As I stood in front of my PO box, a fluttering sense of anticipation started creeping in.
Of course it was me who was tasked to pick up the mysterious package, Gilbert had wriggled his way out of dealing with this by simply saying “your turn”. As if picking up the mail yesterday gave him an out of jail free card. Sure Gil, leave it to Sally to handle hot pink parcels and no that is not a special metaphor, the person who contacted me told me it would be hot pink.
My fingers trembled slightly as I turned the key, the metal clinking in the stillness of the small post office. There it was, just as the anonymous sender had described, a bold and garish pink among the usual stack of brown paper and bills. I hadn’t expected it to be so...cheerful.
It stood out like a neon sign blinking “Open me ! Nothing creepy inside, I promise !”
I grabbed it, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it all. This was sent to help us with our investigation into the hauntings at Tihange, or so we were told. Gilbert, being the world-class skeptic he is, had already decided it was probably an elaborate hoax or someone's idea of a practical joke. His words, not mine. "People love a good ghost story," he'd said. "But what they love more is wasting our time with them."
But something about the package made me think otherwise. It was from the granddaughter of someone who had attended the infamous retreat at the castle back in 1975, that much we knew. The same retreat where things supposedly went off the rails, and people came back with more than just bad memories. They never came back quite right or… not at all.
When I got home, I dropped the ‘gift’ on my bureau and stared at it. Hot pink, really? If this was meant to contain some great paranormal secret, whoever wrapped it had a twisted sense of humor. After a moment of hesitation, I tore into it like an impatient child on their birthday high on sugar and giddy with anticipation.
Inside, resting innocently enough, was an old missal, the kind you’d expect to see in a dusty church pew or maybe even your local antique shop. The leather was worn, edges frayed, taped together, this book had been loved and used for many years. It was bound with a piece of twine, neatly holding a makeshift letter in its place. The paper looked fairly new, I opened it up and read:
“ I hope this package finds you well and sheds some light on your investigation. Our grandmother kept it safe and hidden amongst her few possessions, it must have been of great significance to her. She never spoke of the incident that occurred in ‘75 so this is all I can tell you, I hope it helps. “
There was no name.
I studied the fragile little book, wondering if it would fall apart if I were to open it up. This felt like an Indiana Jones moment, discovering an ancient secret tome, blowing the dust of ages off its cover. No danger around? Check!
What really caught my attention was that there was something pressed between the pages—a piece of cloth, it seemed, was poking out from between the pages.
Carefully I opened up the tattered book and ever so gingerly slid out the piece of textile.
It was stained, dark and crusted with old brownish blood and folded up inside was something hard, something someone wanted to keep safe.
A rosary. Smeared with the same old dried up blood.
Now, I’m not squeamish, I clean up after my messy cats and a bit of blood and gore does not put me off, but this? I dropped it as soon as I saw what it was.
How sinister is this?
Was this her blood? Why is there even blood? Why keep it all these years?
More questions and no handy CSI, DNA machine to be found. What to do?
As I was shaking the little missal in frustration something fell out from between the last pages.
A tiny piece of paper fluttered down onto the dark wood of my bureau. A book mark perhaps?
I picked it up and saw that it was a tiny note, a small piece of paper torn off to hastily scribble down a few words.
I could barely make it out because it was so delicately written it could have been done by a very literate and well read ant.
It said: “In the brilliance, truth is bound, though eyes may be blind.”
Well, how about that.
Time to give Gilbert a call.
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