Hidden Messages

I grasp the handle of the towering, solid wooden door and swing it open. I take a step through the threshold of the ancient building and allow the beast behind me to fall shut with a loud thud. The stale air inside is heavy, feeling like a weight has settled on my shoulders.

It’s silent inside, as one would expect. The only sounds that echo through the hallways is the soft rustling of pages in a book and the clacking of keyboards. I make my way through the aisles of the familiar surroundings and find the section I’m looking for.

My newest assignment requires research on the history of a local home that the city wants to tear down, and the local Historical Society refuses to allow it. My editor wants me to write a piece for the paper in favor of tearing the place down. I have no arguments. The place is rickety. Falling apart at the seams. It serves no purpose besides being an eye-sore in the middle of downtown. But I understand that it’s been here since the city was establish God-knows-how-long ago.

I began my search in the ancient library, a space that seems as old as the house itself, its walls lined with towering shelves of dusty books and crumbling parchment. The scent of aged paper and leather fills the air as I run my fingers over the spines, hoping to uncover something that will shed light on the house’s history.

Many of the titles are unassuming. Their leather-bound backs and stamped letters aren’t anything that I would normally reach for. But they’re old, so I pull them from the shelf and pile them in my arms.

At the end of the row, something different catches my eye. The fabric that embellishes the exterior is worn and fraying from the many hands it’s passed through over the years. I curiously slide it from its home on the wooden shelf, dust sticking to my fingers, giving them an unpleasant and sticky feel.

I open the cover to check the last time it had been check out. Hand-written inside the cover in black ink is the date: October 14, 1914. I can’t help but be amazed at the age of the decrepit thing and slide it on top of the stack in my arms.

I wander over to a lone seat at an empty table in the back of the library, setting the books down with a loud thump. My neighbor a few tables over looks at me, unamused and I mouth an apology before setting down into the uncomfortable wooden chair.

My head starts to swarm from the many hours of research, the words on the pages beginning to jumble together. I drop my pen to the paper and flex my fingers in an attempt to soothe the aching and cramping in my joints.

I stare at the book that caught my attention and flip it open. I thumb through the pages carefully, afraid to tear any of the already fragile pages, stopping when a dated, flattened piece of folded up paper falls from the book and into my lap.

I delicately take the paper in my hand and slowly unfold it. My heart begins to thump, thump, thump in my chest as I read the words that are written:

“My dearest Edward,

“I have much enjoyed the flowers you left me by the tree at our house. Papa thought my betrothed had left them for me and was happy that they were there. But I know they were from you. Henry would never have done something like that.

“Love, Betty”

I smile at the letter and search through the book for a reply or another letter, the drama and intrigue exciting me and distracting me from my work.

“Edward,

“The days drag on as I wait for the day you take me away. Papa hit Mama again and when I tried to stop him, he hit me too. I tried to tell Henry, and he only agreed with what Papa had done.

“I don’t know how much longer I can wait for you. Papa has already started planning the wedding for early spring.

“I don’t care about the money. I just want you to take me away. I’m only happy with you.

“Love, Betty”

I carefully replace the note back in it’s spot. Gripping my chest as the words cause a lump in my throat to grow.

“My loving Edward,

“Papa found the letters you wrote me. He beat me good last night and locked me in the barn. The names he called me hurt more than the physical pain. I wish you’d come for me sooner.

“Betty”

I swallow hard, attempting to drown the lump in my throat, anxious for the next note.

“I’m sorry, Edward,

“Papa told Henry and he’s angry. He gathered his friends and they plan to come after you. Run away Edward. Save yourself. Before they find you.

“I love you. Betty”

My breath hitches as I read the note, my eyes tracing each word with a mounting sense of dread.

‘They caught you and strung you up. A white woman and a black man—it was a dream we never could have had. I’m so sorry, Edward. I’ll see you soon.’”

I swipe at my cheek, startled to find it damp. My heart breaks in my chest and I thumb through the remaining pages searching desperately for another letter.

Nothing.

I clear my throat and check the time. With the library is closing soon, I shakily take my books to the counter. The older woman at the desk scans the books silently. When she lands on the book I’ve unknowingly left in the pile, she holds it up, a sad smile on her lips.

“The house they’re trying to tear down was hers, ya know?” She sets the book on the other side of the computer away from the others.

Her words stop me in my tracks and I think back to the letters. I sniff, attempting to the keep the tears at bay.

“Really?” I ask, taking the remaining books in my arms.

She nods, “it’s a shame, really.” She adds. “What happened to them.”

“It is.” I pause before stepping back from the wooden desk. “Have a good night.”

“You too, sir.”

©️T.L. Ryan 2024. All rights reserved.