Speaker 1: High excursionists. It's way back Wednesday on Into the Night Anthology,
a return to a story that left its mark. And
if you're a library member, don't forget there's another story
waiting just for you. Be sure to check your email
if you haven't found your way there yet. Listen all
the way to the end to find out how you
can become a story in my library.
Speaker 2: Welcome to Endo the Night. I'm Narri your guide on
today's excursion down a twisted path. Be careful not to
get lost. Be it dark or light, it's easy to
lose your way. Are you ready, then let's begin, Sincerely yours.
For several years, I've prided myself as being a collector
of the unusual. My idea of unusual doesn't always match
what others deem it to be. People bring all sorts
of things into my shop, but most items are commonplace. Sure,
an antique teapot or grandpa's World War II side arm
might have great sentimental value to the individual person, but
as a category, these are typical artifacts that can be
found just about anywhere. I'm not discounting the importance of memorabilia.
I simply have more discerning tastes. Two days ago, I
heard the jingling of the bell on my shop door.
Medium height, with short brown hair, wearing a thin brown coat.
I wouldn't have given the man a second glance on
the street. Excuse me? Are you Stanley Perkins? He sat
a chest on my countertop? Yes, I am. What can
I do for you today? I understand you dabbling the unusual.
I may have something that would interest you. I hear
that fifty times a week. Skeptically, I sized up the
chest and saw nothing spectacular about it. I I don't
have any use for an old chest. Mister Smith, oh boy,
another anonymous peddler of the unimpressive looks can be deceiving.
The chest itself isn't of importance. It's the contents that
you may find interesting. I stared at the chest, and
I'm afraid I didn't hide my doubts. Well, you don't
have to make a decision now. I'll leave this here
for you to go through. All I ask is that
you keep the contents in the same order they are now,
sounds fair enough. How much do you want for it?
If I decide I want it, we can discuss the terms.
Once you've taken a look. I'll come back on Friday.
I've only let a few people, those with an interest
in the unusual and the unexpected, see what's inside. Remember,
go through every item. Then we will close the deal.
Apparently no one else wants to buy it. What the hell? Though?
Business is slow and I've got some time to go
through it. Okay, I'll give it a gander. No promises, though,
I assure you we will strike a deal. I turned
to unclasp the latch to the chest, and when I
turned around, mister Smith was gone. The jingling of the
bell on my door was the only indication he had left. Truthfully,
I didn't think there'd be anything worthwhile in it, but
I opened the lid to find stacks of papers. The
parchment was yellowed and brittle, old paper like that requires
special handling, or the oil on our hands will ruin them.
So I found my box of Latex gloves and put
a pair on. I had to protect the documents, not
only out of respect for the current owner, but because
I wanted to get top dollar for them if they
turned out to be something special and I chose to
strike a deal. I picked up a few stacks and
set them on the counter. Then I remembered Smith's request
to keep everything in order, so I carefully placed them
back together and hoisted the chest to the floor. I
pulled up my comfy chair, refilled my coffee cup, and
took a look at the first paper in the chest,
A letter, an old one, dated May fourth, eighteen sixty four. Hmm,
what do we have here? Dear Jimmy. I have been
by your side since you were a small boy. I've
accompanied you on many adventures, and I have so many
fond memories of you. Do you remember the time when
you and your brother dove off steeple rock into the river,
but the current had moved the location of the pool,
Or the time old man Gentry mistook you for a
burglar and barely missed you with that shotgun blast. Those
were some close calls, but you made it through. Tonight
you are sleeping on the ground, dreaming of home and
of those loved ones you have left behind. Tomorrow is
a big day. The enemy has advanced farther and you
are going into dangerous territory. No, I am standing beside
you and will not leave you, my good friend, Sincerely, Yours,
g R. A second page accompanied the letter, an obituary
for Jimmy Thompson from a small town newspaper, gave the
details of his passing. Age seventeen, son of Edith and
Ezra Thompson. He died May fifth, eighteen sixty four, in
the Battle of the Wilderness. Why he died the day
after that letter was written. Always a softy for Civil
War memorabilia, I began to think the chest might have potential.
I carefully set Jimmy's letter and obituary on the counter
and read one after the other. So many were written
to Civil War soldiers on both sides of the fight.
Others were to farmers, doctors, school teachers, and people of
all ages and walks of life. Filling up my cup
of coffee, I pondered the fact that each letter was
written the day before the death listed on the obituary.
I picked up the next letter, dated November eighteenth, nineteen
o four. Dear Maud, you are a remarkable woman. My dear,
you have come so far from being that scrawny little
girl who caught frogs and climbed trees with her brother.
I smile now thinking of the time you filled Mabel
Hammond's lunch bucket with lizards just to hear her squeal
at the church picnic. Mabel never could take a joke,
and you endured the whipping from your daddy like a champion.
Your spunk and determination got you far. You survived the
Yankees raiding your home and leaving your family near starvation.
You and Harmon Mackie raised six mischievous boys without a
moment of outward frustration. You've seen births, deaths, cholera outbreaks,
and most recently, a World's Fair. You became a grandma
and a great grandma, and your family adores you. I
have enjoyed every moment we have spent together. I will
be seeing you soon. Sincerely, Yours, g R. As with
the other letters, an obituary for Maud Mackeye accompanied it.
I read through several more and the dates moved progressively forward.
These letters were personal and touching, and I felt as
though I peered into a crystal ball and could see
these people come to life. One letter to Conrad Milton
gave me pause. It was written the day before he
died in the Battle of the Bulge. Why would Conrad's
letter hit me emotionally? Because he was my father's best friend.
They joined the army the day after Pearl Harbor happened,
and like all small towns back then, the hometown recruits
were put in the same unit. My father was with
him when the mortarshell landed smack dab on Connie. I'd
grown up listening to stories about Conrad Milton. The letter
included a few I'd never heard, like the time he
and his little sister almost died from scarlet fever. Something
bothers me, though, just who is writing these letters? Who
is gr Because of the span of the years, there's
no way it's the same person. Also, these people lived
all across the country. How can this be. Over the
course of the next few days, I continued reading letter
after letter and obituary after obituary. They always recalled poignant
moments of that person's life. They were always signed by g. R.
If these are fiction, I have no use for them.
I'm not sure what mister Smith thinks he's trying to
sell me here. On Friday morning, I finally reached the
bottom of the chest. One final letter remained, but unlike
the others, there was no obituary. That's odd. I carefully
opened the last letter, written on bright white paper. I
checked the date, which couldn't be right. September fourteenth of
this year, Why that was yesterday? I shrugged and began reading.
Dear Stanley, You've been one of my favorites since you
were a young boy living on South Orchard Street. Always
curious and always drawn to people and things that were
different or unique. You've lived quite the life. For your
senior trip, you chose to go to exotic New Guinea,
just till you could see real head hunters. Most people
your age went to Paris or Barcelona, but you aren't
like other people. By the way, I didn't know for
sure if we were going to get off New Guinea
with your head still attached, but fate had it that
you would survive. Because I've enjoyed following you for so long,
I wanted to give you this one last treat. No
one else has been privy to the private collection of
letters I've written to those I have treasured above all others.
This chest was my gift to you. I'm so glad
I was able to meet you in person before we
embark on our journey. I will see you soon, Sincerely,
Yours g R. Who would know about New Guinea? What
kind of trick is this? Just? Then the bell on
my door jingled. At first, I didn't recognize the person
who interrupted my thoughts. Instead of an old brown jacket,
mister Smith wore a hooded robe and carried a scythe Hello, Stanley,
I hope you've enjoyed my gift. Now it's time for
us to finalize our deal and leave. He reached out
his hand to me, and in that moment I clearly
recognized the grim reaper. Tomorrow's paper would hold the obituary
he'd add to his collection. Thank you for joining me
for this episode of the Into the Night Anthology podcast.
Written by Caroline Giamanco, narrated by Nari. Theme music by
Nico Rodriguez, all other original music, sound design and editing
by Ohmenhawk Studios. You can find our links in the
show notes. Into the Night is on your favorite podcatcher,
so make sure to like, subscribe and leave a five
star review to help other excursionists to join us. I'll
see you next time, and remember, whether in the shadows
or in the daylight, all twisted paths leading into the Night.
Into the Night Anthology is a creative typo entertainment production
you've been listening to way back Wednesday from Into the Night.
Anthology Library Memory already have a second story waiting, and
you can join them anytime at Nari narrates dot com.
Just look for the blue Join the Library button. I'll
see you there