The odd lithograph was resigned to a dusty corner, half-hidden behind an awkward, broken down chair. Most customers were quick to skim over that obtuse assemblage in favor of more sophisticated offerings. But a profound something in those disconsolate eyes summoned me closer. The frame: a rusty brownish ocher, held faint suggestions of decaying varnish. A dull and acrid sheen certified the antiquity of the ghost within. My compulsion was soon to lead to a peculiar consequence. I coaxed the strange tablet from its hiding place, and tilted it toward the light for careful inspection. Three boards of equal width comprised the back. Their thin veneers, warped and splintered, pushed against one another stubbornly. Two hammered iron tacks fixed a length of buff twine across the middle. The crude backing showed evidence of transient access, several bent nails holding it together were surrounded by tiny arcs scratched into the soft wood. Turning the old relic, my hands brushed over the gentle rippling glass surface. Decades of greasy film blurred the fine lines underneath. I wiped a bit off with my shirt sleeve to read the small print in the lower left-hand corner--E.C. Kellogg, 245 Main St. Hartford Conn. MDCCCLXI. Lavender drapes in the background, the oval portrait was of a young boy. His azure eyes gazed up and over chaste hands folded in suppliant meditation. Labeled beneath in ornate letters, THE MORNING PRAYER. Defend Us From All Evil Throughout This Day The parchment had faded. Water stains crawled in from the edges, their brown sinuosity overlapping like snakes. A minute open tear below the childs left eye revealed a brighter paper with a trace of penciling. The mystery seized my curiosity at once. This bizarre article and its haunted visage would slowly become a possession of sorrows. Whats the story behind this picture? I curiously asked the shopkeeper. I dont know anything about it he answered, part of the inventory when I bought this place. After a brief pause, You can have it for ten, the things kind of weird if you ask me. I want to get rid of it, make an offer. Ill give eight and you can wrap it up. Face down upon the kitchen table, I held the artifact steady and twisted the corroded fasteners outward. The boards popped free, upsetting a meager vapor of dust. Cautiously, I slowly peeled the underlayment. It opened like a book and on the page rudimentary symbols drawn with a thick powdery graphite stood haphazard and impassive. Smudged in the left margin, a flourished cursive surrendered a time and place; Oct. 27, 1889. Clayton, O.T... I studied the exposed hieroglyphs, scrutinizing each for a logical meaning. I knew these shapes had context and relationship. My interpretations seemed critical due to the singular X written on the center of the page. This concealed translation precipitated a fervid impulse within my soul. I was determined to find what treasure laid beyond my grasp. The possibilities devoured my thoughts like a fetish, a perverse obsession taunting all concentration. The glyphs uttered erratic languages as I slept. At any attempt of recall, the visions would burn to ash. Then suddenly, I discovered the correlations. The map became articulated, a specific terrain materialized. The unique landscape added with the written clues established a provenance. Soon a torturous secret would be unearthed. That elusive geography pushed me towards exhaustion. Everywhere, ordinary landscapes mocked my inquiries. Everywhere, disappointment. For days I scoured the back roads, even the weakest trail cleaved to my footsteps. An oblique sandstone ridge lined with sycamores, a crawl of boulders down its slope, the incision of a creek ox-bow separating four of the massive cubes aligned to Polaris. At last, my scouting had ended. My shovel bit into the hardened clay with a profuse effort. The heat exacerbated my task, each scoopful of earth grew heavier and more burdensome. My resolve was at the brink of depletion when I heard the shovel scrapping against wood. Hurriedly, I jumped into the hole and swept away the last layer of dirt from the rotting boards. I pried at the lumber, a faint malodorous fragrance spilled around me. Separating the planks I could see swathed in linen yellowed with age, a tiny skeleton. The worm cleaned skull prominently displayed the neat bullet circumference high upon its forehead. An unsettling horror chilled me to the marrow. I had dug up a murdered child’s grave, and mystery upon mystery shall torment me for the rest of my life. Now every morning I say a prayer, defend us from all evil throughout this day.
Posted on: Thu, 23 Oct 2014 12:40:58 +0000
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