A Collection of Stories
Trace

Stan bounced off the object he had walked into and fell to the ground. He groaned, his body immediately protesting the harsh contact. He sat up and took a second to collect himself. Two sets of eyes widened and stared at him. The two kids blinked then took off. Stan rubbed his elbow and shouted, “Oi! You two!”

The kids stumbled as they rushed down the sidewalk. They rounded the corner and that was the last Stan had ever seen of the two kids.

He huffed a sigh of disbelief. A hand appeared in front of his face. Stan smiled and took his friend’s hand, the two both grunting as the first was pulled to his feet. They weren’t young men anymore.

“Stan,” the second man muttered, nudging his long-time friend and colleague’s arm with an envelope. “They dropped this.”

After he dusted himself off, Stan turned to get a better look at the envelope. The address on the front had been written in a messy cursive. The paper had yellowed with age.

“What do we do with it?” Marv asked.

Stan scratched under his nose at the base of his mustache. “Well, I can hold onto it for now. I’ll ask around tonight and see if anyone recognizes the two kids. I might be able to track them down and return the letter if they live in this part of town.”

Marv shrugged and handed the paper over to his friend. He was simply going to throw it out if Stan didn’t want it.

Stan folded the paper twice then placed it into his satchel. The two continued down the sidewalk, leaving their work and the long day far behind. They both worked at a hotel on the edge of the city. On Marv and Stan’s walks, they would see fences fade to hedges, then to farmer’s fields. They would see sidewalks melt to gravel, two lanes merge into one. All this in the span of a twenty-minute walk, and a ten-minute bus ride.

Marv had a few years on Stan, in both age and experience. He had been the one to train Stan for his first year. While they had quickly become friends, it came to quite a shock to those around them. Stan and Marv couldn’t have been more different. Everything from their favourite pass times, to their living arrangements (Marv was married and had two kids while Stan preferred living alone), and even their preferred pets were different (Marv liked cats better, and Stan was a dog person).

The one thing that kept them together was their love of a simple life. They bonded over discussing their ideal houses, and Marv even helped Stan to replace the right house for a living-on-his-own Stan. One that had neighbours if he was lonely but enough space between his yard and other’s that he wouldn’t have to see them every day.

Since then, Marv had taken to waiting at the end of his driveway for Stan to show up. He had to call him the first few weeks to remind Stan to leave, but after that their brief morning phone calls became the easiest way to check on each other. If Stan was sick, Marv wished him well and went to work on his own. If Marv was sick, Stan wouldn’t have to take the path between houses to reach Marv’s street.

Marv glanced at his watch. It read 4:25 as he waved goodbye to Stan and entered his home. There would be enough time to make dinner before his wife came home with the kids.

Stan continued down the street for about another minute before turning down a paved bike path. There were rarely any cyclists that used this path, meaning he didn’t have to move over often.

Stan sighed as he entered his flat. It was cozy, not to be confused with small, and had everything he needed for each day. A TV to watch the morning news and weather, a couch to relax in once he got home, a table for six in case he decided to have company, and a bedroom.

Today, Stan didn’t do any of the usual things he did when he got home. He didn’t kick off his shoes, shove food into the microwave, get changed out of his suit, or turn on the TV. Instead, he dropped his satchel to the ground, his work documents still inside. Then he retrieved the only paper that didn’t belong to him and went back outside. Marv sat on his front steps and read the letter.

Dear Ann,

I hope you know that I am not writing to wish you well.

In fact, I’m writing to you because I wish the exact opposite. You’re an absolute fool to kill that man in his own house. His wife has reported it to the local police and, if they replace you, you’ll be hung just like Mary was!

Is that what you want? Some sort of poetic death?

You’re a child. Nothing can bring Mary back. We all wanted revenge on that man for sentencing her to her death, but this is not how it’s done!

You know not to interfere with another’s life. You know that taking someone’s life leaves a stain on your spirit and that you now share the same guilt he did. His deed would have come back to haunt him all on its own, so why did you interfere? You’re now cursed too.

Other witches might appear to agree with what you’ve done. Some might be praising you for giving that man what he deserved. Others, such as the Council, will most likely scowl at you. I share their thoughts. You should be punished, banished and have you rank revoked.

Do you know what would happen if we allowed everyone to behave in the manner you did? Why, surely our entire family would be exposed! There would be more hangings, more death, and it would all be your fault.

Not to mention, taking someone else’s life is dark magic, Ann. It will have horrible repercussions throughout generations. Do you have any idea what you started?

. . .

I was thinking of rewriting this letter. I thought my previous words were too brash.

However, I’ll leave them there so you may know precisely how I’m feeling right now.

With more of my thoughts collected, I will leave you with this: I hope you are willing to accept the consequences of your actions, just as you inflicted the consequences of that man’s actions unto him. Taking a life is not something you can so easily remove from your conscience. So please, Ann, take care of yourself. Make certain this is a one-time thing.

I don’t expect a letter back. I don’t want a letter back. I’ve slid this under your door as it is too important to leave to in the mail. You should read this letter then burn it.

I suspect you’ll also be getting a summons from the council. Be honest with them. Tell them about Mary. Perhaps they’ll have mercy on you.

Sincerely, Margaret.

Stan’s heartbeat deafened him.

What was this crazy letter talking about? Murder? The council?

A council of what?

He released a shaky sigh and, after a moment of thought, he decided this letter should be burned instead of returned. Should he take it to the authorities, they might question why it was in his possession. If he told them that two kids dropped it, well, who knows? He couldn’t allow the kids to replace out he had this letter either. Whoever wrote this letter might kill him too.

They might kill him too.

“No way,” he muttered. Stan walked back inside and tossed the paper into his fireplace. He stuffed some old flyers in as well then stacked wood on top. He lit the paper and watched as flames consumed all of it.

Despite the fire, the temperature in the room still chilled Stan to the bone.

He turned on the television. The words from the screen hardly reached him as he thought about the letter. Occasionally his eyes would turn to the ashes in his fireplace. What had possessed him to burn it? He wasn’t even sure why he thought it was a good idea at the time. He was so determined earlier to return it. He even regretted burning it now, thinking that perhaps this whole thing was a misunderstanding and the letter wasn’t really about a murder at all.

No. Stan knew his eyes hadn’t failed him. Someone had killed a man.

He thought more about the letter. How old was it? Was it addressed to those kids? Why did those kids even have possession of the letter? Was it one of the kids who had killed someone?

Surely not, Stan decided. Teenagers? Murderers? Over losing a loved one? No. It must have been from an adult. The kids’ parents maybe? Perhaps those kids didn’t even know what they were carrying?

Regardless, Stan wasn’t getting involved. He no longer had evidence to give to the police, nor did he have a reason to put his own life in danger trying to replace the sender and the receiver of the letter.

That decision eased Stan’s mind enough that he became conscious of his surroundings again. His stomach growled and his joints ached from being confined to a suit. He made potatoes and heated up leftover steak. While waiting for it to warm, Stan changed into shorts and a loose shirt. He grabbed his plate from the microwave before returning to his police show.

A few hours later and Stan decided it was time for bed. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, unwilling to shut. When sleep wouldn’t come to him, Stan cracked open a book and read for half an hour. Then his eyes were tired and he easily drifted to sleep.

Stan woke to replace himself in his living room. He knew this was a dream for in front of him was a hallway that didn’t exist. He had lived in this house for long enough to know for certain that no such hallway should exist behind his green couch.

Stan approached the hallway. What was the harm? It was only a dream. He had not had such creative dreams for nearly three years, not since his creative spark had been transformed into energy for work. The dream was somewhat refreshing.

Stan’s brown walls melted to a deep purple. His carpet curled and crumbled away until none of it remained beneath his feet. Instead, it was replaced with a wooden floor. He observed the finely trimmed doorframes in the candle-lit hallway. He thought, How am I coming up with this? I doubt I’ve seen a house like this before. Maybe it’s from something on TV?

There was a muffled giggling coming from down the hall. All the doors were open except for one. Stan pressed his ear to the door, close enough that the wooden surface touched his cheek, and heard a conversation from inside.

“Mary, do you suppose we could ever get married?” came the sound of a woman’s voice.

Another woman, Mary, replied, “Perhaps if we do it through the Coven. And you buy me a nice ring.”

The first woman chuckled. “I could try. A seamstress only makes so much money you know. Maybe my brother can make something?”

“I’d love that,” Mary said.

“I would need your measurements first.”

A shriek, then a soft thud, as though one woman had tackled the other to the bed. “Now, Ann, you hold my hand often enough that I should think you have my measurements memorized!”

The hallway grew dim. Stan jumped as each door in the hallway was slammed shut. A pot at the end of the hallway shattered, spilling dirt and decayed flowers to the floor.

“It isn’t fair!” Ann cried. Stan saw her marching towards him. She had a scowl on her lips and murder in her eyes. Stan scrambled towards one of the doors but the handle wouldn’t budge. Ann was headed right for him. Stan braced himself for the worst when she passed right through him.

His limbs shaking, Stan managed to follow the woman.

Sobs escaped from her lips as she collapsed onto a bed in the room that had been closed before. Stan heard a clang of something metallic, and upon closer inspection, he discovered a ring had fallen from the woman’s hand onto the floor.

“That bastard,” the woman cursed. “It’s his fault she’s dead. He sentenced her to a hanging without a trial. I despise his guts!”

Stan flinched from her shout then found himself back in his bed. He slowly sat up, glancing around the room, scared that it would twist back into his odd nightmare. He took a deep breath. His heartbeat dulled into the faint ticking of his watch.

Just my imagination, he thought. I was just overthinking that letter.