Sophocles” was written on the cover. “I wonder if he was the owner of this place” he thought as he carefully opened it.