The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  She gave a mock gasp. “You wouldn’t.”

  I eyed the empty plates. “I just did.”

  She traced a finger along my arm. “I thought I could trust you.”

  “Trust is relative. You can trust me in other situations, just not around food.”

  “What do you mean, trust is relative? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you always tell the truth?” I said.

  “I like to think so.”

  “You never tell little white lies?”

  She considered her answer. “Not really.”

  “Everyone tells little white lies. Or at least omissions.”

  “Omissions are different. Of course I don’t go around telling everyone exactly what I think without being asked.”

  There was an awkward silence, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was: there were a few things she hadn’t said in Dubrovnik, on The Morning After.

  I also knew there were things she hadn’t told me about her past. I said, playfully but with an edge to my tone, “So what does it take to get you to confess?”

  She stood and leaned down next to me, her dulcet eyes boring into mine. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she whispered, tracing my lips with her finger before turning and swaying to the restroom.

  “You’re the Devil,” I muttered after she left. My mouth had gone dry, my skin prickling from her touch. I took a gulp of wine and realized I was wrong.

  The Devil had nothing on her.

  When we returned to our room, we found a bottle of champagne on the bed, along with a note from Mr. Sofistere. ‘“Your hard work is much appreciated,’” Asha quoted.

  I opened the bottle, a Krug Clos du Mesnil. Prentice was right: Mr. Sofistere did have good taste. We sat on the bed and drank straight from the bottle. She ran her fingers through my hair and said, “I had a great time tonight.”

  After we finished the bottle, she lay beside me and stroked my chest with her fingernails. I loved her scent, even combined with the lingering garlic from dinner.

  She crawled on top of me, hair falling into my face, the contours of her body melding into mine. The tips of our tongues touched, and then her lips found mine, warm and insistent.

  Our kiss turned into more, and we sank into the sheets.

  Since we had a day to spare, Jake decided to shake up his research and visit the ruined city of Pompeii. The time period was right—less than a century after Christ—and given the proximity to Castello di Selva and the frozen-in-time state of the architecture, he thought there was a sliver of a chance of seeing a fresco or a temple wall that might relate to the letterbox or its strange markings. I also thought he couldn’t bear the thought of sitting around the hotel.

  We left after breakfast. The journey took less than an hour. Except for the roofs, which had collapsed or burned, Pompeii’s near-instantaneous destruction by Mt. Vesuvius had left the city disturbingly intact. It looked more deserted than ruined, as if the inhabitants had gathered up their roofs and left the city to its fate.

  Intricate, sometimes erotic frescoes dotted the remains of the wealthier residences. Bodies were entombed in gray pumice, locked for eternity in the fetal position, screaming in anguish as hands covered faces in a desperate attempt to escape the horror raining down on them. I thought of Pompeii as a testament to the frailty of human life, preserved for all to see.

  Jake found nothing of interest. As the sun began its descent, we made our way to our last stop, the Roman amphitheater on the far northeastern side. It was almost closing time, and we were the only visitors left to admire the imposing stone wall encircling the arena. Jake and Lou started debating an obscure point of Roman architecture as Asha and I stepped through the gated entrance, navigating a short tunnel that emerged into a grassy arena.

  “I can’t believe how well preserved it is,” Asha said.

  My eyes swept the ruins. When I turned towards the raised stone rows behind us, my breath caught in my throat and I clutched Asha’s arm. Sitting above the entrance tunnel, a group of men in hooded white robes peered down on us like judges, as silent and unmoving as if they had been there for centuries.

  -23-

  I heard a loud scraping sound. Asha gasped, and Jake started yelling our names. “Run,” I said, grabbing Asha’s hand and fleeing back the way we had come.

  When we reached the entrance to the tunnel, a huge iron portcullis had been lowered to block the exit. Jake and Lou were on the other side, trying to force it open. I joined them, but it wouldn’t budge. I slammed my fist against the wall.

  Jake swore. “I’ll go for help. Commie, stay with them.”

  As Jake sprinted off, I looked at Asha’s purse. “Where’s the letterbox?”

  “Jake has it in his backpack,” she said, her voice shaky.

  I turned and started walking back into the amphitheater. “I’m seeing what they want.”

  “Aidan!” Lou called out. “What are you doing?!”

  I knew it wasn’t the smartest play, but I was sick of their games. And were they really going to cause trouble on government property, with guards on the way and nowhere to go? Still, I felt coiled fear wrapped around my insides.

  Asha caught up with me and took my hand. We emerged into the amphitheater, staying right by the tunnel mouth so we could dash inside.

  A dozen men were sitting in a line on one of the rows above us. A thirteenth man stood in the middle, holding a wooden staff. Seeing the implacable figures looming above us brought Jake’s history lesson on the practices of the ancient Druids, and their connections to the letterbox, crashing into the present.

  Asha gripped my hand. “Do you see him?”

  My eyes roved across the line of white robes, unsure what she was talking about until I saw the lone figure standing in the center. As my gaze took him in, moving from his cowled face down the length of his robe, I noticed the same burn scar on the back of his left hand that I had seen outside Lafitte’s in New Orleans.

  I also noticed that he wasn’t standing at all. He was hovering a foot above the stone row below him, the bottom of his robe drifting in midair.

  My mouth fell open. I couldn’t take my eyes off the empty space between the stone and the man’s robe.

  “We have tried to warn you,” the levitating figure said.

  “Tried to warn us?” I replied, forcing pent-up anger into my words. “Staring at us through windows and cornering us in the woods?”

  “You have something that belongs to us. We wish it returned.”

  “We don’t have anything of yours,” I said, trying to buy time for Jake. Asha gripped my hand tighter.

  “You carry the Vessel of the God Path.”

  I swallowed. Hearing those words spoken by a man floating impossibly in midair, face shadowed by a cowl, caused a wave of gooseflesh to rise on my arms.

  “We don’t have it with us,” I said. “And it’s not yours to claim.”

  “It is not for you to possess.”

  “You’re Druids, aren’t you?” Asha said.

  No response.

  “What is it?” she said, taking a step forward. I tried to hold her back but she shook me off. “What’s the God Path?”

  The levitating man raised his staff above his head. As one, the Druids began to chant. It was a harsh, guttural collection of sounds, its resonance low and weighty. I didn’t recognize any of the words or even the language; I didn’t think it to be a language at all. It sounded like an incantation, a dark and secret tongue, full of sounds I wanted to block from my mind.

  As the chanting gained in volume, the lead priest began to rise. Asha stopped advancing, and I stood next to her, both of us encased in a dumb silence. The incantation and its apparent connection to the levitation, the sheer unnaturalness of the whole scene, made me want to cover my ears, grab Asha, and run as fast and as far as we could.

  But there was nowhere to go. The walls of the amphitheater surrounded us, our only exit was sealed. I looked back to see if
Jake had brought help, but Lou was still standing by himself, hands gripping the bars.

  The chanting ceased. The lead priest stopped rising. He hovered menacingly above the others, though I still couldn’t see his face.

  “Leave the Vessel in your quarters when you depart in the morning,” he intoned. “Leave it and do not look back.”

  I was too stunned to respond. He tipped his staff in our direction. “This is your final warning. Do not be foolish. Depart from the God Path.”

  Asha’s nails dug into my hand, and it took every ounce of willpower I possessed to walk, and not run, back through the tunnel. Finally we saw Jake sprinting towards us with two guards. After they unlocked the portcullis, we followed behind as the guards rushed into the amphitheater, necks craning to scan the circular stone rows.

  There was no one in sight.

  I recounted the bizarre scene for Jake, Lou, and the guards on our way to the exit. The guards took down our information and promised to investigate, but I could tell by their expressions they weren’t taking me seriously.

  As soon as they left and we boarded the train to Naples, Jake yanked off his hat and threw it on the seat, his auburn hair framing his face. “I don’t know who these people are, but if they think they’re gonna scare us into handing over the letterbox, they can think again.”

  Lou and I exchanged a troubled glance.

  “Do you think they’re really Druids?” Asha said.

  “Who knows what they think they are,” he said. “There’re people these days who dress up like vampires and drink pig’s blood.”

  “That man back there—he was levitating,” Asha said. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “My God. The window in the tower—that must have been how they reached it.”

  “The box stays with me from now on,” Jake said grimly, patting his backpack. “At all times.”

  I let out a deep breath, expelling tension. “We can have the hotel notify the police, but even if they believe us, we still have no idea who these people are.”

  Lou’s voice was nervous. “So what now? The letterbox is interesting and all, and I’m sure that was a hoax, but I don’t like being followed.”

  Jake was staring out the window, in the direction of Pompeii. “Neither do I. No more side trips, and we stay together.”

  As we returned in silence to Naples, I studied the faces of the others and saw the same mixture of apprehension and feverish curiosity that I knew defined my own. Despite the growing threat, the allure of the unknown had spun a tantalizing web around us all, and I felt trapped by the unseen strands, transfixed by my growing desire for answers.

  Jake folded his arms and tipped his seat back, still facing away from us. “Get a good night’s sleep. Our train leaves early.”

  -24-

  When we returned to the hotel, Asha and I headed upstairs to pack. She closed her suitcase and sat beside me, a faraway expression on her face. “You know what I have to do.”

  I knew.

  With rare exception, thoughts of her brother, though unvoiced, had shadowed her every glance since that night at the ruins, clouded her every smile.

  “I’m not ready,” she said. “But I have to go. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “You know we won’t let you go alone.”

  She squeezed my hand. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll grab Jake and Lou.”

  Her hand slid away. “What if the Druids are there?”

  “They said we have until the morning, and we’ll be long gone by then.” I pulled her close. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I have to try,” she whispered.

  Jake and Lou agreed to accompany us to the castle ruins. We all understood. If it were my brother, I would have risked the danger and done the same.

  We left the hotel and walked down the street to hail a taxi. “Castello di Selva,” I said. The driver looked at me funny, and Lou had to pay him double to get him to wait for us below the ruins.

  We arrived without incident and walked to the courtyard, enveloped in darkness, the skeletal remains of the castle brooding on every side. After a careful look around, we saw no sign of anything amiss.

  Asha cast a nervous glance into the courtyard. “I won’t be long.”

  “You’re going in alone?” I said, incredulous.

  “Just a few feet. He might want to see me by myself, and I have to give him the chance.”

  I shook my head, and Jake nodded at me behind her back. “Promise me you won’t leave the courtyard,” I said.

  “Don’t worry.”

  I squeezed her hand, and she stepped into darkness.

  After she left, the rest of us spaced out along the edge of the courtyard, on high alert for signs of the Druids. Nothing stirred but the breeze, and I sank into my thoughts.

  I hadn’t mentioned anything to anyone, mainly due to Asha’s sensitivity to the subject and Lou’s complete denial, but seeing the mysterious boy had made an indelible impression on me.

  It had been a long time since I had reflected on my spirituality with more than a passing thought. But when one has a possible supernatural experience, one pauses.

  Really pauses.

  There were frequent news reports of people claiming to see ghosts and having various paranormal experiences. I had always scoffed them away, but now it had hit home.

  Had I been confronted with direct and unambiguous evidence of life beyond the grave? If so, where did that leave me?

  The encounter felt like a defining moment, an awareness of something beyond the mortal coil, and I didn’t want the memory to slip away.

  Yet I was afraid it would. I felt the nagging voice of reason increasing in tempo with every passing hour, the voice that says you didn’t see anything or there’s no such thing as ghosts.

  Jake was right. We explain everything away. Far too often we have a moment of spiritual enlightenment, burning brightly with intention, until days or even hours later when we watch, helpless, as our newfound resolve fades to regret, and we return to our provincial worldview and our tunnel vision of reality. No wonder God, if He exists, has a hard time getting us to believe in Him. That which we cannot measure, store, or tag: we forget.

  I had seen Asha’s hands pass through the little boy with my own two eyes. I wanted—I needed—to delve into the marrow of that memory until it became a permanent fixture in my mind, a captured moment to explore.

  Asha’s scream pierced the darkness, shattering my ruminations.

  The three of us sprinted into the courtyard. Halfway to the wall, Asha flew into my arms.

  “What happened?” Jake asked. “Druids?”

  She had to catch her breath before she could speak. “Just a cat. It jumped off the wall right next to me and I panicked.”

  “You’re fine?”

  She nodded, still breathing hard.

  “Did you see anything?” I asked.

  She averted her eyes. “No.”

  I swallowed my own disappointment.

  “I had to try,” she said, repeating her words from earlier. I noticed that neither sadness nor disappointment, while both were present, was the overriding emotion I heard in her voice.

  It was guilt.

  “I had to try,” she said again.

  Back in our room, she sat next to me on the bed, her voice soft as she touched her fingertips to her forehead. “I miss him so much, Aidan. He was my baby brother.”

  “I know.” I held her tight, pushing away my unanswered questions. Now was not the time.

  “What if he’s lost out there? What do I do?”

  Again I had no answers. She looked up at me, her chin petite and firm, and kissed me with an intensity I hadn’t felt from her before. Her tongue probed my mouth, sensuous and greedy. I sank into the bed with her, both of us grasping at each other’s clothes.

  We seemed possessed by a supernatural passion deriving from our visit to the ruined courtyard, as if the hungry spirits of a bygone era had returned with us to the hotel
. We clung to each other, our lovemaking intensified by fear of the unknown and by what we had witnessed at Pompeii, unable to get enough of each other’s warm, tangible humanity.

  We lay on our backs when we were finished, breathless, staring out the window at the mystery of the night sky.

  PARIS

  -25-

  After a long and uneventful train ride, we arrived in Paris at dusk and took a taxi to a hotel Mr. Sofistere had arranged near the Bastille area. Since Pere Lachaise Cemetery was a stone’s throw away, it seemed like a good idea to get a glimpse of our destination.

  After a short walk, we found ourselves atop a low hill in the twentieth arrondissement, next to a sinuous cast-iron signpost heralding the entrance to the Pere Lachaise metro stop. Not far away, the cemetery’s gray walls disappeared into darkness, enclosing entire city blocks within their eldritch grasp.

  Asha craned her neck, trying to see how far the cemetery extended. “I didn’t realize it was so big.”

  “What’s with the castle-size wall?” Jake asked.

  “I’m just glad we’re going in the morning and not tonight,” Asha said. “Wait—don’t we need moonlight to see the next section of the map?”

  “Jake and I discussed that on the train,” I said. “We have some tools to create the effect of darkness during the daytime.”

  “Like what?”

  “Towels,” Jake said.

  Lou chuckled. “Genius personified.”

  “Judging by that massive gate guarding the entrance,” I said, “moonlight isn’t an option.”

  On the way back to the hotel, we caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. The famous spire climbed the night sky with a poet’s eloquence, and I thought it the antithesis of Pere Lachaise, a shining monument to life.

  I watched as Asha arched backwards for the view and interacted with the others, her animated smile and genuine laugh, the delicate movement of her hands when she spoke, the wisp of stray bang always floating about her chin.