Memory is like a moth.
It flutters. It drifts. It finds an abandoned wardrobe of precious clothes to nest and gorges itself, leaving behind the gift of dust and scraps. It hungers. It feasts. It blinks, with large fuzzy eyes and a twitching antenna that probes into the deepest, darkest crevasses of a human mind. It is drawn to the flames—but whether that takes the shape of a soul, a thought, a dream—it still scorches itself, like a fever burning hot for the breath of an eternity.
Mine’s full of holes. Like a wheel of pocked cheese, with inch-long worms contently squirming through the gaps. It’s a decidedly undelectable thought.
It’s autumn in Newchester. The river arose last night, swollen and murky grey—it always did have a bitter penchant to be a nuisance, spilling over the cobblestone embankment and floating dead bronze leaves down the street. The sparse copses of trees shiver and shake, trembling in the baying wind, as it molts husk and bark. The cascade is heaviest in the evening, particularly during that time when the shadows lengthen and the skies bruise into the violet hour before the dark.
My coat is fraying. It’s a habit to pick at the threads. By the time dusk settles and the oily-maned crows have shirked out of sight, I am walking down a familiar street with an anxious sort of deference and a sick feeling in the pit of my gut. It’s almost as if I have not eaten for quite a while. And as I cross the neighbourhood, the alleys rustle, alive with shadows and the stench of marinated rot. The veneer of civilization is balding at the outskirts —shops are boarded up more frequently, the asphalt rough, and the streetlamps conspicuously absent.
A lone building beckons. It stands in solitude, a cascade of tiers spiralling upwards like a modern-day Babel, with the pre-war architecture doing its level best to appear gentlemanly poised. But the windows are not refined, nor does it exist beneath the rosy red roof of the mammoth’s prime—the tiles are cracked and the white paint peels, leaving behind the impression of haggard bricks and charred spots, as the twin-steeples of dead flags flit idly in tatters. At the center, the clock tower is silent. It no longer ticks grandly. It is history left in a perpetual state of atrophy.
Joey’s waiting inside. The first thing I’m aware of is the rattle of the air-conditioning, spurring slight vibrations in the antiquated marble of the flooring. The chilled air wafts like a stale breath, rolling invisible waves over the expanse of shivering bare skin. A musty sensation lodges inside, and my lungs become pinched.
Then I see how everything’s changed. It feels oddly discordant. The tungsten bulbs screwed inside ruffled lamps have been replaced by modern LED strips tucked within the ceiling indents above, emitting a sterile glow. Small and startled, I stare like an insect stuck within a heat lamp. Many of the large boxes have also been cleared away, leaving a wider foyer. Diamond-like glass refracts from the polished crystal chandelier, the light pearly. Even the rug threads are curiously spruced. A cleaning cart sits snugly at the side.
I glance up, and there he is.
“Olivia!” He reaches over to clasp a quick embrace. He’s wearing cologne. That’s new. It has a strange earthy hint to it. Joey Atwell is an old friend of mine. I want to say that he’s hardly changed from that slip of a boy I knew from our Cheshire boarding school days, but he’s really not the same. Somewhere during the cusp of adulthood, he traded the slacks for stiffer attire, shaved the ratty hair on his chin, and wandered down an entirely different path in life.
I was surprised he’d reached out in the first place, but I was also glad for it. I squeeze him back as cordially as I can manage, answering with, “Good to see you too, Joey.”
We stare at each other for a moment, blinking as blankly as a pair of owls. The words stay in my throat. He seems to be sizing up the best way to break into conversation. It’s barely a split-second, but for a moment, I think I can see a flash of the old Joey—lips quirking into his signature Atwell-smile, something sly and witty and warm prepped on that tongue of his. But then the mirage fades and the familiarity fully recedes. He says, “Thank you for coming.”
I fall into step beside him, ducking beneath the low brim of the archway. “It’s been some time, Joey,” I say quietly. “A lot of things have changed. I hope you don’t blame me for being curious. Even if the circumstances are less than ideal.”
“Of course not,” he promises. “And I can assure you I did not use exaggerated flattery to coax you here in the first place. I sincerely do require your expertise in certain matters here.” A pinched exhale pulls at his thin mouth. In the obscured light, his eyes are as grey as the slate sky. Ever the gentlemen, he holds out his arm to steady past the clutter at the foot of the basement steps. “Progress is slow. It’s increasingly difficult to maintain existing contracts, as well as secure more beneficial ones.”
Passing by, I catch a glimpse of a hunched man through an open door that branches off from the main corridor. He’s wearing faded overalls and a cap pulled harshly over uneven ears. He mutters to himself an indecipherable litany of words and slaps the wet mop down against the ground with a renewed vengeance. All he ends with is the swipe of a grimy trail over the tiles, a murky puddle sloshing within the bucket he tows using his left foot. The pant leg rides up, exposing mottled skin and a flaky ankle.
Joey catches the expression that drifts across my face. He provides knowingly, “That would be the janitor. Goes by the name of Williams.”
“I see,” I say, even though I really don’t.
Right before the descent down the final flight of stairs, he ushers me into what I presume is the space that functions as his office. It’s strangely pristine, in the sense that it exists entirely untouched by the passage of the time. The antique bookcases are filled to the brim, the filing cabinets sorted at the other end. A grandfather clock stands, fat and polished, a golden honey-tinged pendulum swinging in the cocoon of the display glass. The desk at the center is a striking hue, the sequoia thick and burnished.
The last document I need to sign is there, with a fountain pen in wait next to it with expectant flourish.
He’s expected this. Shrewdly, I notice the glint of anticipation in his eyes. The shadow of a peculiar hunger darkens the doorway. But then I think about the boy that was my friend all those years ago—twelve and muddling through that mishap with the minnows, thirteen and catching fireflies in mason jars, sixteen and wishing on falling stars. He is no longer that child.
I sign it anyway. The ink blots at the end, an abstract stain.
“Excellent,” he says, pleased. “I look forward to your work.”
The smile I offer is brittle. “Of course.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“How many others?”
“Just one more.” He puts on a subtle show of glancing at his watch. “Timothy Barker, a researcher with an interest in pre-war memorabilia. He started about six months ago and has been here ever since. I trust you’ll be able to make your way around?”
“I’ll do that,” I concede.
I recognize the dismissal. For a moment though, I’m distracted by the portrait behind his head. It’s of a man in an elegant frock coat, fit and cut to a lean frame. White clings to the streaks of his slicked hair, shorn short, and his mouth is set in a thin, firm line. A silver tinted tag below the rich oak frame declares the solitary figure to be Joseph Burnett. It’s a name I have not heard before but there’s a sharp—almost painful—twinge of familiarity that I immediately place.
Two sets of the same ashy eyes bore into the back of my neck, as I take my leave.
Turns out that I do find my way, soon enough. I start at the primary archive. It’s a large room at the lowest level, and the motion sensor lights flicker hazily as I tread through a passage thick with dust and stale air. I can hear the coughing whir of the ventilation, a cold comfort. ARCHIVES is etched onto the powdery glass of the door. Entering, there is who I presume to be Barker bent low over a desk at the side—unruly auburn curls fall past his sweaty temples, and he’s stripped down to a loose shirt and knee-length shorts. He appears to be in his mid-thirties.
He refuses to acknowledge anything other than the task he’s occupied with. I watch as he adjusts the magnifying glass and peers more intently. He’s using a set of tweezers to hold open the edges of a yellowing stamp-sized letter scrap. I follow his lead. I cross the room and set my satchel down, figuring to claim the desk closest to the labyrinth racks of parcels and boxes. My coat draped over the back of the wicker chair, I catalogue the existing mess – parcel knife, loose sheaf of papers, an ink bottle. I reach for the sterling letter opener. The blade is still sharp. In the midst of it, he calls, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Wariness paints a frown, and I ask, “Done what?”
He grunts, “Taken the job.”
I don’t exactly get the chance to question why. Instead, he abruptly looks up for the first time. His face is pale and pinched, russet eyes harrowingly dark in contrast. There is a brief second of scrutiny, followed by the bitter huff of a laugh. He cocks his head and sets the tools down.
“Welcome to the Dead Letter Office,” Barker drawls at last. “The place where things go to die.”
Dead letters were the missives that could not be delivered to the intended correspondent or even returned to sender. It was an occurrence that the freshly minted Postal Service back then found themself in an uphill struggle with. Mail addresses were discovered to be either absent or obscure—postal clerks quickly learnt to denounce these letters and parcels as dead. The pile of black bags grew
It was with the influx of ‘blind’ mail readers that a valiant attempt was made in deciphering the garbled illegibility, with the noble task of posting the mail to the place it belonged. But once every avenue was exhausted, another procedure was set in place. Money found was turned over to the official treasury. Reading material donated to charities and local libraries. Items from parcels auctioned off, to the distaste of some who decried the DLO to be little other than a glorified pawnbroker’s shop.
The office in Newchester was no different. A Montana newspaper once described the assortments as ‘the handiwork of the inmates of a lunatic asylum’. Harsh, but not entirely unjustified—on my third day, while searching for a mug to pour from the brewed pot of coffee, I discover the mason jar at the back of the cabinet. It’s an absurd sight, owed to the fact that there is a very dead rattlesnake inside. Length bulbous and swollen, a slit tongue lolls, scaled bits floating in the amber gleam of aged alcohol. Outwardly, I don’t make a sound but it’s a very near thing.
Barker passes by just then. He supplies, remarkably bland, “I see you’ve just become acquainted with Crawley.”
“What?”
“He’s got seniority here.”
I wonder if he’s cracked.
“Crawley,” I repeat.
He shrugs. “The snake. Been here the longest, so I figured he sure as hell deserved a name.”
“Right.”
He observes, “It’s pissing you off.”
“Sure. Why the hell not?” I say. Then, “Go back to your snuff boxes, Timothy.”
“Right-o.” He gives a salute, then in the same exaggerated tone. “Olivia.”
It’s at one of the sorting rooms that I get the idea to switch from digital—there’s a tape recorder there that is perfectly functional. I’ve been having trouble with my phone. The signal’s terrible underground, and oftentimes there are distended bursts of interference that renders half of all of my recordings unusable. A storage box in the archive itself was also rather conveniently filled with empty cassettes. I insert the blank tape and click it to record. After a short while, I hit stop. I wind the replay, and listen to the quality of my voice.
The audio is crisp and clear. It remains unaffected by static.
I take the tape recorder back downstairs with me. The package I am currently occupied with contains an old family bible. The surname inked close to the leatherbound spine, most of the passages within have faded to a pale charcoal hue. A lacy bookmark is wedged between Psalms and Judges; later, a lone stamp also drops out of the stiff pages. Putting on a pair of nitrile gloves, I take roughly around an hour to complete my preliminary examination of it. Satisfied, I settle back and begin the audio log.
Newchester branch, box filed under 12B-civ point 6.
Parcel originally posted on 17th August, 1895. Contains a bible heirloom of early American Worcester make. Weight is 54.3 ounces, with the silver threaded embellish of a cross sewn inside the cover. The leather is sturdy, but worn over time. Recovered from within is a lace strip and a 5 cent Franklin stamp. Denoted as belonging to the Andertons.
Recipient and sender address was deemed ineligible at the time as a result of severe water-damage. This only occurred after the parcel crossed the length of Missouri, resulting in being stranded for decades. There it remained, until the closure of the central office in York mandated that it be delivered back to Newchester. One relevant record found—in 1934, it was recommended on file by mail clerk Patti Collins that the parcel’s contents be repurposed.
As far as it was known, the last living son of the Anderton family was killed during the war.
End record.
I’m reminded of how late it is when my phone screen flickers on. I suppose it should have clued me in that the distant rumble of traffic has fully subsided. As usual, Barker is nowhere to be found. He’s rarely in the archive. He makes a routine of leaving at odd hours each day, sometimes to brood in another part of the office. He was in the old canteen once, staring sightlessly at the plaster wall opposite to where he sat. As soon as he noticed that he was no longer alone, he left, striding out of there with an ill-concealed scoff.
By the time I’ve re-packaged that bible in protective covers and labelled it for the allocated shipment, close to forty minutes has already passed. The pool of light from the lamp quivers beneath an invisible strain. I get the hint. I move quickly to close down all of the lights in the room, leaving the faint glow from outside to guide me. Pulling on the coat, I cross the room and head for the door. I’m moving as quietly as possible, silenter than a mouse.
After-hours anywhere has never been a pleasant place. There is a sense of emptiness like there’s too much space for the walls. The building’s heating system pings, the pipes groan, the floorboards creak. And then there’s the inevitable shuffling, as if someone other is walking around.
It’s a trick of the mind.
But as I move past Joey’s office on the way out, I become aware that something has followed from the archive. I don’t know what it is. A shadow, a blur? Or maybe just the absence of light in my periphery. It’s difficult to tell. The lights are dim, my vision grainy. I clear the final flight of steps in record time, all the while harshly willing myself to get a grip. I’m not a child, easily frightened. And still… still I refuse to make the mistake of looking back down the shrouded stairs.
This way, nothing changes.
It’s still my imagination to blame.
A vast majority of the DLO archive was composed of written letters. Each correspondence was native to the gap of several decades—the contents of which were mostly mundane, though occasionally strange or wrenching—but that wasn’t the unusual part. Instead, I was starting to notice an alarming frequency in how often I found myself staring at items of greater contention.
For instance.
Newchester branch, box filed under 15M-rdc point 3.
Parcel originally posted on 3rd February, 1853. Contains a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver. Seven .36-caliber round lead balls were also enclosed. Total weight is 70 ounces, including casing. It was in violation of postal laws at the time and therefore not posted. Sender and recipient details are both unknown. The case it was placed in, however, has been identified to be of custom make – hardwood, with a bronze latch.
There is something else, however. Also discovered was the black-and-white photograph of a young woman in her early twenties. She wears a black dress and sits poised for the camera. In her arms, a cherubic infant sleeps. A seemingly innocuous memento of the late Victorian era.
Except that someone has charred her face.
The implication lingers.
Then the dreams begin.
The smell is trapped in the air. It follows me, the breath of a ghost, like smoke stuck within the walls of my apartment. I scrub my hands in the sink. It comes away with soot beneath my nails. It turns into the incense of ash and agarwood, filling the empty spaces between the stones. And then I do not remember it any longer.
It is, after all, an isolated incident. An aberration caused by a temporary moment of weakness in mental fortitude. That is what I choose to believe in.
With the revolver immediately sent into the eager hands of the museum, I bury myself back in work. A small victory is that I do succeed in locating an elderly Eileen Yan in a county close by—at long last, after forty something or so odd years, the letters from her childhood sweetheart have reached their intended. Her laughter is a balm—she wipes the tears of mirth from her eyes, crinkles her mouth fondly, and then invites me into the house for a cup of Darjeeling tea.
“You don’t wonder how it might have gone otherwise?” I ask.
“Goodness, no. I’ve had a wonderful time with my Rob, bless his heart.” She takes a long sip. It’s later, in parting, that she adds knowingly, “You don’t plan life, dear. It plans you.”
The subsequent parcel contains a set of costume jewellery. I set aside the large gaudy earrings in the shape of butterflies. The set’s matching partner is an imitation gold necklace, the centrepiece intricately inlaid with a fat crescent ruby. In the weeks afterward, I find myself tackling a varied assortment of entirely arbitrary items—folded baby clothes, miniature dolls, a deck of cards, and even a harmonica at one point. In one case though, the lock of blonde hair was just as unsettling as the letter it was attached to.
Then came the music box.
Newchester branch, box filed under 73J-htr point 5.
Parcel originally posted on 14th July, 1936. Contains a silver music box. The melody played is currently unknown to any existing database. The rhythm of the notes are strongly reminiscent to that of keys on a piano, and there is an almost lullaby-like quality. The bronze cylinder remains in good condition. Weight is 42.8 ounces.
Recipient address is listed as 13 Mosby Avenue, Arkham. It was not delivered. City records at that time indicate that the block was a leased office space, but P.I. tenants Lester and Yang were unable to be reached. Sender address, unlisted.
End… end…
My breath catches in my throat. The burning sensation intensifies, like needles pushing beneath every inch of it. I cannot cry out. I cannot move. Neither of my limbs respond, only to give sudden spastic twitches. And then I am no longer in control of any of it. Something sharp cradles the underside of my chin and pulls open my jaw. It places inside the words that aren’t mine. Ribboned cuts of blood dribble down my cheek.
It gives me a new voice.
End recording.
I reach to stop the recording, and that’s when Barker comes in. He goes stiff. He stares at the running cassette in the tape recorder. His face is as white as a sheet. Then he makes the mistake of looking directly at me—and fear, unchecked and unfettered, tears right through his expression like a wild beast. As if in response, the tape recorder devolves into the staccato click of a Geiger counter. The expanse of his pupils dilate, and I know he’s made his choice even before he turns and flees.
That’s the last I ever see of him.
The next day, I empty the contents of a burlap pouch onto my workstation, and immediately regret doing so. Out pour teeth.
It was a gristly waterfall of white, cream, and yellow—enamel knocked together to clatter like a handful of pennies. In an instance, the nausea crawls up my throat and I find myself choking on bile as I attempt to seal the bag shut once again. Tremors hinder my hands, jolting the nerves, but it doesn’t matter anyway. From a newly ripped hole, the bag tore easily. The rest spilled out into the astonishing size of a heap.
And then—
Then.
Well.
Then came the gums.
Pink and pulsing, it writhed wetly. Polyp-like, festering, right before my eyes.
There’s a prickle in the back of my throat, and that’s all the warning I get before I’m retching into the bin under the desk. I’m not sure I am still a person inside of a body anymore. Layers of static and dust lie between myself and any conscious thought I might have next. Some heinous part wonders, curious and analytical, how it could have survived so long. It. It.
Something that used to be human. Something that should never have existed.
The aberration.
I stumble backwards. My feet are suddenly bare, pressed against scorching sand. The melody from the music box scratches and sings inside my cranium—and I live in flashes of time. Cold faucets are left to run and water sloshes down the side of a porcelain tub, somewhere. A child cries. A piano plays. A boy and girl catch fireflies in mason jars, entranced by the infinite glow of a hundred living stars. Agarwood and ash. Sleight of hand and misdirections.
An audience, applauding an empty stage.
And when the tape recorder starts to speak of its own volition, like clay, like a pact of blood, it drones,
“Memory is like a moth. It flutters. It drifts.”
It speaks and, rapt, I listen.
Written By: Trishta
