Thursday, May 21, 2020
Thursday, November 15, 2018
"Finish the Bottle, Finish the Job," by Clara Morlock, '19
Your nose crinkles up as you feel your feet make an imprint in the tall wet grass. You look to the left, over at Thomas, and then up at the stars. “But we don’t know them,” you say, voice shaking.
“Stop worrying, Carrie. I promise it’ll be fun.”
The moon is waxing enough that you can see his entire face. Thomas looks into your eyes reassuringly. Why couldn’t you two just hang out at your house like your mom asked you to?
“This was our hangout spot last year before the seniors got caught and almost didn’t graduate. It wasn’t fun and games anymore after that. But no one’s around tonight. Everyone’s in Crossley.”
You sigh. You look down at your feet again and hear the squish of the mud between your toes. When you look up again, you make contact with a pair of eyes in the distance. The owl turns its head and hoots.
You continue to walk along the river, watching the gypsies come closer to view. One of the women humming a familiar tune, and one swaying her body back and forth. You have this feeling in your stomach, like something is off. The grey-haired lady opens the bottle that she was shaking, and puts her hand out with it. You reach for it slowly, regretting every inch of movement.
“Carrie, just do it!” Thomas whispers.
You take a sip. It’s not bad, you think. Just a little bitter. Thomas hands her 50 cents and takes the bottle.
The grass is moist from the rain earlier that day. You can feel the water seeping through your skirt, but not enough to have to get up. You look up at the stars, and watch them spin. It’s a weird feeling, you think. You look over at Thomas, who is intrigued by the stars as well. He rolls the empty bottle over to you.
“Carrie,” he says slowly, “I just...I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. Allllll of everything you do. You make me feel fun. I’m having fun!”
You smile. Instantly, you feel your stomach bubbling and your smile immediately turns into a blank stare. You look at Thomas again and this time he looks like he is swaying back and forth. It didn’t seem right. Is it just your eyes?
“God damnit,” he yells, voice echoing in the silence. “We have school tomorrow!”
He hiccups. You forget about the queasy feeling and begin to laugh. You shut your eyes as your laughters, combined, fills the campus, the dizziness making you lie down.
“Thomas! It’s our last day of summer! We gotta do something. Get up!”
You lift yourself up off the wet grass, almost making yourself falling back down. He does the same. He smiles at you and hiccups.
“I’m gunna join the rifling club this year. My dad said he’ll buy me a gun if I learn how to use one,” Thomas says. He is talking a little louder than necessary.
“My dad has one! He doesn’t let me touch it though,” you say. It wasn’t fair, you think. Thomas gets a gun and you aren’t even allowed to touch one. Suddenly, Thomas’ eyes light up as he arouses an idea.
“Carrie!! I know what we’re gunna do tonight. I can show you how to use a gun!”
You know where the gun is, but you have never actually seen it. The butterflies left your stomach, sometime after you finished the bottle. Thomas opens the front door to your house. He stumbles into the hallway as your dog comes bursting out, running between your legs to get some fresh air. Footsteps echo through the hallway.
“Carrie! I thought you were going to be home earlier! I’m about to put the kids to bed, come on up, honey,” Mom calls from the stairs.
“In a few minutes, Mom! I’m just grabbing a glass of water for Thomas.”
You tiptoe past the study where you see Dad writing something in a bound leather notebook. You decide to wait to say hello to him until after Thomas leaves. You take Thomas by the hand and walk him down the staircase to the basement. The floorboards creak as you leave muddy footprints on the wooden stairs. You reach over to flip on the light switch as Thomas grabs your hand.
“Leave it off. Your parents won’t be happy if we’re down here,” Thomas whispers in your ear. He hiccups.
He’s right. You feel the cold concrete walls, guiding you to the corner of the room.
“Here,” you say. “You take it. I don’t want to touch it.”
Thomas lifts off the dirty rag, uncovering the shotgun. He sticks it under his rain jacket, which crinkles loudly as he tries to zip it back up. He takes back your hand and you tiptoe upstairs to the main floor. You begin to open the front door.
“Bye, Mrs. Speer!” Thomas yells up the stairwell.
She peeks her head over the railing. A light smile on her face.
“Goodluck tomorrow, Thomas. Let us know how your classes go!”
She waves and turns around. Her nightgown flowing as she walks back up the stairs. You open the door for Thomas, and he tiptoes out behind you.
Thomas leads you behind a tree next to your house. You look around at the red and gold leaves shimmering in the moonlight. He unzips his jacket and pulls out the shotgun. You watch him pick up the gun by the trigger mechanism, and a shiver runs down your neck to the bottom of your spine, every vertebrae popping with goosebumps. He looks into your eyes which are bulging with fear. Did you need more alcohol?
“Calm down, kid. Now look around. Let me know as soon as you see a squirrel so I can show you how it’s done,” Thomas says. He looked calm, it was reassuring.
Your eyes begin to shrink down into their normal size. You look around. You see your father through the window, shuffling through the books on his bookshelf. Suddenly, a squirrel pops its head out from behind a tree branch and you grab the contraption from Thomas’ clammy hands, holding it close to you. Your dog begins to whimper.
“Hold it like this,” Thomas says, shifting the gun so that your finger rests on the cold metal piece. You point it towards the tree. Your goosebumps go away.
The night sky is serene. The owl stops singing. Your dog stops whimpering. Thomas hiccups. You begin to laugh again, thinking about his drunk hiccups. The motion pushes your index finger towards the trigger. You look up just as the glass window breaks and you hear your father in agony.
“Stop worrying, Carrie. I promise it’ll be fun.”
The moon is waxing enough that you can see his entire face. Thomas looks into your eyes reassuringly. Why couldn’t you two just hang out at your house like your mom asked you to?
“This was our hangout spot last year before the seniors got caught and almost didn’t graduate. It wasn’t fun and games anymore after that. But no one’s around tonight. Everyone’s in Crossley.”
You sigh. You look down at your feet again and hear the squish of the mud between your toes. When you look up again, you make contact with a pair of eyes in the distance. The owl turns its head and hoots.
*
You continue to walk along the river, watching the gypsies come closer to view. One of the women humming a familiar tune, and one swaying her body back and forth. You have this feeling in your stomach, like something is off. The grey-haired lady opens the bottle that she was shaking, and puts her hand out with it. You reach for it slowly, regretting every inch of movement.
“Carrie, just do it!” Thomas whispers.
You take a sip. It’s not bad, you think. Just a little bitter. Thomas hands her 50 cents and takes the bottle.
*
The grass is moist from the rain earlier that day. You can feel the water seeping through your skirt, but not enough to have to get up. You look up at the stars, and watch them spin. It’s a weird feeling, you think. You look over at Thomas, who is intrigued by the stars as well. He rolls the empty bottle over to you.
“Carrie,” he says slowly, “I just...I just want you to know how much I appreciate you. Allllll of everything you do. You make me feel fun. I’m having fun!”
You smile. Instantly, you feel your stomach bubbling and your smile immediately turns into a blank stare. You look at Thomas again and this time he looks like he is swaying back and forth. It didn’t seem right. Is it just your eyes?
“God damnit,” he yells, voice echoing in the silence. “We have school tomorrow!”
He hiccups. You forget about the queasy feeling and begin to laugh. You shut your eyes as your laughters, combined, fills the campus, the dizziness making you lie down.
“Thomas! It’s our last day of summer! We gotta do something. Get up!”
You lift yourself up off the wet grass, almost making yourself falling back down. He does the same. He smiles at you and hiccups.
“I’m gunna join the rifling club this year. My dad said he’ll buy me a gun if I learn how to use one,” Thomas says. He is talking a little louder than necessary.
“My dad has one! He doesn’t let me touch it though,” you say. It wasn’t fair, you think. Thomas gets a gun and you aren’t even allowed to touch one. Suddenly, Thomas’ eyes light up as he arouses an idea.
“Carrie!! I know what we’re gunna do tonight. I can show you how to use a gun!”
*
You know where the gun is, but you have never actually seen it. The butterflies left your stomach, sometime after you finished the bottle. Thomas opens the front door to your house. He stumbles into the hallway as your dog comes bursting out, running between your legs to get some fresh air. Footsteps echo through the hallway.
“Carrie! I thought you were going to be home earlier! I’m about to put the kids to bed, come on up, honey,” Mom calls from the stairs.
“In a few minutes, Mom! I’m just grabbing a glass of water for Thomas.”
You tiptoe past the study where you see Dad writing something in a bound leather notebook. You decide to wait to say hello to him until after Thomas leaves. You take Thomas by the hand and walk him down the staircase to the basement. The floorboards creak as you leave muddy footprints on the wooden stairs. You reach over to flip on the light switch as Thomas grabs your hand.
“Leave it off. Your parents won’t be happy if we’re down here,” Thomas whispers in your ear. He hiccups.
He’s right. You feel the cold concrete walls, guiding you to the corner of the room.
“Here,” you say. “You take it. I don’t want to touch it.”
Thomas lifts off the dirty rag, uncovering the shotgun. He sticks it under his rain jacket, which crinkles loudly as he tries to zip it back up. He takes back your hand and you tiptoe upstairs to the main floor. You begin to open the front door.
“Bye, Mrs. Speer!” Thomas yells up the stairwell.
She peeks her head over the railing. A light smile on her face.
“Goodluck tomorrow, Thomas. Let us know how your classes go!”
She waves and turns around. Her nightgown flowing as she walks back up the stairs. You open the door for Thomas, and he tiptoes out behind you.
*
Thomas leads you behind a tree next to your house. You look around at the red and gold leaves shimmering in the moonlight. He unzips his jacket and pulls out the shotgun. You watch him pick up the gun by the trigger mechanism, and a shiver runs down your neck to the bottom of your spine, every vertebrae popping with goosebumps. He looks into your eyes which are bulging with fear. Did you need more alcohol?
“Calm down, kid. Now look around. Let me know as soon as you see a squirrel so I can show you how it’s done,” Thomas says. He looked calm, it was reassuring.
Your eyes begin to shrink down into their normal size. You look around. You see your father through the window, shuffling through the books on his bookshelf. Suddenly, a squirrel pops its head out from behind a tree branch and you grab the contraption from Thomas’ clammy hands, holding it close to you. Your dog begins to whimper.
“Hold it like this,” Thomas says, shifting the gun so that your finger rests on the cold metal piece. You point it towards the tree. Your goosebumps go away.
The night sky is serene. The owl stops singing. Your dog stops whimpering. Thomas hiccups. You begin to laugh again, thinking about his drunk hiccups. The motion pushes your index finger towards the trigger. You look up just as the glass window breaks and you hear your father in agony.
"Grampy Isn’t Off His Meds," by Lydia Obi ,'19
I
14th September 1934
You see your mother put the shotgun in your father’s trunk. The moon sunk low in the sky; casting shadows against her pale face through the window. She turns around and hands a man in rugged overalls five dollars. Next to him was a woman with a dark blue shawl over her head. She had become a prominent figure in the Elder household recently, but all you know is her name: Holly Speer. The man’s calloused hands take the money and shove it in his pockets. He nods his head to both women, does a 180, and you watch as his lanky figure walks out the door into the starless sky. Your mother shuts the trunk and turns to Holly Speer, “It’s done.”
What are they talking -- creek! -- your foot lands on a piece of loose wooden board and calls the attention of your mother and her guest. You dash out of the garage before either of them notice you have been spying. When you get to your room you press your back against the now closed door; wheezing through each breath. You sit on the foot of your bed staring at the shelves adorning the wall across you. You think: What did they do with father’s Remington?
II
6th September 2008
Thump!
I am awakened by the jolt of the car. My eyes flutter open and I sit up straight to rub the sleep out of my eyes. My grandpa is in mid-conversation with my mum.
“I remember when it was just us boys. ‘MOUNT HERMON SCHOOL’ was a household name!” My mum giggled. The sun was a bright orange, beaming down on the car. I could feel the intense heat through the windows.
“Grampy, it’s still a great high school. I’m so excited to carry on the family legacy of NMHers… and the likes.” I glance toward his pouty face. He scoffs. It was clear he was not happy with the social reforms Mount Hermon had taken way back then. “Hey, Grandpa, tell me more about, uh, what’s his name? Eli? Elliott-?”
“Speer.” Grandpa sat up. There was a glisten in his cataract covered eyes. He looks at my mum and back at me; like a 5-year-old who knows he shouldn't do what he’s about to.
I furrow my brows. “Grandpa?” He broke into a smile.
“We’re at the scene of the crime.” I cock my head to the side. I watch, with a raised eyebrow, as his shaky hands reach into his sweater and brought out a faded yellow envelope. “Listen to me son, your mind is young and fresh. In this envelope lies something like a testimony. I told you about the murder, didn’t I? Well, this leads us to the killer, but it’s only half of the reveal. You need to find the clue. Okay?” I slowly nod but had no idea if this was real or my grandpa was off his meds again. His eyes look up dreamily, “I’ll never forget finding this piece of paper jammed between the closet and wall in my room: 311. Third floor of Crossley. I couldn’t finish my Senior year the same. I had to find the clue; the gun. For some reason, I couldn’t. It bothered me that I couldn’t. But you my boy! You have a great chance!”
I blink. “Um, it’s been what, 60 years Grandpa? Of course, I don’t.” I saw his face falter. Long gone was the sparkle that seems to give him purpose. I felt guilty, “B-but, of course, I’ll… try. For you. I’ll let you know what I find, okay?”
He smiles. His cataracts glistening once more. I adjust in my seat, and just in time to see a white signpost with ‘NORTHFIELD MOUNT HERMON SCHOOL’ printed in black.
~~~
My new roommate, Tyrone, and I sit on the very first benches up in the 9th graders’ section of the chapel. Nicole Hager, the dean of students, welcomes everyone into the new school year. She set some expectations for the year: academic integrity, no drugs, blah, blah, blah. Tyrone nudges my knee and makes a joke about how now he would have to smuggle crack through his crack like in prison movies. It isn't funny, but I laugh anyway. I crouch to the side wall to stifle my laughter. In the process, my knee bumps the paneling. Pop! The worn oak wooden panels bust slightly open. Damn, NMH, budget cuts much? I glance inside the pitch black crevice. Cobwebs. Intricate patterns of cobwebs. Ew. They’re all over some rusty shotgun.
Wait, what?
“Wait, what?”
“What?” Tyrone looks at me with an eyebrow raised.
“Uh…” I look back down the little dark crack. “Uh, nothing.”
I use my knee to hit the panel back in place and look straight ahead. In my peripheral, I see Tyrone lean forward as if to catch a glimpse of what was making me act weird. After a moment of eyeballing me, he sighs and shrugs his shoulders.
That wasn’t a gun. A shotgun? No, of course not. I comb my hand through my hair. I stare straight ahead at Nicole. Her mouth was moving and her hands were talking, but I hear nothing. At once, the chapel was thundering, the sound of clapping hands echo off the walls and draws me back to reality. I sink into the bench. If that’s not a clue, I don’t know what is.
III
13th September 1934
You’re washing the dishes beside your mum who’s sweeping the floor. At 9 pm you hear a soft knock on the kitchen back door. What an ungodly hour to be in someone's house. “I’ll get it, Mother.”
“No! No, honey. Don’t worry about it.” Your mother frantically heads to the door. She opens it slightly and lowers her voice to a bare whisper. She uses her body to block who she is talking to. What is she doing? Who is that? You try to sneak a peek but all you see is a dark blue shawl.
“Mother?” She turns her head to you.
“Continue cleaning the dishes. This business does not concern you.”
Business? What on earth? Nonetheless, you turn back to the task at hand. You work deliberately slow and quiet as you strain to hear a bit of the conversation going on: back… garage open… trunk… leave keys… Remington… tomorrow night… paid… expert… revenge.
They have no meaning to you, but you recognize that the “Remington” is the shotgun many families on campus have; including your father. But what in the world does that have to do with anything? Is she selling the gun? Is that the “business”?
Your mother begins to back up and shut the door, “Oh, Holly!” Your brain remembers that name. She encompasses the hands of Holly into her own, “I pray you find what you desire.” Holly… Holly? You inhale sharply. Holly! Holly… Speer.
Your mum shuts the door and you continue with your duty like you weren’t eavesdropping. It’s quiet for a while until you hear your mother whisper: “Lord forgive my trespasses. I know good things are in store.” You stop in your movement. Trespasses? You glance back at your mother.
She is idly sweeping the floor.
IV
7th September 2008
6:00 AM
*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*
I roll onto my side and swat my hand aimlessly at the alarm clock. Thud! I knock it down but it was still blaring. *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* I groan; my eyelids were heavy and not ready to face the day. Then the image of the paneling in the chapel flashes through my mind. There are questions that require answers. I force myself off the bed. I look to my left and see the lumpy figure of Tyrone still in bed facing the wall.
At first, I convince myself if I deny it long enough it’ll become untrue. Alas, the beautiful brain that got me into NMH cannot be fooled. I decide to go to the chapel at 6 am. I was going to wear sporty clothes so no one would suspect me. This time I was gonna purposely open the panel. I was gonna find the clue. I pick up a paper clip, grab some gloves and head out the door.
6:24 AM
I go around the backside of the chapel. I bring out the paper clip and unravel it. I crouch low and stick the straight pointy end right into the key lock. I jiggle it a bit and eventually heard the satisfying click sound. I creep in and the foreboding hollowness of the chapel greets me. There is such a different vibe than when it is full and the varying tones of students’ voices float around the room.
I tiptoe up the spiral staircase in the back to avoid the creaking sounds that come with the aged wooden steps. Once on top of the landing, I check my surroundings. The coast was clear. I continue to walk to the front of the seats and stop when I reach the balcony. I go to the side which I sat on yesterday, and back to the same set of panellings. I squat near the wall and tentatively run my fingertips across the panels. Gosh, Henry, what are you doing? I put my right hand in a fist and started knocking on each panel until one eventually popped open. I take a deep breath and remove the panel very carefully. Staring right back at me, covered in cobwebs and extremely rusty, was a brown shotgun. Oh shit, this isn’t “nothing.” I put my gloves on and unwedged the gun from it’s rested position. A piece of paper fell out. I open it and read: a lie. It was a perfect plan. Kill two birds with one stone with inside help. To protect my mum, I hid the gun in the chapel. On the top row where no one ever sits. Hopefully, no one finds it. I’ll take this secret to my grave. Only you know.
Tommy
What secret? I inspect the piece of weaponry in front of me. I dust off the surface and peer for any signs of ownership. Right along the bare barrel was a name engraved. I drew a sharp breath. What? I squint closer. Thomas Elder.
V
9th September 1934
You’re walking down the stairs to get breakfast. You stop in your tracks when you hear the muffled voices of your parents.
“The only way Elliott Speer will stop being a problem is if we get rid of him. Darling, everyone knows you deserved that spot. He stole that from you. Is he even loyal to Holly? There are rumors of his affair with Miss Dill. You could finally expose him”
“Come on, sweetheart. What are we gonna do? Kill him? There’s no way. We’re trapped. I’ll just wait till he's tired.”
“Yes but Holly offered - “
“Enough! Bring me my eggs. No more chatter about this. It may be the Lord’s doing, I don’t know. But the school year is starting soon. There’s nothing we can do.”
Your mother’s face is stoic. She had a look that said otherwise.
This was usually the conversation in the house ever since Elliott Speer was appointed headmaster of Mount Hermon. He was radical, which most people disagreed with. Your parents fail to see that the world is changing and it’s becoming progressive. Mr. Speer? Scandalous? You ignore the thought. Your mother knows how to blow things out of proportion. However, if that was the case, if there’s anyone that should shoot him, it should be his wife.
VI
8th September 2008
I sit cross-legged on my bed reading the note I found with the gun. I hold it next to the note from the envelope Grandpa gave me; connecting the dots. I read the letter in its entirety and I’m speechless. Wouldn’t grampy love to know this.
VII
27th October 1934
You sit on your new desk and wander through the past events. Your father, the dean for years before you were even born, was leaving the school. Your mother looking around shamefully, guiltily. You spot Holly Speer lurking in the shadows. What you now realize was also shame. You could continue the school year as a boarder in Crossley. But you would have the burden of being the murderer’s son… which you now realize is true. But it was a different parent. A different culprit. You bring out your diary and get your ink pen.
29th Sept. 1934
Dear Diary,
I know who did it. All the secret “business” meetings and suspicious behaviour from Mother led me to solve the crime. It was no coincidence that after the mysterious dark blue shawled woman, who I confirmed to be Holly Speer, came into our house, her husband, Elliott Speer, was shot dead. This was planned. Unfortunately, it was planned with Mother. They hired a hitman to do the job; that’s who she paid five dollars to. Mother just wanted more for father, for us. Holly wanted revenge; tired of being the second option. I guess the affair Mother was talking about was not a rumor. It was a perfect plan. Kill two birds with one stone with inside help. To protect my mum, I hid the gun in the chapel. On the top row where no one ever sits. Hopefully, no one finds it. I’ll take this secret to my grave. Only you know.
Tommy
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
"The Past and Present," by Riley Humphrey, '19
Sept. 18, 2018, Northfield, Mass.
You open the case file; it’s heavy in your hands. The manila folder is full of maps, photos, and black ink on typed reports. You take a deep breath: a whiff of old paper reaches your nose. The pages have already begun to decay with age. As you flip through the thin pages, you finally find the one you've been searching for. You pull it out and rest it on the table, closing the file. You know that this case will not be easy, but that doesn’t matter. You set the folder on the silver metal table. You take a closer look at the paper. The police testimony from the preliminary hearing. You read as the story unravels in your mind.
Sept. 18, 1935, Northfield, Mass.
Speer looked out the window and locked eyes with Grace Elder, still holding the shotgun. His face contorted with confusion and pain, then understanding as he stumbled away from the window.
Her legs finally broke free and she ran back behind the house, the cool September wind hitting her hot face. She clambered into Mr. Elder’s Buick Tour-Passenger Country Club Coupé and turned the key. The enormous two-seater chugged into action. She threw the car into first, and the tires squealed as she slammed her foot to the floor. Her arms were shaking. She drove and drove into the night until the car was surrounded by the darkness, and she was alone.
The plan now was to get rid of the murder weapon. Would a high-school junior even know where or how to get rid of a murder weapon? Then; an idea formed for Thomas. He needed a place nobody would look. And even if they did, they would never be able to find the gun. The next morning Thomas woke before dawn. The air was frigid, and the sky still had the tint of night. He took the gun which was hidden under his parent's bed and put it over his shoulder. Nobody would look twice. He was on the riflery team after all. The dew on the grass soaked his feet as Thomas quickly walked to what was only a few yards away from where it had all taken place. He approached the grassy knoll behind Ford Cottage. The mound had been overrun with tall grass and small shrubs. Two barn-wood doors were sunk into the side of the hollow hill, providing access to the recesses beneath. He slammed the butt of the gun on the lock holding the wooden doors shut. A clink of the lock and a rattle of the chain was the only noise that morning, all else was dead quiet. He heaved the wooden door open and threw the gun in, watching it fade away into the darkness. He hoped then that it would stay there forever. He closed the door, put the lock back and walked away as casual as can be.
You reopen the manila folder and examine a map. It's the map of the NMH campus. You scour the map. Where would the gun be? You read report after report of over 50 years of police logs. You pour over every word, every place that was checked and rechecked over the many years. You think all the places you would hide a gun have been checked. Everywhere had been checked, yet you know where the gun is. You had known all this time, it shouldn't have been right. You didn't want it to be right.
After finishing his years at NMH, Thomas had tried put the murder behind him. His dad, having had lost his mind to the perpetual allegations, and the looks, died shortly after the murder. He led his life as well as he could. He never told another soul about what his parents, or what he had done during those frightful days. Then after years of thinking, after his mom had gone as well, he had come to a final decision. He had to do it. Like his mom had told him, he knew that he needed to tell someone the truth, who desperately needed it. He wrote a letter, addressed to the eldest son of Eliott Speer with directions for it to be delivered on the day of his death.
You walk along the back road of campus. The closer you get to the house where Speer was shot the more real it feels. You see the back of the house, but you do not walk any farther. You stop in your tracks. You open your coat and take out a piece of paper. You unfold it gently, you read the handwritten letter given to you by your father.
To whom it may concern:
I, Thomas Elder Jr, hereby confess to the coverup of the murder of Eliott Speer. I did not commit this heinous crime nor did my father. This crime was one of hate and love. My mother in an attempt to give my father and my family a better life committed the murder in cold blood. As as for the weapon, that might be lost to time - I hid the shotgun in the…
You stop reading. You bat away a tear forming on the edge of your right eye. You fold the letter back up with care and place it back in your jacket pocket. You turn left and look at the barn-wood doors to the water hill. You take out your lockpicks and make quick work of the lock. With a - click - the lock springs open. You pull the lock off, and one at a time, open the now flimsy wooden doors. You look into the blackness of the water beneath. You pull off your coat and rest in on the grassy knoll. You dive. The freezing water engulfs you as you swim deeper and deeper. The silence is eerie. Soon you feel the bottom of mud and silt. You begin to search the bottom. You can't see your hand in front of your eyes. Your heartbeat pounds in your ear as you start to hiccup for air. You frantically sweep your hands through the mud searching. Right as you can't hold your breath any longer you hand hits something metal, you grab it and for that second everything stops - it’s the barrel of the gun.
You open the case file; it’s heavy in your hands. The manila folder is full of maps, photos, and black ink on typed reports. You take a deep breath: a whiff of old paper reaches your nose. The pages have already begun to decay with age. As you flip through the thin pages, you finally find the one you've been searching for. You pull it out and rest it on the table, closing the file. You know that this case will not be easy, but that doesn’t matter. You set the folder on the silver metal table. You take a closer look at the paper. The police testimony from the preliminary hearing. You read as the story unravels in your mind.
*
Sept. 18, 1935, Northfield, Mass.
Speer looked out the window and locked eyes with Grace Elder, still holding the shotgun. His face contorted with confusion and pain, then understanding as he stumbled away from the window.
Her legs finally broke free and she ran back behind the house, the cool September wind hitting her hot face. She clambered into Mr. Elder’s Buick Tour-Passenger Country Club Coupé and turned the key. The enormous two-seater chugged into action. She threw the car into first, and the tires squealed as she slammed her foot to the floor. Her arms were shaking. She drove and drove into the night until the car was surrounded by the darkness, and she was alone.
*
Sept. 20, 2018, Northfield, Mass.
You image what must have been said. What a mother capable of murder would tell her son… could tell her son, about such a deed. An impossible situation for all, you observe. You contemplate the feeling, the emotion, the pain that must have transpired in that very conversation. You think of what Mrs. Elder could have said:
“I'm so sorry that you got involved with this, but we are here in this position no matter.” - “I don't know how you must feel right now, and I can't stop you from using what I have told you as you please. I just wanted you, out of everybody in the world, to know the truth.”
Thomas’ eyes began to water as he swatted away his tears,
“Thank you for telling me, Mom. I would never turn you in. I just need some time to think.” He sat in his room, thinking long and hard of what could have happened. - What could have gone so wrong that the Elder family were stuck in such a state of disarray?
You could only imagine the reasons:
“I have not enjoyed it here for some time, and the way that Speer is treating you. We have to move. We can't stay here anymore: not like this.”
“Listen, Grace,” Mr. Elder said, “We can’t move without a letter of recommendation from Speer. Nobody would hire me without it. I think we are stuck here for good.”
You feel as though the case is coming together in your mind, and the pieces are falling into place. You sit back in the cheap wooden chair, the chipped pine creaks with your weight. The light flickers above your head as you think about motive. The archives room of the NMH library feels like it hadn't been changed since the murder. You believe you know what happened all those years ago. Mr. Elder is smart enough to know if he killed Speer he would already be in jail. It was someone else. Someone else in the family who had a stake in all this. You are finally unraveling the mystery that has been left unsolved all these years. The only question on your mind is - Where is the gun?
You image what must have been said. What a mother capable of murder would tell her son… could tell her son, about such a deed. An impossible situation for all, you observe. You contemplate the feeling, the emotion, the pain that must have transpired in that very conversation. You think of what Mrs. Elder could have said:
*
Sept. 20, 1935, Northfield, Mass “I'm so sorry that you got involved with this, but we are here in this position no matter.” - “I don't know how you must feel right now, and I can't stop you from using what I have told you as you please. I just wanted you, out of everybody in the world, to know the truth.”
Thomas’ eyes began to water as he swatted away his tears,
“Thank you for telling me, Mom. I would never turn you in. I just need some time to think.” He sat in his room, thinking long and hard of what could have happened. - What could have gone so wrong that the Elder family were stuck in such a state of disarray?
You could only imagine the reasons:
“I have not enjoyed it here for some time, and the way that Speer is treating you. We have to move. We can't stay here anymore: not like this.”
“Listen, Grace,” Mr. Elder said, “We can’t move without a letter of recommendation from Speer. Nobody would hire me without it. I think we are stuck here for good.”
*
Sept. 25, 2018, Northfield, Mass. - The ArchivesYou feel as though the case is coming together in your mind, and the pieces are falling into place. You sit back in the cheap wooden chair, the chipped pine creaks with your weight. The light flickers above your head as you think about motive. The archives room of the NMH library feels like it hadn't been changed since the murder. You believe you know what happened all those years ago. Mr. Elder is smart enough to know if he killed Speer he would already be in jail. It was someone else. Someone else in the family who had a stake in all this. You are finally unraveling the mystery that has been left unsolved all these years. The only question on your mind is - Where is the gun?
*
Sept. 25, 1935, Northfield, Mass.The plan now was to get rid of the murder weapon. Would a high-school junior even know where or how to get rid of a murder weapon? Then; an idea formed for Thomas. He needed a place nobody would look. And even if they did, they would never be able to find the gun. The next morning Thomas woke before dawn. The air was frigid, and the sky still had the tint of night. He took the gun which was hidden under his parent's bed and put it over his shoulder. Nobody would look twice. He was on the riflery team after all. The dew on the grass soaked his feet as Thomas quickly walked to what was only a few yards away from where it had all taken place. He approached the grassy knoll behind Ford Cottage. The mound had been overrun with tall grass and small shrubs. Two barn-wood doors were sunk into the side of the hollow hill, providing access to the recesses beneath. He slammed the butt of the gun on the lock holding the wooden doors shut. A clink of the lock and a rattle of the chain was the only noise that morning, all else was dead quiet. He heaved the wooden door open and threw the gun in, watching it fade away into the darkness. He hoped then that it would stay there forever. He closed the door, put the lock back and walked away as casual as can be.
*
Sept. 26, 2018, Northfield, Mass.You reopen the manila folder and examine a map. It's the map of the NMH campus. You scour the map. Where would the gun be? You read report after report of over 50 years of police logs. You pour over every word, every place that was checked and rechecked over the many years. You think all the places you would hide a gun have been checked. Everywhere had been checked, yet you know where the gun is. You had known all this time, it shouldn't have been right. You didn't want it to be right.
*
Jun. 10, 1992, Northampton, Mass.After finishing his years at NMH, Thomas had tried put the murder behind him. His dad, having had lost his mind to the perpetual allegations, and the looks, died shortly after the murder. He led his life as well as he could. He never told another soul about what his parents, or what he had done during those frightful days. Then after years of thinking, after his mom had gone as well, he had come to a final decision. He had to do it. Like his mom had told him, he knew that he needed to tell someone the truth, who desperately needed it. He wrote a letter, addressed to the eldest son of Eliott Speer with directions for it to be delivered on the day of his death.
*
Sept. 26, 2018, Northfield, Mass.You walk along the back road of campus. The closer you get to the house where Speer was shot the more real it feels. You see the back of the house, but you do not walk any farther. You stop in your tracks. You open your coat and take out a piece of paper. You unfold it gently, you read the handwritten letter given to you by your father.
To whom it may concern:
I, Thomas Elder Jr, hereby confess to the coverup of the murder of Eliott Speer. I did not commit this heinous crime nor did my father. This crime was one of hate and love. My mother in an attempt to give my father and my family a better life committed the murder in cold blood. As as for the weapon, that might be lost to time - I hid the shotgun in the…
You stop reading. You bat away a tear forming on the edge of your right eye. You fold the letter back up with care and place it back in your jacket pocket. You turn left and look at the barn-wood doors to the water hill. You take out your lockpicks and make quick work of the lock. With a - click - the lock springs open. You pull the lock off, and one at a time, open the now flimsy wooden doors. You look into the blackness of the water beneath. You pull off your coat and rest in on the grassy knoll. You dive. The freezing water engulfs you as you swim deeper and deeper. The silence is eerie. Soon you feel the bottom of mud and silt. You begin to search the bottom. You can't see your hand in front of your eyes. Your heartbeat pounds in your ear as you start to hiccup for air. You frantically sweep your hands through the mud searching. Right as you can't hold your breath any longer you hand hits something metal, you grab it and for that second everything stops - it’s the barrel of the gun.
"The Murder of the Century," by Devon Haigler, '19
SEPTEMBER 14, 1935
As I walked through the dimly-lit narrow corridor of my house, I began to approach my desk; however, I thought I saw a shadow and decided to approach the window. The ear-shattering thud slammed my eardrums before I even realized the glass shards ridiculed across my body. The pain that pursued was almost instantaneous, and my vision became blurry. As I reached for my chest all I could feel was a warm oozing puddle filling up next to me. Shock began to kick in and I tried to croak for help but all I could manage to say was, “God please save me.”
I felt my vocal cords spasm and grasp for my final breaths as I pleaded for help. Finally, the agonizing pain fleed my body and I slumped over on the hard glass ridden floor.
Before I enter the pearly gates of heaven, I have to recall on the days after my brutal murder. The days ahead were some of the worst that Mount Hermon had ever witnessed. The first day of school the students were turned into grunts, and for eight long hours, they began the taxing task of searching every crease and crevice on campus for the murder weapon. I knew exactly where it was, but clearly, I could not tell anyone. Anyway, from what I remember that day it was absolutely beautiful, the sun gleamed down upon the ounce peaceful Mount Hermon campus and the ever so slight breeze brought the crisp scent of pine trees and dandelions soaring through the air. The grass shimmered green from a nice soaking of the water that it had just been fed, and yet in all this beauty, the murderer and the weapon were both still on my beloved campus.
SEPTEMBER 6, 1935
I am on borrowed time now as judgement day approaches, but to understand the full story of my demise, I have to take you back to where it all began; with Thomas Elder and his son Thomas Elder Jr.
These past few days have been extremely stressful for Elder Jr. and me. He has begun to act out and I have had to begin to discipline him quite severely. Last night I caught him sneaking back into the house at one in the morning. When he snuck through the back door, I sensed something off about him. Upon further inspection, I could smell the pungent odor that he gave off.
I screamed: “How dare you walk into this Christian household drunk! What do you have to say for yourself?”
Thomas stumbled across the room tripping over his own feet. He managed to mumble, “What difference does it make anyway, it’s not like I even care about religion, I just do it to shut you up?”
I stared him down him with pure fire raging in my eyeballs, I slowly took out my belt and said to him, “How dare you say such a thing you little bastard.”
I proceed to whip my belt across his face with all the might in my body. A thunderous crack echoed across every wall in the house and immediately a flood of tears came rushing down Thomas’s face. He screamed out in agonizing pain and said, “God, why are you such a dick.”
This did not phase me in the slightest as the only thought that clouded my mind was what had strayed my boy away from the good Lord. Before he stormed out of the room like a raging bull I asked him, “Elder in god's name tell me what has caused you to lose faith.” He replied in a sharp painful sob, “Mr. Speer never attends prayer meetings so I realised that it cannot be that important.”
As Elder Jr. stormed off to his room I noticed how much damage I truly inflicted upon him. The right side of his face had become extremely swollen and a black bulge the size of my fist was sagging right above his eye. I do feel sorry that I caused him so much pain, but I could not let him disrespect his religion and this family in such a way.
SEPTEMBER 7, 1935
Thomas has been quite distant from me this past morning, usually he says good morning and joins the family for a delicious breakfast; however, today he said nothing and walked straight out the door. I suspect he did not want to show his mother his horrid face. It is even worse than it did last night. The entire right side of his face was covered in a enormous cloud of black, and a vivid oozing line was present from the strike spot. Despite this, on his way out the doo,r I noticed that he dropped a small rectangular envelope with a mailing address to Colorado. This is very peculiar and I have a gut wrenching feeling that something bad is going to happen, but I may be overreacting. I need to apologize to Thomas Jr. and give him some space to cool down from last night.
SEPTEMBER 12, 1935
Thankfully things have finally calmed back down. Thomas has begun acting normal around the family again and we have both apologized for what happened a few nights ago. I am so proud of Thomas, what a fine young man he turned out to be. We have been preparing for the start of school only a few days away now. Thomas seems to be excited about it, but something about his tone seems slightly off. The way he answers my questions seems slightly bland and monotone as if he wants me to leave him alone. I don't sense this when he talks to his mother; he speaks happily and jubilantly whenever she asks him something. I’m just overthinking, I need to calm down and relax. I only have two more days to enjoy myself before I have to start the daunting task of attending to business for Mount Hermon.
SEPTEMBER 14, 1935
The last day before school is always my favorite, the Mount Hermon Campus is lively and peaceful at the same time. The beautiful red, blue, and yellow flowers are blossoming around campus and the fresh air from Connecticut River ravages the entire campus. It was as if you were in a little bubble where you were untouchable from society. However, I was distracted from the sheer beauty of my campus when Thomas asked me to go back to the house to retrieve his bag that he had forgotten earlier that day. Taking into consideration how harsh I was on him I obliged and walked back on the freshly trimmed grass straight back to the house. I walked straight through the brown mahogany door and down the hall to his room on the right. Upon walking in Isaw his old brown beaten up bag right where he said it would be, but in the corner of the roo,m I saw a long rectangular box with a Colorado shipping address on it. I decided not to open it as I was in a rush, and jogged back to Culter Science Center where Thomas was waiting. We had a quick conversation where I brought up the box I had seen in his room. He instantly got very hostile and said that I should mind my own business.
Right after dinner that night I decided that I should go and talk to Thomas Jr. to see how he was feeling for the big day tomorrow. I also wanted to give him another sincere apology as his bruised face would be grounds for a lot of drama tomorrow. Upon entering his room I noticed that Thomas was sitting on his bed, but the box that had been in the corner of the room earlier had been moved. Thomas Jr. said, “Dad I want you to know that I love you very much and I am sorry for what happened.”
I replied, “No son you have nothing to be sorry about, I understand that you are young and a teenager and sometimes you slip up; but we all do and I owe you an apology.”
With thin tears streaming down his face Thomas Jr. said, “Dad I hope you know that what I said that night is not how I truly feel. I do believe in God, but I just felt that since Mr. Speer is the headmaster and he does not attend, that we should not have to go all the time either.”
I responded, “I understand where you are coming from, but Elliot is not the best headmaster and does not run the school in the way that it should be. If I was to be headmaster we would have dramatic changes, and would bring the school back to its original days.
With a brief pause and face of deep thought, Thomas Jr. responded, “You are right, dad. Mr. Speer is a bad influence on the school and you would be a much better headmaster.”
With a smirk on my face, I chuckled, “Haha maybe you're right but that will never happen in my dreams. Anyways, I love you son and try to get a good night sleep for tomorrow.”
As I walked out of the room Thomas Jr. said, “Don’t be so sceptical of yourself dad, i’m sure it will happen before you realise.”
Later that night before I was about to go bed but I decided to sit down in my favorite worn down leather recliner. While sitting there I thought back to everything that had transpired in the last few days. A horrifying realization dawned upon me and I instantly shot out of my recliner and sprinted to Thomas Jr. room. I nearly flung the door of its hinges when I entered his room. I had hoped that I would be wrong, but Thomas was gone. In that instant everything hit my like a brick. After beating Thomas Jr. that night, he devised up a plan to purchase a gun and kill me with it. He found a dealer out in Colorado and that's what the envelope was for. He sent the money to them, and then kept the gun in the large box while deciding to keep the shipping label from Colorado on it. Then after what we talked about in his room, he came to a realisation that he could never kill his own father. Instead, he would sneak out just before everyone on campus were about to go to bed and kill Elliot spear and allow me to take the next spot as Headmaster.
I hopped on the Lord's name that I was wrong so I sat in his room room with the eerie starlight sky shining threw his window. Within ten minutes I heard the first thump as he scaled back into his room. Right as he climbed threw the window the double barrel shotgun slid around his shoulder. We both locked eyes and stared at one another knowing that what had just happened would have to be taken to the grave by the both of us.
SEPTEMBER 16, 1935
Judgement day is finally here so this will be my last thoughts to you before I move on to a better place. I wish my family the best as I miss them so dearly. I have come to terms with what happened that night, and hold no grudge toward Mr. Thomas Elder. As for Elder Jr., one day the truth will come out and i’ll be waiting.
As I walked through the dimly-lit narrow corridor of my house, I began to approach my desk; however, I thought I saw a shadow and decided to approach the window. The ear-shattering thud slammed my eardrums before I even realized the glass shards ridiculed across my body. The pain that pursued was almost instantaneous, and my vision became blurry. As I reached for my chest all I could feel was a warm oozing puddle filling up next to me. Shock began to kick in and I tried to croak for help but all I could manage to say was, “God please save me.”
I felt my vocal cords spasm and grasp for my final breaths as I pleaded for help. Finally, the agonizing pain fleed my body and I slumped over on the hard glass ridden floor.
*
SEPTEMBER 15, 1935Before I enter the pearly gates of heaven, I have to recall on the days after my brutal murder. The days ahead were some of the worst that Mount Hermon had ever witnessed. The first day of school the students were turned into grunts, and for eight long hours, they began the taxing task of searching every crease and crevice on campus for the murder weapon. I knew exactly where it was, but clearly, I could not tell anyone. Anyway, from what I remember that day it was absolutely beautiful, the sun gleamed down upon the ounce peaceful Mount Hermon campus and the ever so slight breeze brought the crisp scent of pine trees and dandelions soaring through the air. The grass shimmered green from a nice soaking of the water that it had just been fed, and yet in all this beauty, the murderer and the weapon were both still on my beloved campus.
*
SEPTEMBER 6, 1935
I am on borrowed time now as judgement day approaches, but to understand the full story of my demise, I have to take you back to where it all began; with Thomas Elder and his son Thomas Elder Jr.
These past few days have been extremely stressful for Elder Jr. and me. He has begun to act out and I have had to begin to discipline him quite severely. Last night I caught him sneaking back into the house at one in the morning. When he snuck through the back door, I sensed something off about him. Upon further inspection, I could smell the pungent odor that he gave off.
I screamed: “How dare you walk into this Christian household drunk! What do you have to say for yourself?”
Thomas stumbled across the room tripping over his own feet. He managed to mumble, “What difference does it make anyway, it’s not like I even care about religion, I just do it to shut you up?”
I stared him down him with pure fire raging in my eyeballs, I slowly took out my belt and said to him, “How dare you say such a thing you little bastard.”
I proceed to whip my belt across his face with all the might in my body. A thunderous crack echoed across every wall in the house and immediately a flood of tears came rushing down Thomas’s face. He screamed out in agonizing pain and said, “God, why are you such a dick.”
This did not phase me in the slightest as the only thought that clouded my mind was what had strayed my boy away from the good Lord. Before he stormed out of the room like a raging bull I asked him, “Elder in god's name tell me what has caused you to lose faith.” He replied in a sharp painful sob, “Mr. Speer never attends prayer meetings so I realised that it cannot be that important.”
As Elder Jr. stormed off to his room I noticed how much damage I truly inflicted upon him. The right side of his face had become extremely swollen and a black bulge the size of my fist was sagging right above his eye. I do feel sorry that I caused him so much pain, but I could not let him disrespect his religion and this family in such a way.
*
SEPTEMBER 7, 1935
Thomas has been quite distant from me this past morning, usually he says good morning and joins the family for a delicious breakfast; however, today he said nothing and walked straight out the door. I suspect he did not want to show his mother his horrid face. It is even worse than it did last night. The entire right side of his face was covered in a enormous cloud of black, and a vivid oozing line was present from the strike spot. Despite this, on his way out the doo,r I noticed that he dropped a small rectangular envelope with a mailing address to Colorado. This is very peculiar and I have a gut wrenching feeling that something bad is going to happen, but I may be overreacting. I need to apologize to Thomas Jr. and give him some space to cool down from last night.
*
SEPTEMBER 12, 1935
Thankfully things have finally calmed back down. Thomas has begun acting normal around the family again and we have both apologized for what happened a few nights ago. I am so proud of Thomas, what a fine young man he turned out to be. We have been preparing for the start of school only a few days away now. Thomas seems to be excited about it, but something about his tone seems slightly off. The way he answers my questions seems slightly bland and monotone as if he wants me to leave him alone. I don't sense this when he talks to his mother; he speaks happily and jubilantly whenever she asks him something. I’m just overthinking, I need to calm down and relax. I only have two more days to enjoy myself before I have to start the daunting task of attending to business for Mount Hermon.
*
SEPTEMBER 14, 1935
The last day before school is always my favorite, the Mount Hermon Campus is lively and peaceful at the same time. The beautiful red, blue, and yellow flowers are blossoming around campus and the fresh air from Connecticut River ravages the entire campus. It was as if you were in a little bubble where you were untouchable from society. However, I was distracted from the sheer beauty of my campus when Thomas asked me to go back to the house to retrieve his bag that he had forgotten earlier that day. Taking into consideration how harsh I was on him I obliged and walked back on the freshly trimmed grass straight back to the house. I walked straight through the brown mahogany door and down the hall to his room on the right. Upon walking in Isaw his old brown beaten up bag right where he said it would be, but in the corner of the roo,m I saw a long rectangular box with a Colorado shipping address on it. I decided not to open it as I was in a rush, and jogged back to Culter Science Center where Thomas was waiting. We had a quick conversation where I brought up the box I had seen in his room. He instantly got very hostile and said that I should mind my own business.
Right after dinner that night I decided that I should go and talk to Thomas Jr. to see how he was feeling for the big day tomorrow. I also wanted to give him another sincere apology as his bruised face would be grounds for a lot of drama tomorrow. Upon entering his room I noticed that Thomas was sitting on his bed, but the box that had been in the corner of the room earlier had been moved. Thomas Jr. said, “Dad I want you to know that I love you very much and I am sorry for what happened.”
I replied, “No son you have nothing to be sorry about, I understand that you are young and a teenager and sometimes you slip up; but we all do and I owe you an apology.”
With thin tears streaming down his face Thomas Jr. said, “Dad I hope you know that what I said that night is not how I truly feel. I do believe in God, but I just felt that since Mr. Speer is the headmaster and he does not attend, that we should not have to go all the time either.”
I responded, “I understand where you are coming from, but Elliot is not the best headmaster and does not run the school in the way that it should be. If I was to be headmaster we would have dramatic changes, and would bring the school back to its original days.
With a brief pause and face of deep thought, Thomas Jr. responded, “You are right, dad. Mr. Speer is a bad influence on the school and you would be a much better headmaster.”
With a smirk on my face, I chuckled, “Haha maybe you're right but that will never happen in my dreams. Anyways, I love you son and try to get a good night sleep for tomorrow.”
As I walked out of the room Thomas Jr. said, “Don’t be so sceptical of yourself dad, i’m sure it will happen before you realise.”
Later that night before I was about to go bed but I decided to sit down in my favorite worn down leather recliner. While sitting there I thought back to everything that had transpired in the last few days. A horrifying realization dawned upon me and I instantly shot out of my recliner and sprinted to Thomas Jr. room. I nearly flung the door of its hinges when I entered his room. I had hoped that I would be wrong, but Thomas was gone. In that instant everything hit my like a brick. After beating Thomas Jr. that night, he devised up a plan to purchase a gun and kill me with it. He found a dealer out in Colorado and that's what the envelope was for. He sent the money to them, and then kept the gun in the large box while deciding to keep the shipping label from Colorado on it. Then after what we talked about in his room, he came to a realisation that he could never kill his own father. Instead, he would sneak out just before everyone on campus were about to go to bed and kill Elliot spear and allow me to take the next spot as Headmaster.
I hopped on the Lord's name that I was wrong so I sat in his room room with the eerie starlight sky shining threw his window. Within ten minutes I heard the first thump as he scaled back into his room. Right as he climbed threw the window the double barrel shotgun slid around his shoulder. We both locked eyes and stared at one another knowing that what had just happened would have to be taken to the grave by the both of us.
*
SEPTEMBER 16, 1935
Judgement day is finally here so this will be my last thoughts to you before I move on to a better place. I wish my family the best as I miss them so dearly. I have come to terms with what happened that night, and hold no grudge toward Mr. Thomas Elder. As for Elder Jr., one day the truth will come out and i’ll be waiting.
"The Golden Knob," by Allie Landino, '19
Jenna Michaels feels like she has been working for hours that she wonders what time it is. She checks the clock on the opposite side of the mailroom, and it reads 9:55 pm. Well, she has been here for almost four hours and didn’t even realize. Assorting mail and putting packages in boxes to be shipped out to her fellow NMH students can be quiet tedious and strenuous. At times she finds it hard to focus for hours on end while all her friends are out having fun.
She finds herself as the only one left in the mailroom and the winter darkness begins to set in, leaving the buildings as the only source of light for her reference. Luckily she is been in a heated room with music playing from her phone to keep her company because these lonely nights of work job during the weekends has really become eery for me from time to time.
She begins to clean up and put away the extra tape, scissors, paper and boxes that had been scattered throughout the room from the day. Jenna then realizes she didn’t put away the paper cutter that needs to go back on the shelf above a bunch of boxes and packages waiting to find their rightful owners. She grabs her winter coat, keycard, and phone before gaining her balance as she stands on her tiptoes to shove away the paper cutter. It is a little far from her reach which causes her to wobble and try to use the large tower of cardboard cubes as leverage. She thinks she’s got it in the bag, before she accidentally slips and taking down the dozens of boxes with her. The sound of objects slamming, clinking, and colliding inside the boxes makes her heart skip a beat thinking of the reaction her boss will have if he sees so much damage done.
She gathers herself and begins to quickly stack up the boxes filled with belongings as if nothing happened. Before she puts the last box on top of the tower, she peaks behind the stack. A strip of old birchwood attached to the wall catches her eye in the hidden darkness. She tries her best to slide the tower over slowly without it accidentally tumbling down again so she can get a better view of whatever the boxes were hiding.
Once the boxes clear out of view, she notices that it’s a drawer. A drawer built into the wall that has a corroded brass knob to function as the handle. She also notices that a small, cursive ‘1933’ is carved under the knob. She can see her curiosity staring back at her in the reflection of the knob. She gets down on her knees and gets her face closer to the old, birch square inserted into the wall. It can not be more than two feet in length and one foot tall. Has anyone ever seen this before or was it just her? She lifts her hand and brushes her fingers along the numbers with curiosity. It is so smoothly carved, she thinks, yet the rest of the wood was contradictingly rougher with age. She still continues to run her fingers over the rest of the rectangular surface and jolts back when her finger was pricked with a dangling piece of wood. She looks down at the puncture wound, picks out the splinter carefully, and sees the hole fill with maroon colored blood. She wipes it off on her jacket and focuses her attention back on the wall.
She was sitting back on her knees, examining the undiscovered drawer in the wall carefully. This is so strange, she thinks. What if there’s mail from 1933 in there? What if it hasn’t been opened in years? The questions formed in her brain almost functioning as proof as to why she should open it. She knows it isn’t practical, but her mind is convincing her to lift her hand and pull on the golden knob. She struggles. She tries to pull on the knob once- it doesn’t move. She tries again but only a little harder- doesn’t budge. Is it locked somehow? She uses both of her hands this time and pulls as hard as she can. Suddenly she launches backwards, the drawer flies behind her, and dozens of papers float down to the ground above her.
Shit. Not only did I just break into a hidden drawer, but I made a complete mess in doing so. If my boss realizes he’s going to kill me.
She sits up from her supine condition on the floor, and sighs. She looks around at the papers surrounding her and wonders how he is ever going to clean this up in time. Once she recenters her focus, she notices something: these papers are old. Every paper has brown smudges, ripped edges, and were all inked in cursive. She picks up all the papers and grabs the empty drawer from across the room. She sits in her chair at the front desk and places it all on the surface. The drawer is to her right, and the knob is facing the room behind her.
There are letters, maps, pictures… all dated from the 1930s. The first paper on the stack is a map -- a map of the campus. There is no Hayden hall or Wallace or Upper and Lower mods. It shows what everything looked like 70+ years ago. There is a red X outside of the head of school’s house, and another one in the middle of the woods behind that house.
She shrugs it off then flips to the next paper. It is small and golden with age. It is a letter inked in navy blue.
Dear Thomas,
You should have never seen what you did three days ago. I am surprised that you threatened to tell my wife of such nonsense. It’s false! She is my partner in work and that is all. Don’t be fooled by the talk of the town, for the is much behind it that is unknown to you.
It is unsigned. Who is Thomas and what did he see that he shouldn’t have? She shrugs it off again and flips to the next page. The room is completely dark now, except the one overhead light glowing above her to light up her area of occupation.
Another small letter. This time it is written in pencil. The lead is grained and opaque from age.
Dear Thomas,
I hope to see you at bible study this week. We are in need of your participation and interest to be a part of this community. There may be future consequences if you decide to continue to willingly exclude yourself from our traditional practices.
Speer
Future consequences? She makes the connection that this seems to be a box full of old mail for Thomas. She sifts through a couple more pages and finds a small box. It is a dark wooden box smooth to the touch. She admires the beautifully engraved T.E. on the top of it. The way the T curls at the tips and connects to the E is obviously professionally made. She lifts the delicate, bronze lever that connects the lid to the bottom, and opens it gently. The stench of decaying wood soars to her nose, like it hasn’t been opened in decades. She notices a golden ring lying in the bottom of the box. A wedding band? She picks it up and sees a small ES engraved in the inside of the ring. There is also a date: 1927. She guesses it’s the year this person got married. But why hide it in this box?
She discovers there is an engraved saying in the bottom of the box. Her eyebrows furrow to try to read the small cursive correctly.
“I don’t deserve this. I am sorry. I will always love you.”
Things are starting to come together. A man named Speer did something awful enough that he didn’t feel worthy enough of his wife and had to give her his wedding ring. A man named Thomas had a conflict with this man because he never went to bible study.
T.E…… The abbreviations seem to be so familiar. Wasn’t Thomas something she learned in her history class recently? She pauses. It all hits her at once. Thomas Elder and Elliot Speer were the staff of her NMH school long ago.
Thomas had incentive over Elliot because he saw something he shouldn’t have… Did Thomas want something and Elliot wasn’t willing to give it to keep his mouth shut? Maybe that is why Elliot was killed…
She needs to tell someone. Just as she is about to turn around to leave, she catches a dark silhouette standing behind her in the golden knob. Her heart immediately drops into her stomach. She can’t move. She doesn’t know what to do. She blinks a few times to make sure it’s all just a dream. The man is still behind her. Maybe if she doesn’t move he will go away. He is probably not real. Her doubts are broken by the sound of his breath hovering behind you. Her hands and knees start to shake with terror.
The last thing she hears is the deep voice say, “You should have never opened that.”
She finds herself as the only one left in the mailroom and the winter darkness begins to set in, leaving the buildings as the only source of light for her reference. Luckily she is been in a heated room with music playing from her phone to keep her company because these lonely nights of work job during the weekends has really become eery for me from time to time.
She begins to clean up and put away the extra tape, scissors, paper and boxes that had been scattered throughout the room from the day. Jenna then realizes she didn’t put away the paper cutter that needs to go back on the shelf above a bunch of boxes and packages waiting to find their rightful owners. She grabs her winter coat, keycard, and phone before gaining her balance as she stands on her tiptoes to shove away the paper cutter. It is a little far from her reach which causes her to wobble and try to use the large tower of cardboard cubes as leverage. She thinks she’s got it in the bag, before she accidentally slips and taking down the dozens of boxes with her. The sound of objects slamming, clinking, and colliding inside the boxes makes her heart skip a beat thinking of the reaction her boss will have if he sees so much damage done.
She gathers herself and begins to quickly stack up the boxes filled with belongings as if nothing happened. Before she puts the last box on top of the tower, she peaks behind the stack. A strip of old birchwood attached to the wall catches her eye in the hidden darkness. She tries her best to slide the tower over slowly without it accidentally tumbling down again so she can get a better view of whatever the boxes were hiding.
Once the boxes clear out of view, she notices that it’s a drawer. A drawer built into the wall that has a corroded brass knob to function as the handle. She also notices that a small, cursive ‘1933’ is carved under the knob. She can see her curiosity staring back at her in the reflection of the knob. She gets down on her knees and gets her face closer to the old, birch square inserted into the wall. It can not be more than two feet in length and one foot tall. Has anyone ever seen this before or was it just her? She lifts her hand and brushes her fingers along the numbers with curiosity. It is so smoothly carved, she thinks, yet the rest of the wood was contradictingly rougher with age. She still continues to run her fingers over the rest of the rectangular surface and jolts back when her finger was pricked with a dangling piece of wood. She looks down at the puncture wound, picks out the splinter carefully, and sees the hole fill with maroon colored blood. She wipes it off on her jacket and focuses her attention back on the wall.
She was sitting back on her knees, examining the undiscovered drawer in the wall carefully. This is so strange, she thinks. What if there’s mail from 1933 in there? What if it hasn’t been opened in years? The questions formed in her brain almost functioning as proof as to why she should open it. She knows it isn’t practical, but her mind is convincing her to lift her hand and pull on the golden knob. She struggles. She tries to pull on the knob once- it doesn’t move. She tries again but only a little harder- doesn’t budge. Is it locked somehow? She uses both of her hands this time and pulls as hard as she can. Suddenly she launches backwards, the drawer flies behind her, and dozens of papers float down to the ground above her.
Shit. Not only did I just break into a hidden drawer, but I made a complete mess in doing so. If my boss realizes he’s going to kill me.
She sits up from her supine condition on the floor, and sighs. She looks around at the papers surrounding her and wonders how he is ever going to clean this up in time. Once she recenters her focus, she notices something: these papers are old. Every paper has brown smudges, ripped edges, and were all inked in cursive. She picks up all the papers and grabs the empty drawer from across the room. She sits in her chair at the front desk and places it all on the surface. The drawer is to her right, and the knob is facing the room behind her.
There are letters, maps, pictures… all dated from the 1930s. The first paper on the stack is a map -- a map of the campus. There is no Hayden hall or Wallace or Upper and Lower mods. It shows what everything looked like 70+ years ago. There is a red X outside of the head of school’s house, and another one in the middle of the woods behind that house.
She shrugs it off then flips to the next paper. It is small and golden with age. It is a letter inked in navy blue.
Dear Thomas,
You should have never seen what you did three days ago. I am surprised that you threatened to tell my wife of such nonsense. It’s false! She is my partner in work and that is all. Don’t be fooled by the talk of the town, for the is much behind it that is unknown to you.
It is unsigned. Who is Thomas and what did he see that he shouldn’t have? She shrugs it off again and flips to the next page. The room is completely dark now, except the one overhead light glowing above her to light up her area of occupation.
Another small letter. This time it is written in pencil. The lead is grained and opaque from age.
Dear Thomas,
I hope to see you at bible study this week. We are in need of your participation and interest to be a part of this community. There may be future consequences if you decide to continue to willingly exclude yourself from our traditional practices.
Speer
Future consequences? She makes the connection that this seems to be a box full of old mail for Thomas. She sifts through a couple more pages and finds a small box. It is a dark wooden box smooth to the touch. She admires the beautifully engraved T.E. on the top of it. The way the T curls at the tips and connects to the E is obviously professionally made. She lifts the delicate, bronze lever that connects the lid to the bottom, and opens it gently. The stench of decaying wood soars to her nose, like it hasn’t been opened in decades. She notices a golden ring lying in the bottom of the box. A wedding band? She picks it up and sees a small ES engraved in the inside of the ring. There is also a date: 1927. She guesses it’s the year this person got married. But why hide it in this box?
She discovers there is an engraved saying in the bottom of the box. Her eyebrows furrow to try to read the small cursive correctly.
“I don’t deserve this. I am sorry. I will always love you.”
Things are starting to come together. A man named Speer did something awful enough that he didn’t feel worthy enough of his wife and had to give her his wedding ring. A man named Thomas had a conflict with this man because he never went to bible study.
T.E…… The abbreviations seem to be so familiar. Wasn’t Thomas something she learned in her history class recently? She pauses. It all hits her at once. Thomas Elder and Elliot Speer were the staff of her NMH school long ago.
Thomas had incentive over Elliot because he saw something he shouldn’t have… Did Thomas want something and Elliot wasn’t willing to give it to keep his mouth shut? Maybe that is why Elliot was killed…
She needs to tell someone. Just as she is about to turn around to leave, she catches a dark silhouette standing behind her in the golden knob. Her heart immediately drops into her stomach. She can’t move. She doesn’t know what to do. She blinks a few times to make sure it’s all just a dream. The man is still behind her. Maybe if she doesn’t move he will go away. He is probably not real. Her doubts are broken by the sound of his breath hovering behind you. Her hands and knees start to shake with terror.
The last thing she hears is the deep voice say, “You should have never opened that.”
"The Stars Will Always Align," by Alanna Duprez, '19
September 14th, 1935
You knew he would do it, but you didn't think he would do it. There you are, laying in your bed, pitch black, your eyes fixed open. You haven’t blinked once since he came in the room. Shotgun in your shaking hands as you hold it tightly across your chest trying to sleep. You can feel yourself starting to sweat, your hands becoming clammy. With every second that goes by, you know more people are finding out.
You father had just barged into your room, tossed it onto your bed and said, "Keep this until I say so."
You don’t know why he wants to keep it. Why is he putting you through all of this? The phone rings all over the house. People already know. They know it was him. It was you. It was both of you, together. What are you going to do? Your fingers burn. You can't seem to release your grip on the gun. You know tomorrow will be the hardest day of your life. You force your eyes shut. The first day of school…after this? Your brain goes on a roller coaster of twists and turns, imagining the days to come.
You need to learn how to act innocent, indifferent. You plan your reaction for when the schools starts buzzing about the tragic news.
“What?? Oh no! How could that happen? ”
Not genuine enough. You are holding the shotgun that has done such a ghastly thing. You try to justify it, but can’t. He was the most important person on campus. How could you have let this happen? Not even let it happen but caused it to happen. You think about your actions. Moving the chapel clock back, making sure the gun was loaded for him, changing the RL meeting time exactly to when he would do it. All little steps towards this horrible act.
The phone rings the rest of the night. Your father doesn't answer, he knows why they’re calling. You start to hear scurrying, this was the thing about living on campus, you heard everything; every cry, every scream, every rumor. You knew what people were going to say about you and your father, that you were murderers. You ruminate on that thought. You did everything perfectly, no fingerprints, nothing. Nothing would lead to you. You hear the pacing of your father's footsteps behind the loud ringing of the house phone. Everyone outside the thin walls of your old creaky Mount Hermon house is looking for a killer, the killer you are under the same roof as. You can't sleep. You helped him, you were a part of this. He is your father, how would you have said no?
September 15th, 1935
It’s morning now. You have not moved one inch since you grabbed a hold of that gun. The warmth of the fall sun hits your face as the sun shines through your window. The birds are chirping as normal, as though nothing has happened the night before, and your mother calls you for breakfast. Your father has not come in again about the gun. You don’t know what to do with it. You think of the place where you hide all your alcohol from your father, underneath the floorboard. Mount Hermon houses are old so all you had to do was find a panel long enough to fit the shotgun in. You place the shotgun into the floorboard and drop the panel back into place. You breathe deeply into your stomach and out through your nose to keep calm and try to slow down your heart rate. You put on black trousers, a maroon polo shirt and grab your keys. Heading out the back door you pass your father's office which you notice he is not in, which is unusual.
As you’re walking to your first class slowly yet stiff with anxiety, you hear gasps and screams coming from your left. You snap your head that way and see all of your classmates lined up on the grass outside of Crossley. Acting as oblivious as you can, you walk over. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You look around, familiar faces and some unfamiliar, this is the first time you all are together as a class. Things spread fast here at Mount Hermon. The first big gossip: The Headmaster had been shot, no one knows where the weapon is, and no one knows who killed him, expect you. You know both of those things. You see three specific looks, the blankly can’t process what has happened look, the confused look, and the scared shitless look-those were mostly the new kids. Jim walks out of the center doors of Crossley with a wide, forced, and uncomfortable smile stretched along his face.
“Welcome to Mount Hermon School!” said Jim.
Jim is the Crossley dorm head, he always tried to make everything lighthearted. This calms you down until he announces that you were going to be split into groups to search for this gun. Your heart drops, but you quickly try to reassure yourself that they would never check your house. They would check the obvious places.
You are placed in the group searching shadow lake. You weren’t expecting that, maybe they're not only searching in obvious places. You have a gut-wrenching feeling in your stomach the whole day. Thinking of where the other groups were placed concerns you. What if they did search your house? You couldn't let your mind wander like this again; it’s a dangerous cycle. You knew your father was selfish. He didn't care for you; if he did he would have thought about how this would ruin your life. He didn't think about that; he never did. It was just you, figuring out Mount Hermon on your own. You’ve been looking for hours, the whole day of classes had been occupied by this. You look in the lake, in the woods, around the lake, in the canoes, everywhere.
It’s dark now and you’re exhausted from all the useless searching for a gun you know the location of. The constant stress that they might check your house is hanging over your head. You need to hid the gun before it is traced back to you or your father. He can’t just throw the murder weapon over to you and say “take it”, and expect to get away with what he has done. If he’s not going to be smart about this you will be. You need to get back to your house. You just wanted to make your father happy. He said this would make him happy. After years of moving from post to post and barely ever spending two years in one school, you thought Mount Hermon would be that place for you. He always found a reason to leave, a reason to be unhappy in a place that seemed perfect for you. He might have already ruined this for himself but you won’t let him ruin it for you. Once again he has put his needs in front of your own and you need to fix it. He could just run away like he always does. You are staying here, this is your school, and no one is ever going to find out what happened.
You think about places to hide the gun. You need to dispose of it in a way where no one could ever piece it back together and put the blame on you. You’re still at shadow lake, you further drained your brain with all the thoughts of your father. All you want to do is go back and check if the gun has remained under your floorboards. Jim is standing right there, so you can’t leave. It would look suspicious. You take a deep sigh, slip your hands into your pockets and drop your head back. The stars are dazzling brighter than usual tonight. You feel relieved looking at the stars; you were always fascinated by them. At Mount Hermon, they are always so beautiful. You squint and try to find the north star. You have an urge see them more up close. You feel the keys in your pocket scratch you a little. An idea jumps into your head.
You watched Jim intently waiting until he was looking in the other direction. He turns around to talk to another student and you sprint back to your house. You slam open the front door, ran into your room, and carefully lift the floorboard panel up. There it is, in the same place you left it. You drop your shoulders, unclench your jaw, and take a quick exhale. You run to your closet, find your biggest duffle bag and drop the gun into it. You sling it around your shoulder and run towards the house where it all happened: Ford Cottage.
There it is, Ford Cottage. You keep running. Your mind runs through every detail of what your about to do. You stop abruptly, look up and see it, the observatory. This is the perfect place. No one ever goes here. You would know because your freshman year you tried to start a stargazing club but no one joined. Who would look for a shotgun in an old shed full of telescopes that barely work? No one. Half the school didn’t even know there was an observatory. You get the keys out of your pocket, and frantically try everyone in the door. One finally turns in the keyhole. You open the door slowly, it smells musty and humid. The door probably hadn’t been open since the last time you were there. You shut the door and lock it. This is is going to take a few hours. You set down the shotgun gently and take out the oldest most unuseful telescope from the back of the room. You wipe the spider webs off the tripod of the telescope and start to measure. You see that the barrel of the gun would be a perfect replacement for the optical tube, along with the trigger making a perfect finderscope. You sit on the floor and carefully take the shotgun apart piece by piece and reconstruct them onto to tripod of the telescope. No one will ever look at the old, unuseful ‘telescope’.
You do an immaculate job and place the reconstructed telescope at the back where you found it. You feel relieved and satisfied with the idea that no one will ever be able to trace it back to you. You walk back to your house and still wonder where your father has been the whole day, but you don’t really care. You just went through all of that to cover up his muddy tracks. You open the front door, walk down the hallway to your room and open the door. Your father is sitting upright on your bed and says,
“Give me the gun... Where is it, Thomas?”
You don't know this yet but your father will get away with murder and never go to jail. You will spend your whole life fighting the demons of being the murders helper, as the murder keeps moving from place to place.
You knew he would do it, but you didn't think he would do it. There you are, laying in your bed, pitch black, your eyes fixed open. You haven’t blinked once since he came in the room. Shotgun in your shaking hands as you hold it tightly across your chest trying to sleep. You can feel yourself starting to sweat, your hands becoming clammy. With every second that goes by, you know more people are finding out.
You father had just barged into your room, tossed it onto your bed and said, "Keep this until I say so."
You don’t know why he wants to keep it. Why is he putting you through all of this? The phone rings all over the house. People already know. They know it was him. It was you. It was both of you, together. What are you going to do? Your fingers burn. You can't seem to release your grip on the gun. You know tomorrow will be the hardest day of your life. You force your eyes shut. The first day of school…after this? Your brain goes on a roller coaster of twists and turns, imagining the days to come.
You need to learn how to act innocent, indifferent. You plan your reaction for when the schools starts buzzing about the tragic news.
“What?? Oh no! How could that happen? ”
Not genuine enough. You are holding the shotgun that has done such a ghastly thing. You try to justify it, but can’t. He was the most important person on campus. How could you have let this happen? Not even let it happen but caused it to happen. You think about your actions. Moving the chapel clock back, making sure the gun was loaded for him, changing the RL meeting time exactly to when he would do it. All little steps towards this horrible act.
The phone rings the rest of the night. Your father doesn't answer, he knows why they’re calling. You start to hear scurrying, this was the thing about living on campus, you heard everything; every cry, every scream, every rumor. You knew what people were going to say about you and your father, that you were murderers. You ruminate on that thought. You did everything perfectly, no fingerprints, nothing. Nothing would lead to you. You hear the pacing of your father's footsteps behind the loud ringing of the house phone. Everyone outside the thin walls of your old creaky Mount Hermon house is looking for a killer, the killer you are under the same roof as. You can't sleep. You helped him, you were a part of this. He is your father, how would you have said no?
*
September 15th, 1935
It’s morning now. You have not moved one inch since you grabbed a hold of that gun. The warmth of the fall sun hits your face as the sun shines through your window. The birds are chirping as normal, as though nothing has happened the night before, and your mother calls you for breakfast. Your father has not come in again about the gun. You don’t know what to do with it. You think of the place where you hide all your alcohol from your father, underneath the floorboard. Mount Hermon houses are old so all you had to do was find a panel long enough to fit the shotgun in. You place the shotgun into the floorboard and drop the panel back into place. You breathe deeply into your stomach and out through your nose to keep calm and try to slow down your heart rate. You put on black trousers, a maroon polo shirt and grab your keys. Heading out the back door you pass your father's office which you notice he is not in, which is unusual.
As you’re walking to your first class slowly yet stiff with anxiety, you hear gasps and screams coming from your left. You snap your head that way and see all of your classmates lined up on the grass outside of Crossley. Acting as oblivious as you can, you walk over. Your heart is beating out of your chest. You look around, familiar faces and some unfamiliar, this is the first time you all are together as a class. Things spread fast here at Mount Hermon. The first big gossip: The Headmaster had been shot, no one knows where the weapon is, and no one knows who killed him, expect you. You know both of those things. You see three specific looks, the blankly can’t process what has happened look, the confused look, and the scared shitless look-those were mostly the new kids. Jim walks out of the center doors of Crossley with a wide, forced, and uncomfortable smile stretched along his face.
“Welcome to Mount Hermon School!” said Jim.
Jim is the Crossley dorm head, he always tried to make everything lighthearted. This calms you down until he announces that you were going to be split into groups to search for this gun. Your heart drops, but you quickly try to reassure yourself that they would never check your house. They would check the obvious places.
You are placed in the group searching shadow lake. You weren’t expecting that, maybe they're not only searching in obvious places. You have a gut-wrenching feeling in your stomach the whole day. Thinking of where the other groups were placed concerns you. What if they did search your house? You couldn't let your mind wander like this again; it’s a dangerous cycle. You knew your father was selfish. He didn't care for you; if he did he would have thought about how this would ruin your life. He didn't think about that; he never did. It was just you, figuring out Mount Hermon on your own. You’ve been looking for hours, the whole day of classes had been occupied by this. You look in the lake, in the woods, around the lake, in the canoes, everywhere.
It’s dark now and you’re exhausted from all the useless searching for a gun you know the location of. The constant stress that they might check your house is hanging over your head. You need to hid the gun before it is traced back to you or your father. He can’t just throw the murder weapon over to you and say “take it”, and expect to get away with what he has done. If he’s not going to be smart about this you will be. You need to get back to your house. You just wanted to make your father happy. He said this would make him happy. After years of moving from post to post and barely ever spending two years in one school, you thought Mount Hermon would be that place for you. He always found a reason to leave, a reason to be unhappy in a place that seemed perfect for you. He might have already ruined this for himself but you won’t let him ruin it for you. Once again he has put his needs in front of your own and you need to fix it. He could just run away like he always does. You are staying here, this is your school, and no one is ever going to find out what happened.
You think about places to hide the gun. You need to dispose of it in a way where no one could ever piece it back together and put the blame on you. You’re still at shadow lake, you further drained your brain with all the thoughts of your father. All you want to do is go back and check if the gun has remained under your floorboards. Jim is standing right there, so you can’t leave. It would look suspicious. You take a deep sigh, slip your hands into your pockets and drop your head back. The stars are dazzling brighter than usual tonight. You feel relieved looking at the stars; you were always fascinated by them. At Mount Hermon, they are always so beautiful. You squint and try to find the north star. You have an urge see them more up close. You feel the keys in your pocket scratch you a little. An idea jumps into your head.
You watched Jim intently waiting until he was looking in the other direction. He turns around to talk to another student and you sprint back to your house. You slam open the front door, ran into your room, and carefully lift the floorboard panel up. There it is, in the same place you left it. You drop your shoulders, unclench your jaw, and take a quick exhale. You run to your closet, find your biggest duffle bag and drop the gun into it. You sling it around your shoulder and run towards the house where it all happened: Ford Cottage.
There it is, Ford Cottage. You keep running. Your mind runs through every detail of what your about to do. You stop abruptly, look up and see it, the observatory. This is the perfect place. No one ever goes here. You would know because your freshman year you tried to start a stargazing club but no one joined. Who would look for a shotgun in an old shed full of telescopes that barely work? No one. Half the school didn’t even know there was an observatory. You get the keys out of your pocket, and frantically try everyone in the door. One finally turns in the keyhole. You open the door slowly, it smells musty and humid. The door probably hadn’t been open since the last time you were there. You shut the door and lock it. This is is going to take a few hours. You set down the shotgun gently and take out the oldest most unuseful telescope from the back of the room. You wipe the spider webs off the tripod of the telescope and start to measure. You see that the barrel of the gun would be a perfect replacement for the optical tube, along with the trigger making a perfect finderscope. You sit on the floor and carefully take the shotgun apart piece by piece and reconstruct them onto to tripod of the telescope. No one will ever look at the old, unuseful ‘telescope’.
You do an immaculate job and place the reconstructed telescope at the back where you found it. You feel relieved and satisfied with the idea that no one will ever be able to trace it back to you. You walk back to your house and still wonder where your father has been the whole day, but you don’t really care. You just went through all of that to cover up his muddy tracks. You open the front door, walk down the hallway to your room and open the door. Your father is sitting upright on your bed and says,
“Give me the gun... Where is it, Thomas?”
You don't know this yet but your father will get away with murder and never go to jail. You will spend your whole life fighting the demons of being the murders helper, as the murder keeps moving from place to place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)