Burnt Silver

May 5, 1957

“Janie, you gotta do it. You and Fred are the best swing dancers in Virginia,” the soda jerk urged as he set two floats with bobbing cherries on the laminate table.

Janie smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. “Fred and I are on a date. We’ll dance another time.”

Fred combed his fingers through his slicked back sandy blond hair. “Why not? We have to show Annie and Phil up. They think they’re better than us.”

Janie looked across Cal’s Diner. Every booth and stool at the counter was taken. Waiters rushed back and forth across the black and white checkered floors to the upbeat music of a neon juke box in the corner. Any spare room was filled with couples swing dancing in an organized frenzy of adrenaline. Annie, the most popular cheerleader at Aldine College, snapped in time with the music as she did a few tap dance moves that everyone knew. Phil, her boyfriend, tried to keep up, but his muscular football legs weren’t coordinated enough. Janie shrugged and took a sip of her float, letting the sweet liquid tantalize her taste buds.

He grabbed her hand. His fingertips were calloused and smelled like typewriter ink, rich and earthy. “Please, doll? You know how much I love dancing with you.”

Janie sighed. She could never resist his dimpled smile. “Alright…”

As the next song started, he pulled her onto the floor that was alive with twirling poodle skirts and tapping saddle shoes. “Let’s show them that jitterbug,” he said with a playful wink.

People stopped eating as the whisper went around the room: “Janie and Fred are dancing!” All the other dancers looked like school children compared to them, especially Annie and Phil. Janie’s face glowed, and her curly cobalt hair tossed about as she tap danced vigorously. Fred spun her in and out then swung her effortlessly under his legs, his feet constantly moving. They didn’t even notice that the noise had died down as everyone else stopped to watch. For them, it was just the music and each other. Nothing else mattered.

When the song ended, the diner erupted with applause. Janie blushed crimson, embarrassed with all the attention. But Fred invited the attention. “Thank you, thank you,” he said with a sweeping bow.

When the applause died down, Fred led her to a quieter booth in a back room. It had a window that looked out onto Main Street. The street lights and a candle flickering on the table set the mood. “What was all that about?” she demanded, still breathless.

“What can I say? The people love you.”

“I think they love you. You can’t help but love a tall, strong man with perfect sapphire eyes who is also a brilliant writer,” she teased. “I mean, look at me. I fell in love. It was right here in this booth if I recall.”

He nodded. “How could you forget?”

“First, you smeared ink on my favorite blouse. Then, you told me I reminded you of Bess from the Highwayman. From that moment, I’ve loved you with all my heart. That was almost three years ago.”

“Actually it’s exactly three years ago tonight. And to celebrate that I have something for you.” From under the booth, he pulled out a pure silver jewelry box the size of his hand. “For my Bess,” he said handing the box and key with an emerald encrusted in the top to her.

She took it, surprised at how cool and heavy it was. The smooth surface had barely noticeable engraved words on it. It read, “Watch for me by moonlight. I’ll come to thee by moonlight though hell should bar the way- The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes.” The feet of the box were studded with obsidian roses, and the inside was lined with scarlet velvet.

It’s bea…” Suddenly, as she glanced behind his shoulder out the window, her face paled. She stared, frozen mid-word.

Fred turned his head to see what had caused this change. A single traffic light changed from red to green. But the road outside was empty of cars and people. However, Fred thought he saw a shadow of a person turning the corner into the alley beside the diner. “Who was that?”

“No one,” Janie answered hastily. “But Fred, I need you to promise me that, no matter what you’ll always come for me, though...though hell himself might stand in your way.”

He scanned her face: tense, biting her lip, her eyebrows knit together. “Darling? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I…I can’t. Just promise me?” She clutched the key to her jewelry box to her chest, and watched him earnestly, expecting an answer.

He could never resist those wide, doe eyes. “I promise. I will always come for you.”

January 2, 1960

Fred stared at the ceiling in the darkness waiting for sleep to come. In his room, the moon sent shafts of haunting light across the floor. It was a cold night, but his wife’s warmth kept him from needing another blanket. All of a sudden, a violent wind rocked the house, rattling the windows. In the distance, dogs barked to announce the approaching storm. Janie reached over and squeezed his arm, her hands ice cold and sweaty.

“Fred? Fred, are you awake?”

“No,” he growled, rolling over.

“Fred! Are…are the windows shut?”

“Yes, honey. Go back to sleep.”

“Will you check?”

He groaned, rolled out of bed, and fumbled with the lamp on the bedside. When he turned it on, the sudden light stung his eyes. The room filled with the light. Now he could see everything-their four posted oak bed covered in silk sheets, the rich floral wallpaper, his wife’s ivory dresser in the corner, his well-worn desk with his even more worn typewriter, and the stain glass bay window Janie was so worried about. Shuffling his feet across the hardwood floor, he went to the window and climbed up on the plush window seat, used for reading on rainy days. Tonight, frost covered the panes, and a light dust of snow coated the wizened maple tree outside. He jiggled the latch. Locked tight.

“Can you check the door, too?” Janie whispered frantically.

“Why? The butler locks all the main doors before he goes home.”

“I think we need to lock our door too. I’m scared of this big, empty house.”

“Why?” he demanded, tired and ready to crawl back in bed.

A crack of thunder shook the room. Janie squealed and pulled the covers closer around her chin. Even in the dim lamplight, her face looked like she had seen a ghost. “I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.”

Fred rubbed his eyes. It was too late to start another fight. “Where is the key?”

“Under my jewelry box.”

He picked up her box from off the ivory dresser in the corner to pull out the key. Her box hadn’t changed; it was still as beautiful as the night he had given it to her two years ago. But as he noticed his reflection in the box, he realized that he had changed. Unkempt stubble peppered his square chin, and worry lines surrounded his sleepy eyes. It had only been two years- first a year of joy, the long awaited wedding, the publishing and popularity of his first novel, the purchasing of this lovely mansion in the country, and the hope of a baby on the way. And now a year of pain-the death of the baby and the drastic change in his wife. For every wrinkle of his, she had three, and gray streaks had begun to show in her curls. His mind swirled with questions.

What had happened? What was she so scared of? Why wouldn’t she tell him?

Pulling himself back to the present, he took the dusty key that he had never used and stuck in their intricately-carven door’s keyhole. It made a foreboding “click” that echoed through the room as he turned it.

Janie’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

As he flipped off the light and wriggled back into bed, thunder rolled once more, and torrents of rain beat on the house. Janie curled into a ball, mumbling to herself. He knew from experience that trying to comfort her only made it worse. So he resumed gazing at the crown-molding and cob webs on the ceiling.

Would things ever go back to normal?

August 21, 1960

The sky burned crimson and deep orange as the sun fell behind swirling clouds. Hawks cried lustily for their prey, and Janie flew up the stairs of her house, her feet barely touching the ground. Her breathing was deep and rapid; sweat poured down her delicate forehead like a river.

He’s coming. He has found me at last.

She glanced behind her at every turn, and only her shadow followed her…for now. Once in her room, Janie hurriedly grabbed a leather suitcase from under her bed.

Faster, faster. No time.

She threw clothes into it, not caring what they were-a jean dress, a blouse or two, corduroy pants, underclothes, sunglasses, a pair of black stilettos.

Go, go.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she unlocked her jewelry box. She dumped all her jewelry into the case then slammed it case shut.

But Fred. Fred has to know where to find me.

Scrambling she tore a piece of fabric from her white linen skirt and scribbled a note on it. At that moment, she heard the thud of a boot on the stairs.

He’s here. He can’t find this.

Her eyes fell on the open jewelry box-the perfect hiding spot. She stuffed the note into the box, closed it, and locked it. Knowing that her note was safe, she threw open the bay window and gingerly stepped onto the branch of the maple tree. She kissed the jewelry box key and set it on the window sill, whispering, “He’ll come to me by moonlight though hell should bar the way.” With that, she started down the tree like an expert. But as she pulled her suitcase out of the window, it knocked the key. It fell, fell, fell between a shutter and the wall of the house.

Moments later, hell himself arrived to claim his long missing daughter. She was gone. He noticed the open window and laughed as he watched her run across the fields from the house. “Well played, Jane girl. But you can’t run from me forever.”

September 27, 2014

“Burned down last week,” the Red Cross leader told Chris. “The owner was out of town, thank goodness. He’s an old guy, might not have survived. No one lives around here really. So when the Fire Department got here, it was already pretty much done for.”

Chris, a member of the Red Cross in Virginia surveyed the damaged house. It must have been stunning in its time, for he could still see the charred remains of a grand staircase that must have existed. But the rest was a ruinous mess of burnt boards, twisted metal, and piles of ash. Smoke still lingered in the air, making the atmosphere stiflingly hot.

“Chris, Brian, and the rest of Sean’s group, I’m going to put you to work looking for any items that can be salvaged. If you find anything put it in your backpacks then into the truck. If not, just toss ‘em back in. Anything left will get bulldozed and sent to the dump tomorrow,” the leader explained.

Chris got to work raking through the rubble. His friend, Brian, worked beside him.

“Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve heard weird stories about this place. Want to hear them?”

Chris reached down and picked up a book by a man named Fred Moore. The cover had burn marks, but most of the pages were still in good condition. He dropped it into Brian’s backpack. “Alright. But we have to keep working. I want to finish this part by lunch.”

Brian grabbed what was left of bedside lamp. It was missing its shade and the base was broken, so he threw it back. “I’m still working, see? Now… you know that the old guy who owns this house was gone when the fire happened.”

“I’m not deaf.”

“Well, one of the neighbors told me that he is always gone. No one even lives in this house.”

“Then why is there so much stuff?” Chris said, gesturing to Brian’s already full backpack and the truck that was filling up with half-scorched furniture.

“The guy lived here with his wife for two years. Then one day…she disappeared.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many CSI episodes.”

“Seriously! Apparently this guy has been traveling the world looking for her. It’s been thirty years-at least! They say she ran away because after she went missing so did a suitcase and some clothes. But the neighbor said that she thought that the wife was forced to run away.”

“If that were true, don’t you think she would have told him where she was going?”

Brian shrugged. “Maybe.”

They continued working in silence for a few minutes until Brian exclaimed, “Hey, look!” He pulled out a key from the pile of ashes he was working on. He rubbed it against his already soiled shirt and held it up. It shined so bright in the sun, it was almost blinding. “Woah! I think this has a real emerald on it! It has to be important. I’m sure the owner will want it back,” he said, carefully placing it in a zipper pocket of his backpack. “Maybe it unlocks a treasure chest, and he will give me part of the treasure as a reward for finding the key.”

Chris just smiled at his friend’s imagination as he took another step right into something metal. “Ow!” Chris yelled, as pain shot up his foot.

“What happened?” Brian asked.

“Nothing. I just stubbed my toe.” Chris ignored his throbbing toe to lift the mysterious object he had hurt it on.

“What is it?”

“Good question.” Chris held a heavy, black metal box in his hand. He shook it. It sounded hollow. He took a whiff of it-smelled like smoke just like everything else. He used his nail to scratch off a layer of soot to only reveal more blackness.

“Must be something they used to build the house with,” Brian conjectured.

Chris looked closely at it. He thought he saw roses on it and a place that looked a bit like a lid. Something in him urged him to put it in the backpack. It was too peculiar to dismiss. But instead of listening to the feeling, he convinced himself that he was imagining things and dropped it right back where he had found it.

“Whatever it is, it’s just rubbish now.”

The End