Short Stories from the Heartland
After the tornado took down the Old Store, BJ wrote a few short stories based around the place– with some creative license and fiction. This tale is a slightly imaginative revisiting of BJ’s younger days in the store. Using some fictional people, it’s based on the daily adventures of BJ and PJ at Pennington’s Trading Post.
In the small town of Fremont, Missouri, the summers felt endless. The air always carried the scent of freshly baked bread from the old oven at the general store, and the sun set slowly behind the rolling hills, casting long shadows over Main Street.
The Anderson sisters—Lena and Jessie—grew up in the creaky, two-story general store their parents ran. The building, with its faded red paint and wooden floors that creaked under every step, had been in the family for generations. Inside, shelves lined with everything from canned goods to fabric bolts stretched to the ceiling. On hot days, the store was a haven for the local farmers and families looking for groceries, a fresh loaf of bread, or a quick chat over the counter.
Lena, the older sister by three years, was a dreamer. She loved wandering through the back rooms, where boxes of old supplies, dusty photo albums, and forgotten trinkets had been shoved out of sight. Jessie, a more practical and curious soul, preferred the front of the store, learning how to tally up purchases on the old register or organizing the shelves to perfection.
One afternoon, as the sun hung high and the store was quieter than usual, Lena and Jessie sat on the old wooden steps in the back alley, eating the last of their summer popsicles. They could hear the occasional car rumbling down Main Street and the laughter of the neighborhood kids playing near the creek. But today, something felt different.
“I keep thinking about Grandma’s story,” Lena said, licking the last of her lime popsicle. “About the old safe in the attic.”
Jessie raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”
“She said there was something hidden up there—something important. But she never told anyone what it was. It’s been years since she passed, and no one’s ever mentioned it again.”
Jessie frowned. She had always been more grounded, skeptical of family lore. “You don’t believe that old ghost story, do you?”
Lena smirked. “It’s not about ghosts. It’s about something real, Jess. I think Grandma left us a clue, and it’s hidden right here in the store.”
The attic was a dusty, forgotten space where the past seemed to linger in the shadows. The sisters had only ventured up there a handful of times to retrieve old holiday decorations or to explore the strange relics from their family’s history. Today, though, they were on a mission.
“Let’s go up,” Lena said, determination in her eyes.
With a creak of the old wooden stairs, the sisters made their way up to the attic. The air smelled of old paper and cedar, and the room was dim, with only a sliver of light coming from the narrow window. Old trunks sat in the corners, and shelves of antique items lined the walls.
Jessie scanned the room. “I don’t see anything that stands out.”
Lena’s eyes, however, were drawn to an old desk in the corner. The top was cluttered with papers, but something about it caught her attention—a faint outline of a shape beneath a pile of yellowed newspapers.
They moved toward the desk, carefully pushing aside the clutter. Underneath, they found an old leather-bound book, its cover cracked and faded. Lena opened it carefully, revealing yellowed pages filled with intricate handwriting.
“Look at this,” she whispered, tracing her finger along a page. “It’s a map… and a list of names.”
Jessie leaned in closer, squinting at the faded ink. “Those names… they’re the last owners of the store before Grandma. It looks like they made a deal with someone.”
“Wait,” Lena said, flipping through the pages. “There’s a name here… ‘Harrison Blackwell.’ That name sounds familiar.”
Jessie’s heart skipped. “That’s the name of the man who disappeared, isn’t it? The one who supposedly buried treasure in Fremont.”
The legend of Harrison Blackwell had been passed down for generations—stories about how he had disappeared mysteriously in the late 1800s, leaving behind a hidden fortune somewhere in the town. No one had ever found it, and many thought it was just a tall tale.
The sisters exchanged a glance. The pieces were beginning to fall into place.
Lena read aloud, “The safe in the floorboards. The one in the store’s back room. Grandma always told me there was something valuable locked inside. She didn’t want anyone to find it, though… said it was too dangerous.”
Jessie nodded slowly. “I think we’re onto something.”
The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon in the attic, piecing together fragments of the mystery. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, they were ready. The map from the book led them to the back corner of the store, beneath the creaky floorboards. There, hidden in a dusty, forgotten room, was a small metal safe—exactly as the book had described.
With shaking hands, Lena turned the dial. The safe clicked open, revealing a collection of old documents, a handful of gold coins, and a letter.
Jessie picked up the letter and read aloud, “To my granddaughters, if you’re reading this, you’ve found what was hidden away for generations. But remember, some things are better left buried. Take what you find, but never forget the price of secrets.”
The sisters looked at each other, the weight of the discovery settling on them. The gold and treasures were real, but the mystery behind them was more than just riches—it was a family legacy, a secret that had been passed down for decades.
And just like that, the sisters knew their summer would never be the same. They had unlocked a piece of their family’s past, a past that would forever tie them together, bound by the secrets and the history of the old general store.
As the last light of day faded, Lena and Jessie sat side by side, the treasure between them—a reminder of the mysteries waiting to be uncovered in the heart of Fremont.
For more writings check out BJ’s Substack.
Thanks for reading!
JP Brand Books 