House

Word Count: 7,422

My name is Jeremy Kessel. I am, perhaps was is the better word, a university professor. I taught physics. Four months ago I rented a remote, 19th century farmhouse in Connecticut. My goal was to sequester myself during a sabbatical break and write a book for laypeople on current physics theories. A sort of primer to explain the basics of most widely accepted theories and the background that lead up to their creation.

The house was ideal, an utterly charming example of the classic American foursquare home. The location was picturesque, which I know sounds odd to some, but then the average person really has no idea what Connecticut is like. The plan was perfect. No distractions, just peace and quiet for me to gather my thoughts to write. Thanks to the Internet, I’d have access to all of the research material I’d need. I’d be able to e-mail and call whoever I needed. I was primed to finally cross one item off my life’s to-do list.

Everything started out according to plan, as things often do. The house, being so old, was full of character. Creaks and groans at all hours of the day and night. I’m sure more than one critter also called it home, but that’s not say it was dirty or unstable. Not in the least. The house was perfect. Two stories of glorious American history and it was all mine. Between spurts of writing, I’d explore the house. I’d marvel at the woodworking detail. The owner had restored it with, as much as practically possible, period furniture. A few modern conveniences added, like an updated kitchen gave it a sort of Kafkaesque feel at times.

Things began to get off track about two months into my stay. The book was coming along, more or less, on schedule and I decided to take a break and look into the basement. I hadn’t really explored it too much out of a general nervousness for dark basements I’d picked up as a child. I looked at this as an excellent opportunity to conquer that childhood fear. This was, after all, going to be the best summer of my life. Everything had been planned and the plan was working.

The basement was everything I feared it would be. The owner had cautioned me to avoid the basement as it was full of miscellaneous junk, poorly lit, and the likely home of various critters. I didn’t think much of it at the time and told him of my fear, which seemed to satisfy him quite well.

The owner hadn’t exaggerated much. The stairs down were clearly the worse for wear, creaking and groaning in protest. Electricity hadn’t been run to the basement, so I carried an oil lamp. Not a period one of course, but a modern camping one. The light it cast seemed stunningly eerie. Anxiety danced in my belly and musings about horror movies floated through my mind. I was, however, determined to meet and overcome my fear and downward I went. Boxes upon boxes filled the room. There was a sort of haphazard maze that weaved through the stacks of junk. I though then, calling it junk may well be wrong. Who knows what treasure could be hidden down here? Tables lined the outer walls and all sorts of miscellaneous items were stacked on and under them.

There was also the somewhat disconcerting scurrying noise of what I assume to be field mice scampering from the light.

I didn’t spend very long in the basement, perhaps just half an hour. As I climbed back up the stairs I recall feeling a sense of victory. I wouldn’t quite say I’d conquered the fear, but I hadn’t run out in fear and nothing terrible had happened. Sure my hands were sweaty and my heart raced a time or two, but fears aren’t beaten in a single day. That night, as I lay in bed, my mind went back to the basement and the musings about what treasures might be hidden there.

I knew, from the overview the owner had given me, that quite a few important, if only locally, people had stayed in house at one point or another. It simply stood to reason that something of value had to be in the basement. Some historic documents, probably letters from historically notable people, perhaps true antique furniture, and who knows what else. As I’m sure you can imagine, once your mind catches this sort of treasure hunting fever, it just grows and grows.

Musing about the basement became a sort of routine daydream. My lingering discomfort with such dark places kept me from going back for nearly two weeks, but finally I gave into the musings and decided to set aside one day to hunt. The idea that I was really digging through the property of the owner never really occurred to me.

I spent that day sifting through boxes, trying to identify what this or that tool was. I did my best to ignore the nagging voice in my head that I wouldn’t know a valuable item from any other. What I really needed was an appraiser to come down and sort through all this stuff. But there’s no fun in that. What I was satisfying was the itch to play archeologist and the final quelling of my childhood fear. As one would expect, I found nothing of interest wherever I looked. It seemed it simply was a dark room full of worthless junk.

It was during a break in my digging and sifting that I indulged in a old habit of mine. I like to count things. Doesn’t really matter what, I just like to count. For example, on the rare occasions I go to a movie in a theater, while the previews play, I’m apt to count the ceiling tiles. How many across, how many up, and then multiply to get the total number. I do it in every classroom I’ve ever been in. If there’s no ceiling tiles, I’ll do floor tiles. Chairs. Desks. People. Whatever. I just count. It’s been a thing to drive more than one date crazy.

During the break I counted the joyces and found something odd. The house, true to it’s foursquare style, was truly a square. One joyce in the middle was larger than all the rest. I’m no carpenter, but this made sense to me. The middle joyce was the one designed to hold the most weight. What struck me as odd was there wasn’t an even number of smaller joyces on either side of it. One side, the Eastern side, had two less joyces. Why would a square house be uneven like this?

This was a puzzle my mind couldn’t help by fixate on. I made my way through the debris to the Eastern wall. I counted the joyces again and again. The fact remained. The joyces were off center. I cleared a straight path, no small chore I assure you, from one side to the next and counted off the paces. I repeated the counting upstairs. The basement was smaller than the first floor. Perhaps that just was the way it was built, but it seemed so very odd to me. I measured the distance between joyces and realized the basement was about two feet smaller than the first floor. Not a huge amount by any means, but why make it two feet smaller? It’s not as though the extra two feet would have been a massive effort during building.

I now had a proper puzzle to ponder. My fear of the basement long gone.

I beefed up my equipment. Two lanterns now lit the basement for general light and I carried a flashlight to so I could better examine the Eastern side of the basement. I simply couldn’t move all the boxes and junk out of the way, so the light from the lanterns was often blocked, making the flashlight key to my exploration. As with the other walls, it was lined with a table that went nearly the whole length. All in all, the material here seemed dirtier, less inviting to touch than in other places in the basement. I was soon covered in grime what could well have been century old grime and dust.

The wall behind the table seemed different to me. I worked my way to a corner, where the North wall met the East. The stones were close, very close in nature but the East ones just stuck me as different. I couldn’t really say how or why, but I just knew they were.

The absurdity of what I, a physics professor was now doing in the basement of this 1880’s farmhouse never dawned on me. How could I really think the stones of these walls were different?

There wasn’t anything I could do with the stones though, the idea of removing them to see I was right, to see if there was really was a hidden two foot compartment just wasn’t practical. The one day I had decided to dedicate to this treasure hunt idea had become two and then three. At night, my mind swam with delusions of what could be hidden there. Two feet wasn’t so wide, but it would run the whole length of the house. All manner of things could be in such a space. Perhaps long lost painting. Letters. Firearms. Family heirlooms of any sort. I became convinced that something of true value was there.

It’s funny how one never quite realizes madness has come to visit, not when it’s gripping you. Looking back, I can see how deluded I was. I can see how I wasn’t me. Then, though, then what I was thing and doing were the most logical of things.

The only solution I had to get into the compartment was to access it from the floor above. I wasn’t quite insane enough to hack and saw through the floor, though such tools were in the basement. No, I had the ingenious idea to explore the fireplace on that wall. My logic was most sound. There was no access through the wall in the basement that I could find. I’d gone over the Eastern side of the house from the outside as well and nothing of note there. But, the fact remained no matter what was hidden, the person who hide would have to be able to get it out again somehow. There simply had to be a way in and out. The idea of the fireplace came to be as I sat staring at it at night. I’d made a small fire and was simply staring at the dancing flames while my mind pondered the problem. Again and again I went over all the ways I could try to access this compartment and, actually began to serious consider cutting into the floor. The idea of destroying the well-worn original floor just was something, even in my state, that I couldn’t rationalize.

As I stared into the fire, my eyes dropped to the simmering coals on the floor of the fireplace and I smiled. The floor of it, I recalled from cleaning out the ashes on from other fires, was a single large stone. The fireplace, but it’s very nature, was on the extreme outside of the wall, which mean the stone was exactly over the hidden space.

A plan began to hatch in my mind. Tools for levering were in the basement. Metal and wood bars of all sorts. I was sure I’d seen a proper crowbar or two. There were blocks of wood I could use as fulcrum and others to slip into place as I levered up the stone.

I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face. I had a plan. And it was good.

I awoke early, with the sun, that morning. Never has a fireplace been so quickly cleaned of ashes and charred wood. The stone was exactly as I recalled it. A single stone made up the whole floor of the fire place. While I didn’t measure, it looked a good two feet deep and four feet across. I had no doubt it was heavy. I didn’t care. I had physics on my side. I rummaged through the basement, my knowledge of it’s contents now becoming encyclopedic. Tools in hand I set about trying to find a gap large enough to wiggle in the flat end of a crowbar.

Along the three walled side made no sense, it was only along the open front that I had any hope. The floor stone met up with what I guess is called a hearth stone, the flat expanse that stuck out from the front of fire place where kettles and pots and such used to rest. I always thought of it as just a practical way to stop the inevitable spark that popped from burning wood from reaching the wooden floor and starting a proper, house burning fire. The gap between the two stones was far too small. In fact the gap between any stone was to small, the builder of this fireplace was quite skilled.

Frustration stated to grow. I was sure I was on to the best way to access the space, but I couldn’t find a way to use my tools to life the stone.

As is so often the case when present with a puzzle like this, the mind is apt to get focused on all the things that can’t be done. Over and over one will visit solutions that can’t work instead of looking for one that might. It’s a problem often faced in my line of work. The trick, more often than not, is to look at some ancillary part of the problem to try and find something new to consider. I thought about the hearth stone.

<really not sure how to best describe the fireplace….>

It was cut in sort of a short, fat, inverted T if that make sense. It went into the mouth of fire place about four inches, where it met the floor stone, and then extended a good two and half feet in front of the fireplace and perhaps a foot around the sides. It didn’t got right the floor, but stopped about an inch from the floor, making a sort of gap. The gap was only about an inch deep, but this present me with a possible solution. I could work at levering the hearth stone from the front.

Mortar wasn’t used for any of the stones that made up the fireplace, they were simply fitted together by an expert mason.

Why couldn’t I work at the hearth stone, lever and wiggle it about? What I needed to do was somehow dislodge it enough to make a gap so I could get at the key stone I wanted.

With metal bars and fulcrum in place, I set about using my body weight to lift the stone. It was heavier, much heavier than I thought. As I said before, I’m a physicist, not really a man of tools.

The stone was well settled into its home and had no desire to move, but time and again I pressed and pressed my weight to the bar and bit by bit it started to move. First, just the front lifting up. I’m sure anyone watching me at this point would been quite amused. One person trying to lift up the front of this huge stone and then use his feet to kick a shim under it to keep it up, while trying to ensure the tip of his foot didn’t venture too far under the stone and get smashed.

Progress was slow, but eventually I had the front lifted and shimmed a few inches up. By lifting it up, I’d also pulled it forward every so slightly. There as now a gap along the front fireplace and with the floor stone I wanted to get at. With a manic grin I lifted the front once again and kicked the shims free, letting the hearth stone settle back level. Now using the small gap between the hearth stone and the floor stone at the mouth of the fireplace, I set about wiggleing the crowbar into it. My plan was to push towards the back of the fireplace and move the hearth stone farther out. I wanted a nice sized gap so I could be sure to get to the bottom of the floor stone.

I was, by this time, well covered in sweat. I was soot covered from cleaning the fire place earlier. An overall proper mess of a person. Not a bit of me could be said to be clean. If my students could see me like this, they’d be quite stunned. Probably inspired to turn all their work in on time for fear I’d go insane like this in the classroom.

Leverage being the wonderful thing it is, continued to work for me and the gap grew. Finally, I could get to the floor stone. In fact when nearly pressed my face to the gap, I could see the bottom of the stone. My plan would work. The floor stone didn’t extend under any of the walls, I could lever it up and eventually be able to remove it. Eventually. I’m sure a person with any sort of skill or experience would have done all this work in a tenth of the time it took me.

Fulcrum in place on top of the hearth stone, I slide the crowbar into the gap and lifted. Being smaller, it was quite a bit lighter than the hearth stone. It only took a few tries to get a good lift and kick to get a shim into place. Reset the crowbar a little more under the stone and lift again. Kick in another shim and repeat. Once I had a good two inch gap I set about peering under the stone with the flashlight to see what was there.

My heart skipped a beat as I saw there was a lip upon which the stone rested, but then it was empty. There was clearly a shaft under the stone. I was right. I was euphoric.

Of course, I still had to figure out to get the stone complete out so I could get at the shaft, but victory was in sight.

Grinning like a fool, I sat on the floor and considered how to get the stone out of it’s resting place. I needed to get some sort hook to the back of it so I could pull it out. I tried the simple idea of grasping the front of the stone and pulling. No where near enough grip to do that and I became worried that I’d struggle and dislodge a shim, which would result in crushed fingers.

Back to the basement I went to find a solution. None readily present itself.

How much time had all this work on the stones taken? I’m not really sure, a day at least. It was night time. Another bit of my academic training kicked in. When faced with a new problem, sometimes the best option is to sleep on it.

That night, I had the most horrific of dreams. I expected to have ones about finding gold or some priceless treasure, perhaps some uber important bit or American history and become famous. Instead I had dreams about monsters crawling out the gap in the fireplace. I had visions of hidden occult paraphernalia being hidden there. While I was asleep, I don’t think I’d call what I spent that night doing as sleeping. I awoke covered in sweat. I hadn’t bothered to shower before bed, which meant the bed was now basically with covered in soot.

Dread filled me as I considered the fireplace. I’d clearly come too far to stop now, but I was no longer sure I wanted to know what I’d found. The voice of my father came to me, “Sometimes son, a thing hidden is best left hidden, you know? Of course, even the best kept secret or hidden item has a way of getting known or found.”

The solution to my hook problem presented itself in the most obvious of ways. The crowbar I was using was basically L shaped. I’d been using the long end as a lever, but now I could turn it around and use the short end as a hook. Perhaps this is the best example of how unclearly I was thinking. My problem now as how to best get a grip on the crowbar. The stone was heavy, but I could use my weight to sort of fall back as I tugged on it. The trouble was how to keep a hold of the smooth metal shaft.
While I could think of many solutions like taking a pair of work gloves, which I didn’t have, and glue with some sort of superglue (which I also didn’t have) to the shaft, I could then slip my hands into the gloves and the combination of glue and my grip should be enough. Would this work? I have no idea, I didn’t have either. I simply had to grip the shaft and tug. My sweaty hands sliding along the shaft again and again. Dry them on my pants or a rag and try again. Tug. Slip. Dry. Tug. Slip. Dry.

Progress in this way was slow. Far slower than my levering of yesterday. It was also far harsher on my hands. The crowbar shaft wasn’t really smooth, but had little rough nobs. Not really enough to give extra grip, but enough to tug and then tear a my skin. I was back in full control of the mania that had possessed me through this boondoggle, the worries and dreams of the night forgotten.

Once I got the gap at the back to be an inch, I gave up on the crowbar and simply used my hands, my now bleeding hands, as the hooks. One hand around the back end of the stone, the other braced on the front of the fire place and I pulled. Again and again I pulled. Again and again it grudgingly come forward.

It was with a most satisfying final heave and grunt that the stone came full out of its home and rested a top the hearth. Panting from exertion, I marveled for moment at blood from my hand smeared all over the stone. The cuts and scrapes weren’t bad or worrisome, just enough to make things a bit of a mess. The normal me, the me before coming to this place, would have been freaked out about infection. I’d have been washing my hands for hours and lathering on antibiotic creams. Now, I just wiped my hands on my pants, not that they offered up any sort of cleaning ability at this point.

With flashlight in hand I peered into the shaft before the stone and sat bewildered. It wasn’t really a shaft, for it only went down about four feet. At the bottom set a small wooden box, perhaps what one would call the size of a small jewelry box. Say five inches across, four inches deep and three inches high.

Simple, undecorated wood.

There was nothing else. Just the box. Hidden for who knows how many years under the fireplace. What about the rest of the space? Was it all just for this one small hidden compartment? Was it all just to hide this box?

Confusion reigned in my mind. Sure it could still contain some magnificent diamond or any other priceless artifact.

My dreams came back to me. All the fear. All the terror. All the worry. I didn’t want touch it. I didn’t even want to look at it. I wanted to burn it. I wanted to start a fire down there and burn it to ashes.

I sat and did nothing. I collapsed on the couch and stared into the empty fire place. While I detested looking at it, I was far too worried that if I looked away, a demon of some sort would crawl and kill me.

I have no idea how long I sat there.

My phone rang. The noise seemed ungodly loud, blaring. The playful piano chimes of The Entertainer calling out for attention.

I did what all people are now conditioned to do, I answered it. I didn’t look to see who it was. I just pressed the button to accept the call.

I didn’t recognize the voice at first, but it was cheery in greeting me, “Mr. Kessel, how are you? I trust your writing is coming along well?”

I couldn’t find my voice to reply.

“Mr. Kessel, are you there? Are you ok?” a note of worry replacing the cheer.

The speaker dawned on me, it was the owner of the house. My brain finally kicked into gear, I coughed and cleared my throat, “What? Hello? Oh, yes, sorry, bad connection. The book is coming along swimmingly.” A lie. By now I hadn’t written anything in what seemed like two or three weeks. My schedule was very much off.

“Ah, that’s great to hear! And the house? Still enjoying it I trust? I fear for some people, it’s character can start to weigh on the nerves.”

“Oh, yes, it’s just perfect for me.” My eyes swept around the room, realizing for the first time just how filthy it had gotten. I had no idea when I’d last showered or even tried to wash up. Sooty hand prints were everywhere. More recent blood tinged ones served to highlight what I’d touched in the last day or two.

“Excellent, excellent. Well, listen Mr. Kessel. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience, but I’m unexpectedly going to be the area and I was planning on dropping by this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry what?” Panic swelling.

“I’m up from the city and, well, I haven’t been by the place myself in ages. And I thought you’ve been there alone for quite a bit and might enjoy a spot of company, what do you say?”

It was the sort of question that really wasn’t a question. It was the sort of thing one said, ‘That sounds like a splendid idea, I could use the break!’ One said it with just right hint of excitement at the idea. My mind didn’t come up with that reply. Instead I mutter something like, “Well, yes, that’d be quite nice.” With the tone all wrong.

“Mr. Kessel, are you ok? You do sound a bit off.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just hadn’t really, expected company.” I raced for an excuse, any excuse to try and put him off, “I fear I’ve been enjoying just myself and haven’t spent too much effort to keeping things clean.” Flummoxed now making it sound like I’d been have something akin to college fraternity party in the house he owned, “That’s not to really say anything’s amiss and will certainly be exactly as I found I when I leave…” my voice trailed off, as my eyes lingered over the dismantled fireplace.

He laughed, “Oh, Mr. Kessel, I have no worry everything is quite in order. And I promise not to mind whatever little mess there may be. House are meant to be lived in. I’ll be there around three then?”

In a soft, meek voice, “Yes, that will be wonderful. I’ll have tea.” And we hung up.

Did he even like tea? I had no idea. I didn’t like tea. It just sort of slipped out.

I now had four hours. What to do? Try to clean up my sooty and bloody handprints? Fix the fireplace? Shower myself so at least I could look presentable?

Thankfully, the only rooms I’d really been using this whole time were the one with the fireplace, the kitchen and upstairs bedroom. I wasn’t worried about him going to the basement. I could, I realized, close off the doors to fireplace room and not clean it at all. Just clean up the kitchen and stairs. He wouldn’t expect to go into my bedroom, so just shut that door. Have some tea ready, like I’d said and perhaps sit on the porch to drink. I’ll tell him the fireplace room is where I was writing and that it was a frightful mess with papers and notes and what not. He’d respect not going there. This could work.

I cleaned and cleaned. How long had it been since he’d visited? A few years I recalled him saying when I first spoke with him about the place. In fact, he hadn’t even shown it to me, but a local realtor had. He spent all his time down in New York City. This could work. He wouldn’t know what dirt was mine and what wasn’t. All the soot wouldn’t come clean, but I could make it all, at the least, not look like handprints. The bits of blood weren’t really dry an I could handle them like the soot. Cleaning myself was easy and the last to do. A pot of water on the stove and I ran to the shower at about half to three.

Thankfully he was running late. It was closer to half past three when he arrived. I had plenty of time to hurriedly setup a teacups and such on the porch. Perhaps I could dissuade him from going inside at all. It was a most wonderful day.

After simple greetings, I offered the tea and was delighted he accepted and took a seat on the porch. A hurry inside to get the hot water and all was off to a great start.

We chatted about various things. I confessed to having eschewed watching or reading any news sites in an effort to keep myself focused on the book. He enjoyed telling about this and that scandal and generally rambling abbot things to, as he said, “keep me in the loop with reality”.

It wasn’t the first time he’d made such odd comments. I recalled when we’d met in the city, he’d talked about how the house was the perfect place to lose oneself from the world. I thought he’d meant it was just so secluded. Now I rather had a different view.

Finally, he turned towards me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen, “Mr. Kessel, I fear I need to ask you a most important question. One I know you won’t like to answer, but one you must, nonetheless, answer in truth.” I dimly nodded, at a loss as to what to say. “Mr. Kessel,” he continued with eyes locked to mine, “have you found something here? Something that was… hidden?”

You need to understand the man, this owner of the house. He was elderly, perhaps in his sixties. Generally, he had the air of someone you didn’t argue with, who got what he wanted. I’ve no doubt he’d participated in many shady backroom deals. It’s just the nature things. You go the sense that he could sense lies, sniff the out. He was the sort who, when needed, was razor sharp focused on the task at hand. A time like now.

I didn’t even think to lie. I don’t think I could have lied, not with him staring at me like that. My mouth went dry and I said, “Yes, something.”

I expected anger. I expected him, despite his age, to chase me off the property. Instead, he asked more questions, “I knew you did. I could tell by your voice on the phone and by whatever it is you’ve done to your hands. I won’t ask you what all’s happened here, that’s between you and the house. But what I need to know is what did you find?”

Any pretense in my mind not to tell him what he wanted was lost. “I found, a, uhm, a box.”

He actually flinched at the word ‘box’. If possible he got more serious, turning to face me, “Where did you find it?”

“It was under, hidden, beneath the, uhm, the, the fireplace.”

We sat in silence for a minute or two, ages to me. He just stared at me. Finally he asked, “Did you touch it?”

I shook my head, “No. I couldn’t.”

“That’s good. Very good.”

We again settled into silence and turned back to face the front yard. I wasn’t sure what to say or do, so I sipped my now cool tea.

“Mr. Kessel, I going to tell you something, something about this house. Something I know you’ll believe now, but wouldn’t have when we first met. This house isn’t like other houses. There places in this world where odd things happens. Special places. Sometimes good things, sometimes bad things. Sometimes just plan old odd things. This house is full, as I suspect you know full well, lots of things. Hidden things. I was surprised when you first contacted me about renting it. It’s the sort of place most people will admit is charming, but there’s something about it that puts them off. They say they’d like to see it, but never show. I had to pay that realtor lady quite handsomely to give you a tour.

I never advertised it as being for rent. I never posted any pictures online. In fact, I never talk of it all anymore. But still, you found it online. Complete with a link to my personal email account. I don’t give that account to anyone. I knew then that the house wanted to visit. To stay for some reason. I don’t question such things, I simply go with it. I suspect if I’d declined or ignored your request, you’d have gotten an emailed offer to rent it from me just the same. It’s better to be a knowing part of things, so I rented it to you.

I’ve spent the last few months wondering just what was going to happen. What I’d find when I finally come to visit. I wondered if you’d ever be heard from again. That’s usually what happens to people who come here, they disappear. I wasn’t too worried about that. You have a sort of air about you.

People who’ve stayed here throughout the years say its haunted. People in the local towns have all sorts of ghost stories. Lots of people hike the woods around here and you can see the house from many of the surrounding hills. Once or twice a year the local police and fire departments will get a call from breathless hikers that its on fire. They used to send the tucks, but it never was on fire when they arrive. The hikers, the most respectable of people, would be adamant it was fully engulfed in flames. Never even a singe. They don’t bother to respond anymore. Probably wouldn’t even if the fire was real and I can’t say as I blame them.

The land all around it now posted with privacy warnings and do not trespass. Still, out of town hikers will come to the house. They are sure someone lives here. They report seeing people move about. Well, those that don’t just disappear do. Others talk about how they tried to walk here, but never could quite make it here. They always seem to get turned around somehow. Even with a compass or a GPS.

Local kids all know the ghost stories and wont’ come near the place. They hear about what happens to the hikers.”

He took a long pause, sort of staring off into the distance. No doubt recalling some story or other before continuing, “The house has been in my family since it was built. Well, that’s not quite right. I like to think it was some ancestor of mine who built it, but truth is no one knows who built it. It was found just like you see it now back in 1863. Fully built. Not a person or bit of furniture inside.

Anyway, you don’t want to hear all this. I could tell you were terrified when I called. I suspect that you found the box pretty recently. Probably why I got the itch to call you. It’s good you didn’t touch the box. I’m not sure why you found it, but it’s good you didn’t touch it.

It’s like the house. It’s a special box. Don’t ask me much more than that, because I don’t know. I’m just glad I have a chance to tell you of the choice you face. Glad you’ll get a chance to make as fair and informed choice as you can. Are you still with me, son?”

I’d nearly gotten mesmerized by the way he spoke. His voice had taken on this low, sooth tone. It took me a moment to answer, “Well, not really, but I don’t think that matters too much. I understand, believe me I understand, this place isn’t your normal place.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s enough for now. It’s what, about 4:30? You have until midnight to make up your mind about what I’m going to tell you next. If you don’t choose, well, that’s the same as making a choice I’m afraid.”

“Choice about what?”

“The box you found.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I won’t pretend to know why, but you found it. From the sound of you before and the look of you now, it wasn’t no easy thing to do. Wouldn’t be worth choosing though if it were easy, would it?”

“What’s the choice?”

“I’m sorry, I can get to rambling sometimes. Sort of trying to make up my mind how best to explain this. I think you’re the sort who’ll like the simple and direct approach. So, the choice is this: either you can take the box from where you found it and it’s yours to keep or you cover it back up and well, that will be the end for you.”

“End? As in I cover it and all this just goes away? Leave the place and find somewhere else to finish my book? Just sort of forget this place and what happened?”

“No, I mean end an in the end of you. You either take the box or, I suppose most simply put, the box takes you.”

“Takes me?” Fear engulfing me. How could a box take me?

He sighed, “I should have said it this way, you take the box or you die. You don’t get to leave here. Your story ends. You end. You just become another person who stayed here and never left. A bit of the local lore.”

“This is madness!” Nothing else I could say. Either I take box I was too scared to touch or I died? Not to mention he’d already said it was ‘good’ more than once I hadn’t touched it. “What is this box?”

“I don’t really know. I don’t want to know. It just is. I’m a sort of caretaker for this place. I know bits and pieces. What I know is that the last time the box was seen was back in 1953. A woman had it then. She’d had it for, as near as anyone knows, a good twenty years. She came here for a rest. She just wanted a place no one would bother her. Back then, people traveled less and no local would come near the place. It was perfect for her. She never left. That meant the box was here, hidden.

Some of those hikers I mentioned are people trying to find the box or something else hidden here. The box is picky about who has it. I don’t know why or how, but it’s picked you. I suspect if you take it, everything about the box will be made clear to you. That’s just way things work.”

“And if I don’t, I die? That’s not really much of a choice, is it?”

He sort of shrugged, “Having the box isn’t an ideal situation. Like I said, there’ are people looking for it. If you have it, they are looking for you. Getting found with the box, I imagine, isn’t a good thing.”

“You can really expect me to take this serious? You can really expect me to think that the rest of my life is going to be determined by if I pick up some box or not?”

The man just shrugged, “Things are what they are.”

“Why don’t you go get it?”

The man smiles, “No, I don’t go inside the house under any circumstance.” He turned to face me, still smiling, “So, like I said on the phone, I’m not at all worried about whatever mess you may have made. The house will take care of it.”

“This is madness.”

He nodded, “That’s one answer.”

“What’s another?”

“This is reality. The way things really are.”

“At least tell me what’s in the box?”

He shook his head, “I have no idea. Some say it’s like Pandora’s box from the legend. They say it holds some great evil. Others that if you open it you’ll know the mind of God. Some that it grants you the power to heal anyone or see the future or do terrible, terrible things. Only someone who actually has the box knows.”

We lapsed into a long, long silence. The man looked at his wristwatch and said, “I fear, Mr. Kessel, it’s about time for me to go. Believe it or not, but it’s nearing six. I don’t much like to be here in the evening, I’m sure you understand.” He rose from his seat and turned to face me, “Mr. Kessel, I’m sorry you’re in this spot, I know what sort of choice you face. I had a similar one a long time ago. I urge you not to wait to the last minute. Decide as well and as fast as you can. All you need to do to accept, is pick up the box. If you don’t touch it, I don’t rightly know what will happen other than no one on this Earth will see you again.”

I’d been pondering everything he’d said, running all the scenarios I could think of and a question came to mind, “You don’t know what will happen? So it really could be not taking the box is the right answer? I mean if this is some sort of bizarro world test, doing nothing could be the right answer.”

The mad nodded, “Yes, the box could be evil and by not taking, you are making the right choice. You may get some sort of reward, an express ticket to whatever is after this life. Or it may be the wrong choice. It may be that by serving as guardian of the box that you’ll be rewarded with something good. There’s only one way to know, I’m afraid. No one can tell you what to do. Either choice could lead you to damnation or salvation.”

All I could think of to say was, “Maddness.”

Again he nodded and reach out a hand, “I won’t say goodbye, Mr. Kessel, but just, I wish you the best.”

I rose and shook his hand, there really was nothing else to say. I watched his walk down the steps to his car and dive off.

I sat on the porch thinking until about eight. Then I went inside and started typing all of this up. I’m going print it and hide it. Maybe someday someone will find it. Why? I don’t know I guess it’s just some chore to keep my mind busy why I try to decide what to do. I’m still at a loss. It seems I’m really flipping a coin with my life. I just don’t understand. I just don’t have enough information.

It’s now nearly 11, only an hour to go. At least if what he told me right. Perhaps the deadline has already passed and I’m really trapped here. Perhaps I’m now part of this house, just another maker of noise that make up its character. Perhaps I’ve really just gone insane and all this is in my head. I’m supposed to be here for another three months, perhaps someone will find me then… a raving lunatic running about naked with a box under my arm or I’ll just be raving about a box.

I’m going to go sit on the couch and stare at the fire place until 11:45. Then, I’m going to choose. I’m either going to stand up and get the box or just sit there, perhaps forever.