The Letterbox

by Layton Green

  The door opened to reveal a cavernous darkness. We took a tentative step forward as Jake shone the flashlight inside, then reared back in shock.

  Four of the black-clothed figures we had seen in the cemetery and outside the bus loomed in the center of the room, reaching for us with outstretched arms. This time their hoods were thrown back, revealing four grayish-white skulls resting grotesquely inside the hoods, leering at us with fleshless grins.

  -55-

  Asha screamed. I couldn’t make a sound, because a surge of panicked adrenaline had left my mouth dry and my muscles full of slush. I was paralyzed, unable to think through the onslaught of fear.

  Asha stumbled towards the door. Lou stood staring dumbly at the creatures. I recovered my senses enough to move, wishing to God we had never descended into that hole of horrors. At least the Druids were flesh and blood. These abominations—oh, God.

  My only thought was that we had to get out of that room. I grabbed Lou, turned to see where Asha was—and then noticed what Jake was doing.

  He was walking right towards the things.

  “Jake!” Asha cried.

  As I watched in shock, he whipped his knife out of his boot in one smooth motion, walked right up to the black thing in the center, and made a swift slicing motion into the air above it. I heard a loud snap, and the thing collapsed in a heap.

  I stared at the scene for a long, uncomprehending moment. Then I looked at the other black things and realized what was wrong. Although their outstretched arms gave the appearance of movement, they weren’t coming any closer.

  Jake turned to us, lips compressed, and shone his flashlight above the black thing to the left of center. We crowded in to get a look, still afraid they might spring to life, and saw a thin wire attached to the top of its hood. Jake moved his flashlight upwards, following the wire to where it attached to the rafters.

  “Puppets,” he said.

  I opened the tattered black robe as Jake provided light. Underneath the rags, a wire frame supported the mid-section, ran throughout the “body” of the figure into the arms and legs, then passed through the back of the hood. I pushed the thing, and it started to bob and jerk, an unnatural-looking spasm.

  “I told you they weren’t real,” Lou muttered.

  Asha stared at the contraptions with a look of relief tinged with disappointment, like someone who had discovered the family ghost was a stray branch scratching against a window pane.

  Someone who on some level wished it wasn’t just a branch.

  “How’d you know?” I asked Jake. My hands were still shaking.

  “I noticed they weren’t moving forward, waved the light around, and saw the wires. Commie, get the door. Except for the evil puppets, I think it’s safe to say we’re alone down here.”

  Jake found a pair of sconces and lit the candles with his lighter, casting the room in a soft glow. The stone vault was half as big as the common room at Belstone. Bookcases and shelves lined the walls. We saw signs of recent use: no dust covered the shelves, the secret door hadn’t squeaked, and fresh wax pooled beneath the candles.

  The books were a mixed bag, ranging from a collection of literature on the Celts to tomes on black magic. Some looked brand-new, some had turned brittle with age. In addition to the books, occult items filled the shelves: animal skulls, goblets and talismans, tarot cards, pentagrams, insects preserved in glass jars.

  Lou stood over a large wooden box. He opened it and pulled out a long white robe, then another.

  I grimaced, turned to the shelf I had been perusing, and picked up a pair of flute-like whistles. “Dog whistles.”

  Jake was flipping through a large, leather-bound tome titled Advanced Magic and Sleight of Hand. “There’re some pages marked. Levitation, voice-throwing, techniques for concealing movement. Sound familiar?”

  “It’s starting to be revoltingly clear,” I said.

  I heard a gasp and turned to see Asha kneeling above an open chest. When I saw what she was holding, my heart bottomed out, followed by a surge of rage.

  It was a photo of her and her brother. In the photo he was wearing the same white-collared shirt and brown pants he had been wearing the night he appeared to us at the castle.

  “This was taken the day he died. I kept a copy in my nightstand. How did they—it doesn’t matter. It’s all a trick,” she said in disbelief. “How could they?”

  She let the photo drop and slumped to the floor. Jake knelt beside a locked chest, larger than the others. With Lou perched over his shoulder, he took out his tools and soon had the lid popped open.

  Jake gave a satisfied grunt, reached into the chest, and pulled out the letterbox.

  We replaced everything as best we could, stuffed the severed black-robed puppet into a chest, doused the candles, climbed the staircase, and left Chateau Donn without incident. I think we all shared similar feelings: excitement at finding the letterbox, outrage at being tricked, fear that we were still a target, and relief that the Druids were mortal after all.

  But I felt something else.

  I felt as if the seed of belief the quest had nurtured in me, a seed which I had just begun to cultivate, had evaporated into the night, leaving me a hollow shell.

  I glanced at Asha, but she looked right through me, an oily disappointment smeared across her face.

  Parlor tricks notwithstanding, the Druids’ attacks had been all too real, and the darkness felt alive on the walk back to Grimspound. I couldn’t stop glancing over my shoulder.

  Lou broke the silence first. There was a trace of smugness in his voice. “Mission accomplished. Though it seems a little anticlimactic, after all we’ve been through.”

  “Did you forget the map?” Jake said. “Perrott’s journal?”

  “I’m sure the map leads somewhere,” Asha said. “Just not to . . . .” She bowed her head, her voice quiet. “I still don’t understand how they managed to—I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  I slipped an arm around her. She felt stiff.

  We arrived at Grimspound without incident. A few Samhain parties still thrived on the streets, but the inn was quiet except for the crackling of the fire. I mumbled goodnight to Jake and Lou, and followed Asha upstairs.

  She lay on her back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  I leaned on an elbow. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “What’s left to say?”

  I didn’t know, but I had to try to plug the hole in her heart. “I’m sorry about your brother. I know you thought things would be different.”

  Her lips barely seemed to move when she spoke. “I buried him ten years ago, and what I’ve been through since then almost . . . but I was learning to cope. To have this shoved back on me, to think there might be a chance—those bastards.”

  “It’s unforgivable,” I said.

  “I don’t understand, Aidan. That was his face. It wasn’t some Italian urchin.”

  “It was dark at the castle,” I said gently. “And at Kutna Hora, you were drugged.”

  She turned on her side, facing away from me as she fought back tears. My love for her made her pain my own.

  The Druids had played the worst trick imaginable on Asha.

  Asha remained aloof the next morning, tucked inside her shell. I knew the loss went deeper than her brother. Like me, Asha had begun to caress a glimmer of hope that the letterbox would lead to something ineffable, to something which she had once grasped herself, or thought she had.

  Something which had left her questioning her sanity ever since.

  I tried to massage her to relieve some of her tension, but she gave me a halfhearted smile, said she needed time to think, and pulled away. She ran a hot bath instead.

  When we made our way downstairs, Lou and Jake were engaged in conversation in the common room with someone in a dark wool suit. He turned as we entered.

  “Mr. Sofistere!” Asha said. “You’re early.”

  He smiled and embraced her. Despite my suspicions, I was glad
to see her animated.

  “When did you arrive?” she asked.

  “I’ve had time to drop my bags and chat briefly with these two gentlemen.” His face darkened. “They informed me of last night’s events.”

  I glanced beside Jake and noticed the bulge in his backpack. How long would it be, I wondered, before the Druids made a visit to their cellar?

  Mr. Sofistere poured a cup of coffee and sat by the fire. “Why don’t we take it from the beginning? I’ve waited a long time to hear the full story.”

  As we recounted the strange and now shameful events that had befallen us, the heaviness of soul that had descended after our discoveries in the chateau returned in force. We told Lucius everything except for our individual experiences in the tunnels beneath the Bone Church. I felt that the questions raised within me, regardless of the veracity of the events, were my own cross to bear.

  “When I visited Cranmere Pool,” Mr. Sofistere said, looking to the side as if recalling a lost memory, “the geologist who unearthed the letterbox mentioned strange visions he had experienced during the extraction. He had been working all night, so to be honest, I paid him no mind.”

  Jake’s eyes whipped towards Mr. Sofistere.

  “The Druids must have known about the dig,” Asha said bitterly, “and started their tricks from the beginning.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Sofistere murmured.

  Lou shrugged. “We were deceived. End of story.”

  “Not exactly,” Jake said.

  -56-

  Jake pulled the letterbox out of his backpack. “I went to Avon Tor this morning. I’ve seen the rest of the map.”

  Mr. Sofistere leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “I found a dolmen at the site that narrows to a thin rectangular slab. I climbed up and found a depression with a bunch of tiny little holes. It’s cleverly done, and looks like weathered granite. But when I attached the letterbox and examined the slab from the other side—” He paused, his eyes flicking to the bay window “—there was a new pattern.”

  “Just one?” Lou said. “There should be two map sections left.”

  “This one took up twice as much space as the others.”

  “And did you recognize the location?” Mr. Sofistere asked.

  “No,” Jake said slowly. “But it was very peculiar. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He pulled a series of photos from his backpack and laid them on the table. We crowded in. The photos revealed a pyramid terraced with step-like sections, as if one could walk to the top. A number of pointed lines resembling spires surrounded the pyramid.

  “It’s a ziggurat,” Lou said. “A type of temple prevalent in ancient Mesopotamia.”

  Jake clicked his tongue. “That’s right.” He pointed at the spired shapes, which rose around the pyramid at uneven heights and in seemingly haphazard fashion. “I’ve got no idea what those are.”

  “I may be able to shed some light on this,” Mr. Sofistere said, turning the letterbox over in his hands. “What do you know about the places you’ve visited? The locations on the map.”

  “That if there’s a connection, we’re not seein’ it.”

  “On the surface they appear to be a random collection of sites,” Mr. Sofistere agreed. “However, I’ve been researching the locations as you’ve uncovered them, and each of the places you’ve visited, as well as Avon Tor, possesses something in common. Something of which you’re already aware for two of the locations. Namely, Kostel Utes and Avon Tor.”

  Jake stood and started to pace. “One is a church . . . one is a collection of dolmens.”

  “The key is in their past,” Mr. Sofistere said. “What they once were.”

  “I suppose those two were both—of course,” Jake said, snapping his fingers. “And I bet—that has to be it.”

  “They were both pagan temples,” Lou said softly.

  Jake groaned and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of this? The depiction I thought was Kostel Utes might even have been pagan imagery. The cliff face and river wouldn’t change over time, and both the rotunda and the steeple—an obelisk pointing to the heavens—were typical pagan structures.”

  “We know for sure Kostel Utes was built on an ancient pagan site,” Mr. Sofistere said. “And Avon Tor and the stone circles were built thousands of years ago.”

  “A huge number of early Christian churches were erected on top of pagan sites, or utilized the existing structure.” Jake said. “It was easier to convert people if they were allowed to pray in their own temples.”

  “But Pere Lachaise?” Asha said. “Castello di Selva? Wait—it wouldn’t be Pere Lachaise. It would be the old burial ground in England.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Sofistere murmured. “Though numerous cemeteries were also built on top of pagan sites.”

  “The theory gives us a common thread,” Lou said, “but what’s the bigger picture? Why these five? What’s the map for?”

  “Those are the right questions. I’m sorry to say I don’t have the answers.”

  “Where do the Druids fit in?” Jake said.

  Mr. Sofistere opened his palms. “I still haven’t found any reference to the box or the map in Celtic lore. But at one point or another, the Celts were prevalent in Gaul, Bohemia, an area near Naples, and of course the British Isles.”

  “Whatever the map leads to,” I said, “the Druids must think it’s pretty valuable to go to these extremes.”

  Sofistere wagged a finger. “I have another theory about that. As you know, we have no known written records from the Druids and thus no real knowledge of their practices. However, I found a few oblique references, ignored because they’ve never been sustained, postulating a theory that when the Druids were forced into hiding across Europe by the persecution of the Roman Empire, the high priests secreted away their most sacred items. I think our modern-day Druids might believe the map was made to conceal a repository of Druid wisdom. A treasure trove of lost spells, rites, lore, and other knowledge. The value of such a find would be astronomical.”

  I turned to the fire. His theory did not interest me in the slightest. The thought of a worldly treasure somehow made it even more disappointing that the letterbox was, after all, only a box.

  “Or perhaps the locations on the map had spiritual significance to the Druids,” Mr. Sofistere continued. “Jake’s going to help me research the answer to those questions.” He put his hands on his knees. “Regardless, I thank all of you for your efforts. You’ve been an enormous help. I’m sorry beyond words for the trouble you’ve experienced, and I’ll be speaking to the authorities about these people.”

  “It’s over,” Asha said, her voice listless once again.

  Mr. Sofistere regarded her with sympathetic eyes, while Jake and Lou began arguing about nothing in particular.

  I stared at the ashes in the bottom of the hearth.

  Lou spent the afternoon watching television in the common room, taking breaks to smoke and to remind me he had been right all along. Business as usual, though I sensed a quiet regret underlying his demeanor.

  I sat with him for a while, unable to concentrate on either the television or the inn’s literary offerings. Finally I headed upstairs to ask Asha if she wanted to make a stop before we returned to New Orleans. Somewhere sunny and beautiful, someplace that might help us forget.

  She wasn’t in the room. When I glanced out the window, at the sweep of moors in the distance, I noticed her journal on the bedside table, poking out from beneath her sweater.

  I gave it a guilty glance, as one does an intimate object not meant to be disturbed. My glance turned into a prolonged gaze, and I picked it up, my insecurities whispering to me from the back of my mind.

  She doesn’t love you, the voice said. You know it but you can’t admit it. She may like you, she may enjoy your company, she may enjoy dining and talking and traveling the world and exploring your connection and even making love to you—but she doesn’t really love you.

&nbs
p; I opened the journal to the bookmarked page, then closed it.

  This wasn’t me.

  Yet as I was closing the journal, my eye, in the subconscious yet willful roving that eyes do, picked up a word in the middle of the page.

  Not just a word—a name.

  My name.

  -57-

  I let out a long, shuddering breath. I still couldn’t do it. Moving as if in a fog, I closed the journal and started to place it back on the table. Asha walked in while it was still in my hands.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “Is that my journal?”

  I told her I didn’t read it, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. She looked at the journal and then backed out of the room. I could also tell, by her shocked and guilty expression, that there was something in the journal she didn’t want me to see.

  I replaced the journal and followed her to the cobblestone street outside the inn. When she turned, her smile looked forced. “I’m going for a short walk. I’ll stay close.”

  I could see in her eyes what I knew in my heart. It might not be the best timing, but I could no longer pretend, to myself or to her. I knew what I had to do and what the outcome would be.

  A slow drizzle had begun, a crystallization of my sentiment. I felt jittery, as if I had been up for three days straight. “We need to talk.”

  Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “About what?”

  “I didn’t read your journal. But if I did, I wouldn’t have been very pleased, would I?”

  Her stare dropped to the ground. I waited for her to say something, anything to dispute what I had said. Her silence was a thunderclap.

  “I’m in love with you, Asha.”

  The weight of those words had pressed upon me for so many days that I felt as if Quasimodo’s hump had just been sliced off my back. I had to voice it and give her that chance. I never would have forgiven myself if I hadn’t.