The Soul Within

     Upon arriving at the musty entrance, Jack noticed a subtle essence ebbing from the seams of the door. It appeared to be an invitation, or a warning. Which one exactly he was not yet sure. He had arrived at the final secret held by author H.W. Bloomfield, who was tragically murdered only months before. Now here he was standing at the end of the long journey which brought him through criminal evasion and life-threatening situations. He was not about to fall short this time.

     Jack approached with nervous caution and tried the knob. Locked. It wouldn’t so much as rattle, let alone embrace his presence. With a cunning suspicion, he continued to search the door and the area surrounding the room, each tick of his watch reminding him what he needed to find. It was right under his nose, he could feel disappointment building in his failed efforts. The carpets were as dusty as you might expect for such an old building, the walls cracking with time’s relentless embrace. Lights barely existing, although he wouldn’t have it any other way. On the verge of frustration, Jack nearly gave up, when he noticed it. A perfect imperfection resting in the one place he had yet to look, out of the corner of his eye. There, at the base of the door, was a splinter in the old warped blockade. Peeling it slowly revealed a small, old key which slid freely out of the cache.

     Time had frozen, Jack’s heart beating faster than a rocket. The key was at the will of the gentle grace of gravity, leaving a heavy thud echoing through the ears of any who may be listening. There have always been others listening. Perhaps wasting too much time, he picked up the key and hesitantly slid it into the lock. The single bead of sweat emanating from his brow suggested he was not ready for what was to come. He chose to ignore his hesitation for the others searching for this very room would soon be upon it; they were undoubtedly only minutes behind. Regardless, Jack turned the key. Turned the handle. Placed a hand on the center of the door. And pushed.

     Dust immediately filled his lungs, the final guardian of a tomb of script. Blindly feeling for the single light switch on the wall that had to be there, Jack kicked what felt to be a lead weight on the ground. Hobbling towards the much-required scintillate ceiling he was quick to discover a statue staring him in the face. Jack nearly jumped out of his shoes. A moments rest revealed this to be the same statue present at Bloomfield’s murder. This was it. Jack had found the final secret.

     The room was full of emptiness; shelves with no reserve, tables bearing no burden. Simply one object meant to catch the attention of whichever eyes met its acquaintance. A chest, small and aged. No lock, no resistance to the inevitable breach it awaited. Jack stepped slowly, meticulously, towards this prize of dangerous intention, this final life of the dead, this world bending dominion.

     “No going back now. The only way forward is through.” Jack murmured as he felt out the grain in the dark wood which had accentuated over time. This made him wonder of the age of the piece, and the age of the contents it held. He noticed the same odd breath of eminence coming from the chest as had the door, and placed a hand on either side of the lid. Few thoughts ran through his mind, most importantly the consequences if he did not vacate the room quickly and the inevitable greeting of death that would await his loose restraint.

     “Please be good.” Final words of a man committed to himself and to the uncertainties of the moment. Jack lifted the lid, but all he found was a single bound codex of obscurity. He picked up the odd transcript, studied its heft and its hold. A beautiful creation, each page filled with enduring freshness and leather-bound mustiness. It was strange that the object both looked so young and felt so old. With nothing left to explore, Jack opened the first page. In ink, centered on the page, a single line.

All that open must close

but those that close may forevermore remain.

     Strange. The first five words were scribbled in anxious ink, while it appears the remaining were labored in a blood red tome of urgency. The room remained calm around the scene, the only sound a beating heart. Turning the page revealed to Jack the importance of what he was holding. There, still dripping with wet red ink, sealed, and signed, was the preservation of the removed.

Here I give my soul as

payment for sins not atoned.

Before you are characters of

myself and reflections of who

I wished to become.

Be wary of losing yourself

In the passion of this story.

-H.W. Bloomfield