Story Title

Hi Everyone!

With help, I have finally decided on a title for my story:

Writer's Block

Please note that this title has been added to the top of the blog.

Thanks!

- Anna E. Bodi

Installment 9

I don’t know if anyone will ever read this. In some ways, I hope no one ever does. But in other ways, I need someone else to know.

I was born in Holly, and I’ve lived here my whole life. When you’re young, it’s entertaining to run around and play in the dirt. But as I got older and became a teenager, I got restless. My friends and I started taking things – just as pranks at first, but I kept stealing on my own.

It was disgusting, but I was smart about it. I started with small things that could be blamed on any drifter. A garden gnome, or shoes left outside. Then I started going inside houses, taking vases or silver platters. I would never strike at the same place twice, and I didn’t do it often or consistently enough to attract attention.

There was one weekend when my family and I traveled out of town. The whole time, I was anxious to get back and start up again. That was the point when I realized it had crossed the line from harmless to criminal. I got a thrill from sneaking around and risking getting caught. At the time, I didn’t have a job. I planned on selling what I stole, but somehow I never got around to it.

I developed a bit of a routine and I was getting more and more daring. Until that night in May. It must have been midnight and everyone in Holly was asleep. I was already outside the Loomis’ house after successfully stealing a Native American woven basket. All of a sudden, there was a voice behind me. “Walter?” I turned around and saw Bobby, he was a year or two younger than me, but bigger. All the Loomises were big: some said they were “part Indian.” His eyes went from my face to the basket and back again.

Without saying a word, he ran at me, pinning me to the ground. “Bobby! I can explain . . . I was just . . . it was . . .” Bobby wouldn’t listen.

“I won’t let you get away with it. I won’t, I won’t,” he kept saying. I couldn’t understand why he was reacting so violently. It was just a basket! He reached for my throat and I couldn’t throw him off of me; he was too heavy. I tried to breathe, but my head was getting fuzzy. My hand groped at the ground and latched on to a rock. I swung my arm up and struck Bobby in the head. He loosened his grip momentarily, then continued to squeeze. I had to hit him again, but he just wouldn’t stop. His head made a cracking sound as it collided with the rock. I watched his eyes roll back and his eyelids flutter, but it wasn’t enough. I hit him, and hit him until I could finally breathe.

I shoved Bobby off of me, and lay, gasping, on the ground. After a moment, I looked over at Bobby. He wasn’t moving. It was then that I realized a small pool of blood had formed around one side of his head. “Bobby,” I said quietly. “Bobby? Bobby!” I was frantic. I tried, but I couldn’t feel his heart beating. He wasn’t breathing. I shook him and shouted at him, but he wouldn’t wake up.

I don’t know how no one heard me screaming, crying, and choking on my tears. Everything in the Holly community seemed silent, except for me. I pulled my t-shirt off and wrapped it around his head to stop the bleeding. I grasped him under the arms and dragged him up the road to the Holly cemetery.

No one went up there anymore. It had been set aside in the 1800’s, but by the time I took Bobby up there, the plots had long since been filled, so community members were no longer buried there. I left Bobby there and grabbed a shovel from the shed at my house. When I returned, I began digging under the cross marked “Little Boy Thomas.” The burial had occurred so long ago that no one knew who that was. I threw the basket I had stolen into Bobby’s shallow grave.

When I finished burying him, I cleaned up after myself. I washed away the blood from the road, and hid the footprints and drag marks using a tree branch. I scattered stones and leaves across the grave so it would look like it hadn’t been disturbed.

No one ever found out what I had done. They blamed it on Michael Glosham and ran him out of town. I was glad he moved because every time I saw his face, guilt tore at my insides.

I am so sorry for what I have done, but there is no way to fix it. My hands can never be clean of the filth and blood. But please, know that it was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it, and I’ll regret it forever.

- Walter K. Paterson
July 11, 1955


* * * * *

It had been five days since Jake discovered the boxes in the attic and read the note. Walter’s words had been drifting in and out of his head for days, but he had done nothing about them. He thought about finding the families and returning the stolen property, but hadn’t come up with a story to tell them about where it was from. Anyway, what good would it do?

Jake was taking a walk around Holly when he stopped and realized he was at the entrance to the cemetery. His feet pulled him forward, climbing the stairs of the cemetery. He wandered along the rows and family plots until he found a weather-beaten white cross. “Little Boy Thomas” was hand-lettered across it in faded black paint. He stared for a minute before picking up a stick and scrawling “Bobby Loomis” into the dirt. Before the words could sink too deeply into the earth, Jake wiped them away with his shoe.

A few days later, Jake was surprised when the phone rang at Walter’s house. “Hello?”

“Jake? This is Michael, Michael Glosham. You told me you were staying at Walter’s house, and I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

“Well, it’s nice to hear from you. Everything is fine, I’m fine.”

“What I meant to say was . . . well, did you ever find out what Walter wanted to tell you?”

Jake paused before responding. “No, I don’t think we’ll ever find out. Maybe Walter didn’t have anything to tell after all.”

Installment 8

Jake couldn’t help but fidget as he stood in line at the bank. Everyone around him seemed to be moving at a snail-like pace, unaware of the urgency of the moment. After what felt like an hour, a teller looked up at Jake, indicating that it was his turn. “Hi, I have a key, I’d like to open box 307” Jake said it almost like a question. The teller nodded, typing something into the computer.

“Can I see some identification please?” The man behind the desk peered over his glasses at Jake.

“Sure . . .” Jake fumbled with is wallet. His hand shook as he pulled out his driver’s license and held it out to the teller. The man took it, glanced at the name, then back at Jake.

“Thank you,” he said insincerely. “Please come this way.” The teller’s shiny black shoes clicked across the floor. Jake followed him down a hallway and into a vault, with rows upon rows of safe deposit boxes. The two men approached box 307, each inserting and turning a key. Jake heard a click as a latch was released and the man opened the small door. He slid the long metal box out. They exited the vault and the man escorted Jake into a separate room, where he set the box down on a table. “I will be waiting outside. Please take your time.” The man took one last look at Jake before closing the door.

For a few seconds, Jake was frozen. He simply stared at the box on the table and the empty chair. Finally, he sat, and slowly lifted the lid of the box, not knowing what to expect. The box was nearly empty. Jake stared down at a skeleton key and two pieces of paper. He reached for one of the folded papers and opened it up. It was a list of items corresponding to family names. Silver candlesticks – Anderson Family, porcelain dog – Wyatt Family . . . Jake folded up the first paper and picked up the second one. Finally, something that made sense. It was a letter from Walter:

Jake,

I hope it really is you opening the box and reading this. If so, thank you, and I’m sorry. If not, then whoever you are, get your goddamn nose out of my business.

I didn’t mean to go on so long without telling the truth. I’m a coward, but please know that I have felt the strain of my sins every day.

I’m afraid this letter does not explain everything, but it will lead you to the last answers. The other paper in this box is a list of items I stole (yes, stole), and the true owners. The skeleton key will open the small door on the right side of my attic. There you will find all the items and a confession I wrote a long time ago. I haven’t been in my attic in many years, so I hope that what I am telling you is still true.

I leave it to you to decide what to do at the end of this scavenger hunt. Please keep in mind the words of two great men:

Oscar Wilde stated, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

And Thoreau once said, “It takes two to speak truth: one to speak and another to hear.”

I am forever grateful to you for hearing me.

- Walter


Jake pocketed both papers and the key, closing the lid of the box. He met the bank employee outside the room, and they walked back into the vault, replacing the now empty box in its proper spot.

As Jake left the bank, the wind whipped at the pavement and launched bursts of leaves into the air. The bitter gusts chapped his cheeks. It was time to pursue the final clue.

The entrance to the attic was through the closet in Walter’s room. Jake yanked on the string attached to the hatch, pulling down the hinged ladder connected to it. He felt his pocket, making sure the skeleton key was still there, before beginning to climb. The air in the attic was hot and thick with dust. As Jake reached the top of the ladder, something tickled his head. He recoiled before realizing that it was a string attached to a bulb in the ceiling. Jake yanked the string, and the attic was filled with a dim light.

He stepped off the ladder and into the attic, looking to the right for the door that Walter had mentioned in his letter. At first glance, there seemed to be just a smooth wall. Jake moved closer and began to run his hand along the panels until he felt a notch. He looked at where his fingers were tracing an outline and realized it was a keyhole. Jake could feel his blood pulse against the object in his pocket. He crouched down and pulled out the skeleton key. The door in front of him wasn’t big enough for a person to fit through.

As Jake lifted his hand that held the key, he could feel it being drawn toward the door as if by a magnetic force. It slid easily into the hole and hardly made a sound as it turned. The door swung open a few inches as it was unlocked. Inside were two boxes with an envelope on top. Jake grabbed the envelope and went back down into Walter’s room. He sat on the floor as he read the contents of the envelope.

Installment 7

Jake let his mind wander on the ride back from the Waterford Retirement Home. He went over again and again the story Michael had shared. Was it really what Walter wanted to tell him - - that he knew what happened to Bobby Loomis? Jake had few answers, and the trail seemed to be cold. He didn’t want to draw attention to it by digging for information about an unsolved case that no one wanted to remember.

Jake took to staying in Walter’s spacious house rather than his cramped cabin. Most nights, Jake didn’t sleep, but when he did, his dreams were filled with three boys, skeletons, and questions. As he walked down the hallway one day, Jake caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face was ashen, with splotches of red surrounding his eyes. Walter had let his secret destroy a part of himself. Now it had become a burden for Jake. Suddenly, frustrated, Jake punched the mirror, feeling detached as he watched the glass shatter and his knuckles bleed. He wanted the glittering pieces on the ground to turn into a telltale clue, allowing him to uncover the truth. He wanted a piece of parchment to fall from the mirror. He wanted the blood on his hand to become an epiphany. The throbbing pain coming from his hand brought Jake back to reality.

With bandaged hand, Jake cleaned up the broken glass, feeling utterly defeated. He walked back to the kitchen and reached for the address book in which he had found Michael Glosham’s name. Jake was hoping to find something odd or inconsistent. After looking at every entry and finding no meaning, Jake closed the book, resting his bandaged hand on the back cover. Jake could feel an odd ridge – was it from the bandages? He looked down at his hand: no. It was from the book. He moved his fingers along, trying to trace the shape. He flipped the back of the book open, and noticed that the last pages had been glued over the back cover, sealing something inside.

Jake tore at the book, his fingernails clawing like a hungry animal. There was a flash and a metallic sound as an object fell from the book and hit the floor. Jake picked it up and found himself holding a key. The numbers “307” had been pressed into the top of the key. Jake’s mind raced: what was the key for? An apartment, a post office box, a safe? He reached for the address book once more, looking at the now torn last pages. On the page that had been pressed against the key was one last entry in Walter’s handwriting. Bank of Silverdale, Box 307. The trail, like a twisted fuse, had been ignited once more.

Installment 6

It must have been about 1950 when I moved to Holly. Really, I stumbled upon it unintentionally. I was on my way somewhere else, I can’t remember where now, and I missed my turn. I ended up at a dead end, expecting at least a gas station, but there was only a cluster of homes. As I turned around to try and find where I went wrong, I saw a “For Sale” sign in front of one of the houses. Two weeks later I was signing the papers and a month later I moved in.

The house wasn’t much. It was really just one big room that had been quickly separated into four - - a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, and an area for a table or a sofa. Still, I was young and independent. I was elated to have my own key to the front door and my own checkbook.

Walt was just one of the neighborhood kids. I was too old to really become friends with any of them. Besides, I worked during the week and they went to school. We were living different lifestyles.

After a year, I was completely settled into what had become my home. I was never a big part of the community. Nonetheless, I felt a strong connection to my surroundings. There was so much peace. Living in a secluded natural area, there weren’t many disturbances. The worst we had were some small robberies. People kept their doors unlocked; any drifter could walk in and swipe whatever he pleased. Most of the time, the crime was limited to shoes taken from a back porch or firewood missing from a stack by the shed. No one felt unsafe or threatened. After I had been living there for about a year and a half, all that changed.

Bobby Loomis went missing in May of that year. He was only fourteen. His parents said goodnight to him, and in the morning he wasn’t there. He probably just wandered into the woods and got lost. All his friends were questioned, including Walter, but no one knew anything. I don’t know who it was, but after a while, someone whispered my name as being guilty. That whisper turned into a roar, and soon I was being interrogated, hounded. It got worse and worse. There was no evidence, no proof, but people wanted justice.

Soon, they questioned why I lived on my own, why I had moved there, and why I didn’t go to church. I told them that I would swear to the same God to whom they prayed that I did not harm that boy, that I didn’t know where he was. It never stopped, and I was forced to leave. I moved about fifteen miles away to a town called Seabeck. Luckily, no one had heard of the scandal in Holly, and I left it behind me.

My house in Seabeck was much bigger - - two stories - - but it was falling apart. I spent my spare time going to the hardware store and making repairs. I had been there for a month when Walter called me out of the blue. He must have looked up my phone number. He said he was sorry about what had happened and that he wanted to come visit.

The next weekend, I watched as he sat behind the steering wheel of his father’s green pickup truck and pulled into the driveway. We ate lunch, talked a little, but mostly avoided the subject of Holly. I told him about my house, and from then on he would drive down every day during the summer to help work on my house. Sometimes I’d wake up in the morning to him hammering away, or he’d show up with a truck full of materials. He never let me pay him back, and shrugged every time I thanked him. We became like brothers - - he even lived with me for a short period. I don’t know why he called that day in June, but I do know that we stayed friends for years and years.

Holly was scarred by what happened with Bobby and what happened to me. The community wanted to move on, and they did. They preferred to forget rather than ripping the scab off the wound. Healing is a long process, and sometimes the scars are made of lies. To this day, I do not know what became of Bobby Loomis. It disturbs me, but my conscience is clear. I sleep soundly every night.

Installment 5

Jake stepped out of the elevator onto the fourteenth floor. He stared down at the faded emerald green carpet before turning to his right. The hallway was deserted. All Jake could hear was the humming of the vent fan. He proceeded down the hallway, trying to focus on inhaling and exhaling. Jake looked at the doorways to his left. 1411 . . . 1409 . . . Jake turned and his finger hovered over the doorbell next to the door marked 1407. He lifted his hand and felt the grooves of the plaque that read “Glosham.” He clenched a fist and knocked three times.

The door opened, revealing a muscular man with thinning gray hair. “Can I help you?” he said, flashing a row of yellow teeth.

“Well, this is a bit odd, but I’m Jake - - Walter sent me to see you.”

“Walt? I thought he kicked the bucket. Don’t tell me I was misinformed . . .”

“No, you weren’t misinformed, but he gave me your name before he died . . . he said . . . well, I’m not really sure . . .” Jake was ready to turn around and leave.

“Come on in and maybe you can explain things.” Michael Glosham stepped back and gestured for Jake to enter.

As he stepped over the threshold, Jake’s feet tingled. He scanned the apartment, looking from the kitchenette, to the barely visible kitchen table, finally resting his eyes on the matching beige sofa and chair. Jake followed Michael into the room, and each of them took a seat at the table.

“So, why in the heck did Walt send you to me?” It was obvious that Michael was not one for dancing around a subject.

“He-” Jake paused. Walter had obviously chosen to trust Jake with his “confession,” no matter how indirectly he chose to present it. Would Walter want Jake to share the fact that he had a dark secret with Michael Glosham? Jake decided that if Walter had wanted Michael to know, he would have told him himself rather than trusting the secret with Jake.

“There was something about Walter’s past that he wanted to tell me, but he didn’t get a chance. He must have sent me to you because he thought you could help me figure it out . . .” Jake’s voice drifted off. “How did you know Walter?” Jake had been staring at the table, but looked up suddenly as the question burst out of him.

“I used to live in Holly,” Michael said slowly.

“Before you retired and moved here?” Jake was feeling impatient.

“No, no. This was many years ago. I lived in a house there by myself starting when I was 20. Walter was probably 15.” Michael smiled as he felt the warmth of the memories wash over him.

“When did you leave?”

“After a year or two, but Walter and I kept in touch for much longer. I never wanted to leave Holly, you know. The place was so enchanting. It was what I imagine being newlyweds is like. You wake up in the morning and fall in love all over again.” Michael sighed and stared at the wall behind Jake with a dazed look.

“So why did you leave?” Jake couldn’t help but ask this burning question.

“Ahhh, I see Walter didn’t share all the mysteries of Holly with you. Why don’t we get more comfortable before I begin?” Michael settled into the beige easy chair, while Jake sat across from him on the sofa. Michael’s wrinkles seemed to shrink back into his skin as he transformed from a man into a storyteller. He rubbed his hands together as if the energy would start a fire and fixed Jake with a piercing stare. The old man had a devilish look in his eye that seemed strangely familiar.

Installment 4

For weeks Jake refused to think about Walter. Though he owned Walter’s house, he refused to stay in it because it didn’t feel like his. Still, he went to the house every day and walked around each room, pushing thoughts of clues and confessions out of his mind.

Slowly, Walter crept back into Jake’s mind, and his daydreams sometimes turned to idle thoughts about finding Michael Glosham. One day while wandering Walter’s house, Jake noticed a battered address book wedged on the kitchen shelf between an almanac and the wall. He pulled it down, flipped to the g’s, and found the name that had become so familiar staring at him. Jake pulled a crumpled receipt out of his pocket and copied down the address: Waterford Retirement Home, 1765 Waterford Avenue North, Apartment 1407.

Jake had never actually been to a retirement home before. Nonetheless, his imagination had painted him an accurate picture of the setting. Inside it was climate controlled, making it seem more like a habitat than a home. The air was heavy, and Jake choked as he took his first breath. The furnishings were old-fashioned, but had been shined so much that they reflected the sunlight pouring through the wall of windows that reached up to the ceiling behind Jake. The view outside was distorted through the double-pane glass. People on the other side seemed to take on grotesque shapes. Residents strolled around, smiling blankly at the muted colors of the walls. Others chose to walk along the paths through the unnaturally green grass, which maintained its color through a weekly dose of chemicals.

Jake approached the desk of the main building, “Hi, I’m here to see Michael Glosham. Can you tell me where his apartment is?”

“Is he expecting you?” The woman at the desk looked up at him. Suddenly, Jake felt like an idiot. No, Michael Glosham was not expecting him. In fact, Michael Glosham didn’t know him, and he didn’t know Michael Glosham. He had been so caught up in the mini-mystery of the man that it had never occurred to him to even call.

“No, he’s not expecting me,” said Jake, prepared to have the woman ask him politely to leave and come back another time. He had just wasted an hour driving to the retirement home for nothing.

“Okay, I’ll call and see if he’s in his room. What’s your name?”

“It’s Jake. Uh, but tell him I am - - or was - - am a friend of Walter’s.” The woman at the desk called up to the room, repeating Jake’s name several times to the man on the other end. After about a minute, she hung up the phone.

“He was just resting in his room, so you can go up and see him. Take the elevators on your left up to the fourteenth floor. Make a right down the hallway, and he’s in 1407.”

“Thanks,” said Jake as he headed to his left. All of a sudden, his heart was pounding, and his palms were sweating. This isn’t a horror movie, he told himself, the elevator is not going to plummet down 14 stories, and there won’t be any ghosts or undead beings in the room. Michael Glosham is just a man. Stop thinking about conspiracy theories.

An elderly woman entered the elevator before him. She pushed the button for the fourth floor, then turned to Jake, “What floor?”

“Fourteenth.” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and inwardly slapped himself for being so melodramatic.

“Oh, the top floor,” she smiled as she pushed the button, “You know, that’s not really the fourteenth floor- - it’s the thirteenth. Some people go up there for a visit and never come back!” Jake looked at her suddenly, his eyes wide. He was ready to claw at the doors of the elevator and scream for someone to let him out. “Lighten up, my dear, I am just joking! Retirees are capable of humor, you know.” The elevator chimed and the woman stepped out onto the fourth floor. Jake rode the rest of the way alone, trying to compose himself.