THE LETTER

By Gail Fulkerson

No one was supposed to know how the credenza was broken. No one knew the circumstances surrounding the accident, and no one ever will. The event was buried deep in the psyches of those who witnessed it unfold. No amount of cajoling could loosen those memories.

It was innocent until it wasn’t. More than one soul caught in the web of deceit wanted desperately to escape, but to no avail. Once caught up, there was no way out but death, and for many, its finality was heartbreaking; they endured so they wouldn’t die.

Some hung on for decades, finally giving up in their 70s or 80s. They fell asleep and never woke up. Their souls were finally liberated from the burden of carrying the secret that plagued their every waking moment. 

But the secret did not die with them. It lingered in the air of the old house, woven into the credenza's wood grain. Every so often, a curious grandchild or an unsuspecting visitor would pause before it, sensing something unresolved—a chill, a whisper, a presence just beyond comprehension. The truth remained, waiting for someone brave enough to unearth it and finally give voice to the silent confession so many had taken to their graves.

The late-afternoon autumn day it happened was nothing special. Golden light filtered through the dusty windowpanes as Clara wandered into the parlour.  

She was drawn inexplicably to the old credenza, its surface worn smooth by decades of careful hands. As she traced her fingers along the delicate carvings, she felt a sudden tremor—a fleeting sensation, as if someone had gently brushed past her shoulder.

Curiosity piqued, Clara knelt and peered into the shadows beneath the credenza. There, tucked behind a loose panel, she discovered a faded envelope sealed with brittle wax. Her heart pounded as she broke the seal and unfolded the fragile paper inside. The words, written in a trembling script, revealed the truth her family had buried for generations—a confession of love, betrayal, and regret. 

An errant tear rolled down her cheek as she read, landing on the fragile paper and staining it. She noticed other tear stains on the delicate paper she held, indicating that at least one other person had discovered the letter, read it, and replaced it where they had found it. Clara was determined to tell the story, no matter the consequences.

As Clara read, the weight of the secret lifted, and the room seemed to exhale. At last, the house was at peace. And Clara, with trembling hands and tearful eyes, knew she held not just the end of a story, but the beginning of her own. 

It began in the late 1890s. A young girl, who would become Clara’s great-great-grandmother, played hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of the grand house. She held a pretty rock to mark the space she couldn’t step on while she played. 

Without warning, a loud crack of thunder split the cloudless sky, scaring Agatha, the young grandmother-to-be,  with its ferocity. She screamed in fear and alarm and dropped her rock. She ran to the front porch and pushed open the door to go inside. Safely indoors, Agatha looked out the window and saw her pretty rock lying on the sidewalk where she dropped it. She decided to go back outside to retrieve it. Leaving the porch, Agatha ran down the steps, down the sidewalk, and pushed open the gate she’d left ajar. As she reached the sidewalk, passing the house, she bent to pick up her pretty rock. As her fingers wrapped around the rock, a second, louder crack of thunder split the still, clear sky. This time, lightning struck Agatha, knocking her unconscious. 

Agatha’s mother looked out the picture window, saw her daughter lying on the sidewalk and screamed. The mother rushed outside to help her daughter. Approaching her prone body, the mother screamed, ‘Agatha!’ into her little face. Agatha’s eyes fluttered and then opened. She looked around and tried to focus, her mother’s face swimming before her. 

“Oh, my dear sweet girl, are you all right?” Agatha’s mother exclaimed. 

“As soon as the world stops spinning, I’ll be okay,” said Agatha. Her mother helped her up from the sidewalk, walked her up the steps, and into the house.

There would be no more hopscotch that day. Soon after the lightning strike, dense, dark storm clouds clouded the sky. Rain bucketed down, erasing the hopscotch grid Agatha had made. Thunder and lightning pealed all afternoon. 

Agatha had a sizeable exit wound on the bottom of her right foot that her mother cleaned and wrapped in clean bandages. She told her daughter to stay on the settee until supper time. Agatha did, and when it was time for supper, she hobbled into the dining room and took her seat. After the meal, Agatha’s mother helped her upstairs to bed and gave her a dose of laudenum to help with pain. 

It would be quite some time before Agatha played hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of the house. She passed the time with indoor pursuits like sewing, embroidery, and knitting. When she did go out, she looked for her pretty rock and eventually found it poking out from under some leaf litter.

When Agatha found her pretty rock, her fear of being outside ended; she became her old self again, a fearless child full of adventure.

Agatha never lost her sense of adventure throughout the rest of her life. She died years before her great-great-granddaughter, Clara, was born. 

She often visited her great-great-granddaughter, especially when Clara was a baby in her crib. The visits brought her joy. 

Clara found a pretty hopscotch rock in a small box at the back of a drawer and started using it to play her own hopscotch. It soon became one of her favourite possessions. When she told her great-great-grandmother she’d found the rock, Agatha was delighted. Clara listened raptly as Agatha recounted how she’d lost the rock and found it again.  

Years elapsed as Clara grew, got married, and had a child of her own, falling ill in her late eighties and dying of cancer some months later. 

The great-great-granddaughter and great-great-grandmother finally met face to face on the Other Side. 

It was a grand reunion. 

*And the secret that many family members took to their graves was the birth of a daughter out of wedlock - Agatha - but she never knew any of it until she was on her own deathbed.*

Gail Fulkerson is a writer and a regular contributor to 'OZ', who specializes in writings of the supernatural. She lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another story. 

Gail just published her new book: "Tales of the Macabre". The book is available at Turning the Tide bookstore in Saskatoon or online direct from Gail. Make a comment and I will pass on your information to her. Stay tuned to 'OZ' for future stories.