short stories – K. L. Kent Author

Angel

May 16, 2021 K L Kent ~ Author

Startled, she stared at the stranger as he slid into the booth across from her. She wanted to be alone but something about the way she was being watched kept her silent. The stranger didn’t speak as the waitress came over and poured a hot cup of coffee for each of them. As she moved away, the stranger leaned forward and drew in a deep breath of the aroma wafting up from the cup. Setting it back on the table he looked at her once more “you look tired.” She scoffed. Who did he think he was? “Thanks” she said sarcastically. “Really. You look like you’ve been through a lot, seen a lot, like you’ve lost a lot.” She shook her head looking out the window. She saw the reflection of an annoyed smile gracing her features. This guy thought he knew so much; well, she would tell him about loss, about being tired. She looked back at him and sat back in her seat. His stare was all the more intense, like he really wanted to hear her story, so with a deep breath she launched into it.

“Time doesn’t hold the same meaning for me anymore. I use to relish each day as a new adventure, life was full of work and play and friends, but now it is just death. Every day is just more death. I tried to escape it. I sold everything and disappeared from the world. I’ve separated myself from everyone, especially those I love, to be here. At least the death I experience here has less of a tug, and it is the tug that is so difficult to resist. I can walk with you right up to that last point, completely ready to turn back. But when you let go, I cannot. I want to keep hold of you, stay with you, till your journey’s end but I can’t, and every time you leave me it is like another piece of my soul, of what makes me human, is being pulled away. I’ll tell you, honestly, each one is hard to experience but the most terrible, was the first. The first time I experienced death, it truly felt like I was dying.

“She was 3 years, 2 months, 14 days, 57 minutes old and in the car next to me. We were stopped at a light, she on the way to daycare and me to work. I only glanced over for a second, she was staring at me. I waved, she waved back, and that was it. The light changed, and we went on our merry ways, at least that is what I thought. As the car she rode in turned away, I caught a glimpse of the mom smoking with the windows shut tight. For the next 15 minutes, I couldn’t get the stench of cigarette smoke out of my nose. I thought it was just out of concern for the little girl, Lydia, and when the air cleared around me I continued with my day. Lydia was out of sight, out of mind.

“At 11:00 am that morning, in the middle of a rather important sales meeting with my firm’s largest client, I peed myself. And instead of the mortification I should have felt, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of great satisfaction. The mortification finally came when I had to stand and leave the meeting so I made a big show of spilling my cold coffee on my skirt. Luckily, I always keep an extra suit on hand. Around 2:00 that same day I passed out. It wasn’t like fainting; it came over me suddenly and my head started bobbing. I lost focus and barely made it to the sofa before I was out cold. When I woke up two hours later I was in the fetal position with my thumb in my mouth. I left work early that day. I thought maybe I’d been working too hard, I just needed to relax. It was later that evening that I died…for the first time.

“I had just laid down on my bed when I could again smell cigarette smoke however, this time it was stronger, like a cloud of noxious gas suffocating me. I rose to locate the source but it never got stronger or weaker. I couldn’t escape. I tried walking out to the balcony for fresh air but nothing changed. I tried to take deep breaths to clear my airway, but it only made things worse. I tried loosening my clothes as I walked for the phone to call for help, but I never made it. My ears began to roar and then my vision tunneled until there was only black. When I came to I was sprawled on the floor, soaking from my own sweat. Finally, I found the strength to pull myself up, and I went to my neighbors to have them drive me to the ER. The doctors listened to what I had to say and checked me thoroughly but to no avail. The final theory was that I had an allergic reaction and that I was just damn lucky for a miraculous recovery.

When I was discharged I had every intention of going directly to a friend’s house for the night, but then I passed her room. She was unconscious and hooked up to breathing tubes with weeping parents nearby. Lydia. I couldn’t help it; I was drawn to her. No one seemed to notice or care as I stepped into the room. “The silence was deafening. I could see the blip of the monitor and the lips of her parents moving, but everything remained void of sound. When I reached the side of the bed I looked down to see Lydia’s tiny, pristine features were set in stone. I knew there was no coming back, that her last moments were passing, so I reached out my hand to hold hers. I don’t know why, if it was to comfort her or myself, but I stood there and waited till she finally looked up at me. I felt like it was my responsibility to be there with her. I realized then that what I felt all day was what she was feeling and that I needed to be there with her those last few moments before it would end. Nobody noticed, or tried to stop us as we left that room, together hand in hand, and ventured down the hall to the stairwell. I still don’t understand how I know where to go, but I always seem to find the door. That particular door normally would have led to the roof. We stood there for a moment until I felt her squeeze my hand. I looked down at her and knew it was time but I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t know what was waiting on the other side of that door. I still don’t.

“Lydia looked back at me with confidence and the countenance of someone much older. So I let go and she took those last steps to the door alone. When she stepped through she didn’t look back. They never look back. I didn’t wait long before I turned to leave. When I hit the pediatrics floor I ventured past her room again. I was just in time to see them unplug the machines and lift the sheet to cover her empty body. It was there that I actually learned how she died. Emphysema, if you can believe it, brought on by secondhand smoke inhalation. Her small lungs finally gave up because they were too saturated in tar; that is why, together, we suffocated.

“That was my first and it was after my fifth experience like this that I left my own life behind. You know it’s hard, being human. I can’t always be there with them, and that is worse than the tug, the pain I feel when one leaves without me being there; when they have to find the door on their own.”

She pushed the drink away from herself and wiped the tears from her eyes. She remembered the stranger sitting across from her and slowly brought her gaze up to meet his. “I’m sorry,” she said with an embarrassed choke, “you must think I’m some loony, sitting here baring my soul with some fantastic story to a complete stranger.” The eyes of the other looked back at her with compassion and then the stranger leaned forward. He reached across the table and wrapped her hands in a warm embrace. “Soon you will experience your last death,” he whispered. Her hands were released and the stranger stood to leave. She watched in silent bewilderment as money was laid on the table to cover the bill, and she was once again alone.

Back at her cabin she lit a fire in the hearth and curled up in large chair with a blanket to enjoy its warmth. It wasn’t long before she dozed off. For the first time in a long time she didn’t dream and feel deep into a slumber of perfect silence. When she finally woke it was to a dark room. The fire had burned so low that only a glow of embers remained. She stretched once and then turned to the window to see if morning was near. But instead of the sun she was greeted by the stranger from the bar looking down at her. Instead of fear, she felt calm and relieved. She reached out and took the hand being offered her, allowing herself to be lead out the door and across the snow laden field into the woods. Together they walk for what felt like hours until they came to a door in the side of a burnt-out trailer. She looked from the door to her companion who was looking at her with the same compassion from before. “Do not be afraid. For you this is not an end but the beginning. Your purpose is greater than to sit at the bedside of death; it is you who will walk someone along the path in between; to the door of their next journey. Go on. I will be here when you return.” She reached out and firmly gripped the door knob. Like everyone before her, she did not look back as she passed through.

Angel, is from my published collection ‘Beginnings’. This book showcases some of my earlier writing and is available at Amazon.com.

A Novel Romance

April 18, 2021 K L Kent ~ Author

Kat had come to the cabin to escape. To escape the city with its traffic and noise. To escape her mother with the constant questions of when she would settle down and start a family. To escape everyone else’s needs and focus on her own. She was a workaholic, a people pleaser, and the person who couldn’t say no. So this week was hers in solitude, at a getaway far to the north and outside of cell service.

While it did at least have the amenity of running water, the cabin had no electricity. This meant that her laptop had to stay at home and her cell phone would be used minimally since it had to be charged in the car. She would keep herself occupied with puzzles, outdoor hikes, and quick trips into town if she needed anything.

As you can imagine the first few days were great, she felt more relaxed and energized than ever, but it didn’t last long. By day 4 Kat was beginning to desire the company of others. To hear about their lives and compare their days to her own. She started to think about her mother and the woman’s desire for her to settle down. Maybe a little romance in her life wouldn’t be so bad. But to leave early was not an option. She was determined to make it the full week, so she set aside her thoughts and went into town.

There wasn’t much available besides the local tavern, a gas stations, and the small family own grocery. It was at this last place that she found what she hoped would be her salvation. They had a nice selection of books. Mysteries and thrillers were her favorite, but they also had a large selection of romance. A trashy romance might just be what she needed. She picked up one where the cover featured a long haired lumberjack with his flannel shirt open in the front. The damsel had a lacy dress with the sleeve falling low enough to reveal not only her should but a generous portion of her bosom. Rolling her eyes and laughing to herself, she picked up the book along with a couple mysteries and thrillers to take back with her.

This did the trick, the books kept her engrossed. The mysteries and thrillers were her preferred genre so she started with those. Day after day she read from sun up to sun down. She only took a break to eat and enjoy a hike once a day. With 3 days left of her week away she felt completely put at ease, except that the only book left to her was the trashy romance.

She had bought it for a reason and decided to give it a try. At first she found it comical. It was a classic trope, the way the man and the woman behaved and acted towards each other. She was absorbed, at least at first. As the book kept moving she found herself more and more annoyed. The woman in the story didn’t seem capable of doing anything and the man spent more time flexing his muscles than serving a purpose. About half way through she gave up, disgusted, and threw the book across the room, before leaving for an evening walk.

Now had she stayed, she might have been able to stop what happened next. The book had landed on the wood pile right next to the fire place. A fire place that periodically threw sparks and it just so happened that one of these sparks landed on the open page. As you can imagine it ignited and flamed up, but curiously only for a brief moment until it fizzled out leaving a trail of smoke. If she had stayed she would have seen the words around the singe mark start to run together as though they were becoming liquid and running into a pool.

It was this pool of ink that started to bubble, no boil, until once again smoke began to venture forth followed by a tendril. This tendril thickened and hardened and continued to grow until it became a vine with smaller tendrils growing off of it. It was one of these smaller vines that produced the pod. The pod was about 6 feet in height and 3 feet in diameter at its widest. It stood straight and tall until it started to open.

It was about 1 hour after the opening of the pod that Kat returned home to find the unimaginable mess in her home. She couldn’t imagine where it had come from. The plant looked dead, what had probably been green at one point, was now brown and dehydrated. The roots, which looked to start at the wood pile, were shriveled and exposed. She could also see what remained of the book woven into the roots and completely decimated. As she took it in she became concerned about the track of pollen that seemed to move away, towards the back porch, in a distinct and direct path. She followed it.

It led right to the back door, which hung open a crack. She pushed it, letting it swing open fully before she ventured outside to find him. He was leaning against the railing with his flannel shirt open to reveal his chest. The muscles looked painted on beneath the perfect cover of chest hair. The shirt had the sleeves ripped off at the shoulders to reveal his arms. One was wrapped around the porch post allowing him to flex. He was a sight to be seen, with perfect eyes burning a hole right through her. She felt like the woman on the cover and wanted to reveal a little more skin to be just as enticing. But then it happened. A breeze lifted up off the water. He reached up and released his long hair from the clasp that held it and then looked into the wind, shaking out his locks to be teased by air. That was the moment, she rolled her eyes and walked back into the house slamming the door behind her. She was crazy, too much solitude had led her to this, and while he was pretty she didn’t need another high maintenance person in her life. The week was over, she would hire someone to come clean the mess and hope that HE just disappeared on his own. But just in case she would leave word in the town that someone should check on him. Maybe they had a lace wearing girl that would be the perfect damsel for novel romance.

After Dark

April 4, 2021 K L Kent ~ Author

For years it had been revered as the haunted house that no one dared to enter. People would cross the street before walking past, grandmothers would encourage you to throw salt over your shoulder if you looked at it long, and black cats steered clear. So the night that lights appeared on inside, everyone gathered from a safe distance to try and discern who would dare go in. For weeks the house would shine bright through the night. During the day, windows and doors stood open allowing it to breath, and once a week trash was left at the curb. Painters were hired from out of town, since no one local could be paid enough to take the job. From shabby to classy the house became more and more beautiful, even welcoming. This went on for a month before the invitations were received.

They appeared in splendid fashion. Enclosed in beautifully ornate envelopes were invitations that were crafted with fine calligraphy and photos that gave a teasing peek into the mysteries of the “haunted house” now named Uada Estate and Gardens. A story was crafted that spoke of love and legacy. A house that was reclaimed by the ancestral heir and restored to its grand beauty, including the unique gardens that had been known for their rare, exotic, and hybrid plants. They promised to share magic and mystery and their allure was having the inviting affect. The doors and gates would open to the public on the weekend. Crowds began to gather, carried on waves of whispers and anticipation. Those doors would open to a line of visitors finally willing to chance a look inside.

Over the summer people entered the property to explore what was once forbidden to them by fear. Morning through afternoon the grounds were filled with talk and laughter. Small kids ran through paths adorned with the most amazing fragrant blooms while their parents watched from porch or patio listening to stories of the family who built the manor. While the sun was in the sky the property was filled with life, but once dusk fell the guests were escorted out and the gates were shut tight. By August more than 100 people had been within those gates, but if someone paid attention they would realize that only 84 of them had left.

August was coming to a close when the first of the missing fliers appeared. In the city they were taped to storefronts, left on windshields, and stuffed in the free coupon fliers at grocery stores. At first no one made a connection. Some of the missing people had only been here for a day trip, others were nuisance types that weren’t missed, and some hadn’t been noticed as gone. It was Mack Findley, a local detective, who first suspected the connection. He had been scanning through social media posts and found everyone had shared pictures of themselves at the Uada Estate and Gardens. He had never been himself, but he guessed even the night shots were in this same location.

Walking the street on which the house stood, Mack began by talking to neighbors. None of them were familiar with the faces he shared, but they had all been to the estate and gardens. It was a wonderful place with the most wonderful host. They spoke of the young woman who gave tours and ran the property as though she had always been a part of their world and was the dearest friend they had ever known. He was eager to meet her and tour the property in his pursuit of finding answers. It was an hour before sunset when he made his way up the walk and through the gate entrance. He passed the last of the day’s guests now leaving, so he was confident he would have uninterrupted time with the patron of the property. Up large cement stairs he approached massive wooden double doors that had only just been shut to visitors. He rapped firmly, but respectfully, with his knuckles against the hard surface, then leaned in to listed for the approach of feet on the other side.

Another knock against the door, this time slightly harder, spurred movement within. He could hear the latch thrown back and the door began to swing inward, opening onto a lavish parlor that was lit by the evening glow of sunset through a far window. “Hello?” he asked through the opening, just barely popping his head over the threshold. “I’m Detective Findlay, I’ve come to speak with the owner of the estate.” There was no answer so he stepped inside and looked around. Just behind the door a small frail woman was taking deep breaths. She waived in apology and then began the arduous work of pushing the door back into place. “Please, allow me.” Mack took the handle from her and swung the door closed. “Thank you.” Her voice was quite but melodious. If he hadn’t been looking at her he would have expected to see the young woman that neighbors described.

“Madam, I apologize for the late intrusion, but I am inquiring with all residents of the neighborhood after some individuals who have gone missing. I believe they all toured your property.” She looked up at him with absolute concern. “That is such a horrible thing to hear, but I don’t get out much to see people beyond these walls. I wouldn’t know where they go or what they do when they leave here.” “I understand that, but I was hoping you might be able to look at some photos, maybe see if you remember them lingering behind or if there were any odd occurrences associated with them while they were here.” She nodded and lifted a hand to invite him further into the house. “Let’s take a seat in the sun room. You can show me your pictures and we’ll enjoy a glass of lemonade.” He followed her, through the parlor to a door at the back under the staircase that lead to the second floor. He sat and watched her pour liquid from a crystal decanter into stemmed glasses before she took her own seat across from him. “Please,” she said reaching out “may I see your photos?”

The array of faces ranged in age, race, and gender. There was no clear pattern other than the fact that they all had been on a tour of the estate and its gardens. The old woman brushed a finger gently across the picture of a young smiling girl. “They all look like lovely people, but unfortunately with the numbers who come through I can’t recall ever meeting them. Are you sure they were here?” “I am. They each had photos on their social media profiles that they tagged at this location. Any chance they may have lingered behind?” Mack reflected on the few photos he saw from night visits. “Maybe they came through during a night tour.” The woman’s face clouded over, “excuse me? There are no night tours. The doors shut and are locked at dusk, no one tours the ground past then.” Mack was taken aback by the sudden anger in her voice. “I didn’t mean to offend.” The woman settled back down a bit. “Maybe if I could speak with the young woman who leads the tours, she might remember them.” Now relaxed the woman chuckled. “You must mean my niece, sweet girl although a little flighty, she leaves with the last tour. I am sure you passed her on your way up the walk.” Mack reflected on those he encountered when he arrived, none of whom could have been mistaken for the beautiful woman the neighbors described.

Not wanting to overstay his welcome he ventured one last question “any chance someone might have snuck into the garden after dark? I noticed some of the fencing was damaged.” With concern the woman looked out towards the garden. Her answer was distant but firm. “I would hope not. This garden isn’t a kind place after dark.” She turned back with cold eyes “many of these hybrid plants have unwelcome tendencies for pollination and fertilization. Come, I’ll walk you back to the door.”

He wanted to ask more questions about the garden but the woman was already up and moving away. Her speed betrayed her fragile appearance and the door did not give her quite the strain it had before. She ushered him over the threshold with gentle force and before he could turn and thank her for her time the door was shut. He stared at the wooden barricade now thrown in his path. In his gut he knew the answers he sought were here. As he made his way down the walk and back to the sidewalk he kept reflecting on one of the last things she said “this garden isn’t a kind place after dark.” What did that mean? He was just past the damaged part of the fence when he made a split second decision. Turning back, he slipped past a hanging fence slat and into the garden beyond. It was darker here. The sky was now violet as the sun sunk below the horizon and many of the plants reached above his head. This was his first visit to the garden and he found it overwhelming. The colors were vivid, even in the dim light of evening, and he was mesmerized by a feeling of being transported to a different world. Breathing deep he took in the aromas that wafted around him. The whole experience was making him relaxed and full of joy. He walked along the paths with his head and eyes swiveling around, taking it all in. His primary motive was completely forgotten until he got tangled in a low vine and fell to the ground.

On his knees he had a new vantage point and looking around, beneath the foliage, his eyes came to rest on an object that chilled him. He reached out with his right hand to brush away some of the dirt. Slowly the mound became a hand, a woman’s hand with a large diamond ring still attached. He recognized the ring from one of the many missing person’s reports and knew that his search had come to an end. Staying low he continued to look beneath the plants in this area. It was getting much darker so he took out his phone to use as a flashlight. Most of what he saw was expected. Plant stalks thrust deep into the ground creating a dense forest to peer through, but every now and then the light would grace something that didn’t belong. The toe of a shoe, a few fingers reaching upward as though the owner had been sucked below, a face staring back with the frozen expressing of a scream cut short. This last image startled him. He let out his own muffled cry of horror before getting to his feet.

He didn’t have time to wait for a warrant, he was already here and knew that if he allowed the them time, the bodies would most likely be cleared away. He fumbled with his phone to call for back up. As the display came on it was near blinding as night had now fully set in. He jerked his head away and dropped the phone. As his eyes regained focus he came face to face with a flower he hadn’t noticed before. It was slowly opening up before his eyes to reveal an amazing array of colors within. The head lowered slowly and came to rest as though it was looking directly at him, and then it sprayed. It was a fine dust of pollen that shot forth and covered his face in a sticky powder like substance. He stumbled a little and tried to brush it off. When he realized his attempt was futile he decided to find his phone and make his call.

Looking down he found the ground spinning beneath his feet. He tried shaking his head but to no avail and rubbing his eyes only made the sensation worse. Distracted by his distress he didn’t notice the tendrils snaking their way along the path towards him until it was too late. In one swift motion his legs were pulled from beneath him and he found himself on his back. The vines that had grabbed at him were twisting tighter and higher until he found himself immobilized from the knees down. He tried to twist out, but the movement only seemed to tighten the hold they had. The fear didn’t set in until he realized he was now moving towards the bodies beneath the foliage. Images ran through his mind of suffocation as he was dragged under the dirt. He flailed out reach for anything. Plant stalks broke in his hands as he was pulled along with great force. His fingernails chipped as he tried to grasp at the ground, and then his salvation was at hand. A rusty trowel that had been discarded was in his grip. Using all the core strength he could muster he reached out towards the tendrils around his legs. A quick stabbing motion caused a flurry of activity. The vines released their hold and pulled back, flailing around in apparent pain. Mack scurried back trying to catch his breath but his moment of relief was short lived. The vines reached out again, this time more aggressively. Mack jumped to his feet and moved backwards as quickly as possible until he was stopped by what he thought was a tree. He seemed to be out of reach as he stood there trying to catch his breath. The world was still spinning a bit but he could feel the effects passing. Thinking back to the words of the old woman he was now believing that his best option would be to wait until daylight. He’d come back first thing with a team to excavate the garden and expose the bodies of the missing people he sought. He rested his head back against the trunk giving him support while he closed his eyes allowing the last few waves of dizziness to pass. When he opened them, it was to a view of the heavens with stars twinkling overhead, such a beautiful sight to end his horrific adventure. It was the last thing of beauty he saw before the darkness closed in. His final moments were ushered by the sharp barbed edges of the leaves that closed around him, adding his name to a growing list of missing people.

What’s Left Behind ~ March 21, 2021

March 21, 2021 K L Kent ~ Author

The news of his death was tragic. Sampson Hindershot had been a legend, not only in our community, but in the world. He was renowned for his travels and exploits. So to hear that he had died from a fall down the stairs, of his own home, was a big letdown. People wanted to talk of his death the way they talked of his life, in grandiose narrative that would hold anyone captive for hours on end. Instead, he fell down his stairs. Except, I am here to tell you that his legend lives on, or at least it might if I choose to carry his banner.

It was a Thursday when my colleagues and I at the bank learned of his demise. We set to work determining the next steps for his assets. The money had been easy as it was bequeathed to several charities he had listed as beneficiaries on his accounts. What we were waiting for was someone to claim the rights to his safe deposit box and its contents, but that never happened. No one remained to take over his processions or his legacy, but he was famous, so certainly an executor of his estate would be named and we would be contacted. Yet again, it never happened. As the year passed the stories of his exploits faded and were replaced by those of new, equally as large, living personalities.

A year passed and then the day arrived. With no one to claim his assets we were beholden to clear them and send them to the state. As bank personnel we were charged with having the box drilled and cataloging its contents. I’d be lying if I said anything other than this moment filled us with excitement. It was here that he had left us some mystery, a tantalizing secret that promised intrigue and a possible final story.

With baited breath we watched. The maintenance man took out his tools, an assortment of hammers to knock out the lock, and began his work with gentle determination. With a few swift hits the locking mechanism broke and from its vault we pulled out a black box. It measured 3”x5”x22”, so we knew it couldn’t hold much. The first items were expected. A passport, some coins, a few photos of exotic locations. But each item that came out after became more and more mundane, not worth protecting from the world. Finally, the last item was recorded and the clear plastic bag was sealed. A quiet sigh was the only communication needed to share our joint disappointment. My partner stood and carried the bag from the vault leaving me to return the now empty box to its cubby. As I lifted it, a rattling noise stopped me. What did we miss?

I laid it back down and lifted the lid. Nothing was obvious so I reached into the dark depths at the back. At first I didn’t feel anything, maybe I had imagined it, but as I pulled back my hand my fingers brushed against a hard object. I gripped it and gently pulled it out into the light. It was a large cylindrical object. At least a foot in length with a base diameter of about 2” that tapered till it ended in a sharp point. It shimmered as the light hit it, like it was infused with glitter so fine it could have been star dust.

I was mesmerized, how could we have missed something so big? I walked out carrying it across my open palms like a sacred object. My first thought was that my colleagues might fear I carried a weapon, but no one noticed. I walked directly up to the nearest teller and mentioned we needed to add one more item to the bag that was left behind the line. She looked at me quizzically and inquired into what I had. All I could say was “look” and she did. She looked at my hands and then back at me with a suspicious glance. “Is this a joke?” I was taken aback. “No, why would you ask that?” “Because your hands are empty.” I looked down, they most certainly were not empty. It was an awkward moment, but I did the only thing I could at that moment and returned to my desk. I didn’t hide the object, and no one questioned it. So when it came to leave, I took it with me.

At home it sat on my coffee table. In the evenings I would stare at it, or hold it trying to determine what it was, and during the day I waited for someone to question me about it. I should have never left with it, and it was probably caught on camera, but no one ever did. The week wore on and my excited grew. This was it, this was the mystery that Sampson Hindershot had left behind, but I didn’t know what to do with it. With Friday wrapping as a work day, I became more and more eager to do research. I needed to know what this object was and what I should do with it. Once the front doors locked and I secured my work station I practically ran for the exit and raced home.

When I arrived I was greeted with a package on my porch. I hadn’t ordered anything, but it was addressed to me. I carried it inside and placed in on the table next to mystery object and opened the box. Inside was another box, but this one was of polished wood and ornate iron hinges. A small engraved plaque was on it near the latch. I looked closely at the words which read, Black Forest, Germany ~ Monoceros. I didn’t understand the last word but I opened the box. Inside was velvet and the clear indentation of where a cylindrical object would lay. With confidence I picked up my stolen object and placed it in the box. It fit perfectly. How did someone know to send this to me? I searched the box for a note, pulling handful after handful of packing peanuts out. At the very bottom another small cardboard box sat. I opened it and found a letter and a journal.

Dear Maureen,

It is now up to you to right my wrongs. You must return what should never have been taken. My journal will be your guide.

~ Sampson Hindershot.

I spent the entire weekend reading and re-reading that letter. How did he know it was me? Now it’s Monday morning. I’ve called into work and have sat here for hours reading through the journal. I have a decision to make. Do I take up his banner and leave my life behind to return this object, or do I hide it away and continue to be the responsible person I have always been? What would you do?