Life Twice Lived

Dear reader, settle in, because I’m about to tell you a tale.

I must begin by saying this is not solely my story. Even though it has now made its way to me, the main events took place decades ago.

Now, I can understand why one might not take the following story as pure truth – and that, dear reader, is your decision entirely – but at the very least, I’m asking you to hear me out, and if at all possible, to keep an open mind.

The world around us is filled with stories that sound implausible and some flat-out made up. But that’s the thing – even if they sound made up, does not always mean they are. A lot of the things happening in the world can’t be explained with facts familiar to our minds, but that doesn’t make them any less true. They're not impossible, but simply inexplainable.

Since I wasn’t a part of the first half of the story, you’ll hear it the way I heard it from my great-aunt Veronica.

In fact, it is one of the last things she ever told me, or anybody, for that matter. A bit unsettling and mysterious story. Honestly, I could’ve easily listened to it and thought my poor aunty was losing it if it weren’t for the events that followed her death.

I can clearly hear Aunt Veronica's voice in my head if anyone ever dared to doubt her clear mind. So, just to play it safe – should she be listening from somewhere – I’ll say it for her: "I remember things worth three of your lifetimes. I remember the Second World War like it was yesterday, and I remember how many eggs I scrambled this morning, so don’t you question my mind. The only things questionable about me are that left hip and the fake teeth in my mouth!"

She told me this story two days before her passing, at 98 years old. I was visiting her in her home, as I did every week. But this time was different. I could feel it from the moment I stepped into her house. The air clung to my skin, heavy and electric. Butterflies appeared in my stomach out of nowhere. I was anxious, but a little excited at the same time.

I announced my arrival with a loud "Hello!" down the hall to the right of the front door. A quick glance at my watch, showing her usual afternoon nap hour, made me believe that was where I'd find her. I almost jumped, and dropped the almond–black-currant pie I had brought along, when she calmly asked from behind me, "Why are you yelling? I’m right here," as she looked up from her desk in the study, from the left-hand side.

I cut two slices from the pie, dished them up, and set them on the kitchen table. Aunt Veronica, carrying a bunch of papers, sat down across from me. Her eyes were fixed on a little photograph with worn, yellowed edges. Without any introduction or pleasantries, she asked me if anyone had ever told me about her son. I shook my head. I never knew she had a child.

She handed me the photograph of a little, smart-looking boy. He wore suspenders and a flatcap, and he was hugging a gigantic book that must have weighed about as much as the boy himself.

Aunt Veronica told me she had had a child, who had unfortunately lived on this earth for only ten and a half years. The boy’s name had been Timothy, although he himself would’ve argued differently.

One day, he had woken up and declared that he was now going by the name Thomas. At first, Aunt Veronica had thought this to be another one of Tim’s games and gladly went along with it, calling him Thomas the entire day. But the game had continued the next day, and the next, and the one after that until the name had stuck. For the last three years of his life, he’d demanded to be called Thomas, and anyone who knew him had known him to be just that.

Thomas had been a boy very different from his peers. He’d preferred reading and writing his own stories rather than playing ball or going fishing. He’d loved history books and crosswords, and he'd been strangely fond of dictionaries. He'd loved learning new words and finding ways to use them in everyday conversations.

On his eighth birthday, when his mum – my great-aunt Veronica – had asked him if he’d like a peach cake for dessert, which used to be his favourite, Thomas had answered, "As a man nearly in the middle of the second lustrum of his life, I’d prefer something more decadent. Perhaps a chocolate cake instead."

Aunt Veronica admitted that she'd had to look up the word "lustrum" to understand what that boy was in the middle of before she could answer him.

She'd noticed a lot of little changes in her son after he'd demanded to be called Thomas. For example, he'd used to love fish, but had overnight started hating it and preferring chicken instead. Cucumber and radishes had become his new favourite vegetables, and he had begun to despise tomatoes. It is important to mention that before the age of seven, when Thomas was still Timothy, his favourite dish had been tomato soup, and he'd found radishes bitter and disgusting. During the following weeks, Thomas’s preferences had changed a lot.

Aunt Veronica had asked him why he’d chosen that particular name. He had answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world – he just felt that this is his real name and that this might have been his name in the previous life.

Thomas had been a boy with an unbelievably vivid imagination. He’d loved making up stories that he sometimes told in such detail that Veronica herself started believing them. More than once, Aunt Veronica had burnt dinner when she'd forgotten to stir it, being swallowed by one of Thomas’s stories.

Little Thomas had told an elaborate story of a man named Thomas who had been a journalist and a photographer for a newspaper. He’d apparently worn flatcap and suspenders, which little Thomas had asked for as well.

*

Aunt Veronica tapped on the photograph in front of me and said that this photo was taken shortly after buying the items Thomas had wanted.

*

A couple of years after Timothy had become Thomas, Veronica had taken him with her when she went mushroom picking. She knew it wasn’t going to be Thomas’s favourite thing to do, but she had believed that a child needs fresh air. So, they had taken a bus to an area outside of town where Veronica believed the good spots for mushroom picking should have been. Or at least, the ladies at the hair salon had said so.

They’d wandered around the forest for an hour and a half without finding a single mushroom when Veronica had finally listened to Thomas, who’d been telling her the entire time to go across the road and down the hill for mushrooms.

Since they’d been about to leave anyway, Veronica had decided to amuse Thomas and go exactly where he had instructed. After a three-minute walk, they’d found themselves in a gorgeous, mossy pine forest, surrounded by a golden sea of chanterelle mushrooms. They’d filled their baskets and pockets to the brim, and had walked back to catch the afternoon bus back to town.

Later, when Veronica had asked Thomas how he’d known to go there, the boy simply said, "I recognized the place because Thomas photographed it years ago for the newspaper."

At ten years old, Thomas had told his mother that he'd been working on a big, important article for the newspaper, like the Thomas from his story. According to him, it had been a big secret, and he'd had to be very careful because it was dangerous for some reason, but once it was published, he would be famous.

*

Aunt Veronica sighed and took a forkful of pie, chewing it slowly with her eyes closed. She exhaled and blinked quickly, as if trying to erase the memory that loomed behind her eyelids.

She reached for the pile of papers she had brought along earlier.

"When I’m gone..." she started.

"No! Don’t talk like that!"

"Don’t interrupt me, girl. My dear, we all know this time is approaching, and it doesn’t have to be a sad thing. Think of it like this – I can finally be with my little boy again."

I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her.

She continued, "So... when I’m gone, I want you to have the house. I’ve kept it the way I had it, to live with my memories, because that was all I had besides you and your mother. But I’ll be taking those with me in my heart. So take it. Make it your own. Turn it into a home for yourself."

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and landed on my light blue jeans. I got up and hugged Aunt Veronica from behind.

I felt her chuckle as she said, "It’s okay, dear."

I dried my eyes and sat next to her, holding her hand.

"What was the story about? The one Thomas was supposedly writing?"

Aunt Veronica sighed again, staring into the abyss. "I don’t know. He never told me. It was apparently confidential information. His words, not mine. And about a month later, on the morning of April 13th, when I went to wake him, he wasn’t breathing anymore. Just like that. Doctors couldn’t tell what had happened. None of the examinations or tests showed any abnormalities or health issues. He was a strong, healthy boy!"

Aunt Veronica passed away in her sleep two days after that conversation.

Like I said, on its own, this story is a little strange and unsettling, but nothing too crazy.

Hmm, I wonder how many stories that I’ve heard are incomplete, missing that second part that would make them whole...

Ahem, anyway...

I bet you’re still waiting for the impossible and inexplainable part of the story, right?

About four months after Aunt Veronica’s passing I got started on renovations. I was sorting through her belongings when I came across a key that I couldn’t figure out the use for. I held onto it until one day, while moving furniture, I discovered a door hidden behind a large bookshelf at the end of the second-floor hall.

I'd always thought that's where the hall ended, but as it turns out, there was a locked door behind it. I dug out the key I had found, and wiped off the dust from the lock. The key had to be forced into the hole, but once it was in, it turned smoothly.

To my surprise, the door opened silently. I inhaled the air that was nearly seventy years old and could smell the world as it had been back then. Clothes were folded on the chair behind the desk, and suspenders hung over the back of it. The bed was neatly made, and three large books were stacked on the bedside table. Two of them didn’t have a name on them, but the third – the biggest one, the one from the photograph – had "Dictionary" written across the back.

Everything in the room was covered with a layer of even, undisturbed dust. I felt the same strange sensation as I had on the day I last spoke to Aunt Veronica. The mix of anxiety and excitement, the air hanging heavy yet electric around me.

I had stripped every wall of old, faded wallpapers and finally began the same job in that room as well. A piece of worm-eaten wood crumbled to the floor as I ripped off the old wallpaper.

The hole in the wall revealed a cut-out of a newspaper glued to the wall behind it. A black-and-white photo of a forest floor covered in chanterelle mushrooms peered through the hole.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Record Yield of Chanterelles Collected This Lustrum."

Photo captured by Thomas Lockridge.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Chills ran up and down my spine as I heard Aunt Veronica’s voice in my ears, describing the field of mushrooms Thomas had led them to and the use of an ancient word "lustrum" that not many people used, even back then.

It seemed as if the inner, now worm-eaten, layer of the wall had been added later, and there was about three-inch gap between the two. I continued ripping off that second layer, revealing more and more photographs and newspaper cut-outs. Each one had the author’s name under it: Thomas Lockridge.

And there he was – the man himself – dark trousers, white shirt, suspenders on, wearing a flatcap. The photo was almost identical to the one Aunt Veronica had shown me of her son, except the man in the newspaper photo was in his thirties and, instead of a book, he was holding a large camera.

A thick black headline was revealed as I broke off another piece of crumbling wall.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Thomas Lockridge’s Final Story May Have Cost Him His Life."

Could the truth be closer than we dare imagine? Young journalist Thomas Lockridge was found dead shortly after midnight, not long after completing an assignment rumored to expose ties between local officials and organized crime. The cause of Mr. Lockridge’s passing remains unknown; no outward signs of violence were present, and the town’s physicians are at a loss to explain the untimely death. Authorities have opened an inquiry, though whispers in the city suggest Lockridge may have uncovered more than anyone expected.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The date of the newspaper – April 13, 1923.

I stared at that wall for a long time. Someone clearly had put effort into finding all the information about a man named Thomas Lockridge.

At first, I had thought this might have been Mr. Lockridge’s office, where he had displayed his work. But if so, then who had added the cut-out about his death to the wall? It must have been someone else. Perhaps another journalist investigating his life and death, and the story that got him killed? A police officer? The killer? And why was the wall covered up with another wall? Why not just remove the photos and articles?

There are still so many questions unanswered, and a high probability they’ll remain that way. Unless, there’s a third part to this story that is yet to be revealed.

Did Thomas Lockridge reincarnate as Timothy? And did Timothy really have memories from his previous life as Mr. Lockridge? Or had Timothy somehow picked up some lingering energy from the newspaper articles that were three inches from his head every night, and started associating it with himself? How had he even known the name Thomas? How is it possible they died on the exact same date, just as mysteriously? What had killed them?

Now, dear reader, is the moment where you get to decide on the plausibility of this story. I don’t blame you, should you find it all easier to dismiss than to admit as truth, but the fact remains that whichever way you decide does not change the story itself. This is what happened to my great-aunt’s son, and this is what I, myself, discovered in that sealed room in her house.

I’m hopeful that someday I'll find answers to at least some of my questions. But as for most of it? Well... your guess is as good as mine.