Secrets

Darcy stared at the clock, watching the second hand tick by with mechanical uniformity. The reliability of the mechanism soothed her nerves, contrasting starkly with the uncertainty of the task before her. Her attention had been glued to the clock since 7:04, when she'd poured herself a shot of whiskey and settled it purposefully on the table before her and beside a small, grubby package hastily folded in brown paper and tied with fraying twine. The face of the package was addressed in a neat handwriting Darcy hadn't seen in over twenty years.

Darcy Abigail Midden

DO NOT OPEN UNTIL

29 July 2021 at 9:52 PM

There was no return address, no indication of the sender's identity except for the telltale clues within the lettering. Darcy knew few people with such precise penmanship, but she had only known one person to hook the 'tails' of their 'y' and 'g' letters in a complicated looping swirl like those on the envelope before her. As a child, she'd often thought the design looked like bait at the end of a fishhook.

Of course, there was one other clue as to the identity of the sender: the date.

Twenty years ago, on her tenth birthday, July 29, 2001, Darcy had lost her best friend in a tragic accident.

Except it wasn't an accident. It was Darcy's fault. No one knew that, though, and Darcy had been carefully concealing the secret her entire life. As a child, she had found places to hide on the anniversary of the incident, squirreling herself away in the trees behind her family home, burying herself in the hay of the neighbors' barn loft, wedging herself into a child-sized space between a pile of boulders in a dried-up stream. As an adult she'd simply locked her door against the outside world, turned off her phone, indulged in a single shot of whiskey, and let the guilt press in around her. Sometimes she sobbed until it felt like there wasn't a single drop of water left in her body. Sometimes she stared at the wall all night, reliving the horrible event over and over until daylight came and washed away the misery of the darkness.

After twenty years, she had hoped the pain would start to fade. It hadn't. And now this.

How was she supposed to process this? What was she supposed to do with a mysterious box left in her mailbox this morning, presumably by someone that had been dead for two decades?

What if someone knew? What if someone had figured out her secret and was taunting her? Such unique penmanship probably wasn't impossible to mimic, and while it didn't exactly make sense, it was a lot more plausible that someone living had sent this to her. But why? And why now?

The seconds ticked by, counting down to 9:52. Darcy still had fifteen minutes to go, and she was beginning to wonder why it was so important that she waited to open the envelope. Who would know if she ripped it open right now? What was so special about 9:52?

That was the part that bothered Darcy the most - the fact that she was sitting here, anxiously following the directions of a dead person was a close second, of course - but 9:52 didn't mean anything to her. She supposed it could be the exact time the accident happened, but there was no way of knowing that. All she remembered was that it had happened after dark. The clock's face blurred as the memories began to resurface.

The air was warm, thick with the summer scents of freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, and damp earth from the afternoon thunderstorm. Most of the clouds had blown away, leaving a blanket of stars and a brilliant moon in their wake. Darcy waited quietly, hardly daring to breathe as she strained to listen for signs of anyone else stirring in the house. Each creak of the old farmhouse settling sent a jolt through her, as if it was admonishing her for what she was about to do. Ignoring these imagined warnings, and satisfied that no one else was awake, Darcy slid out of bed. She was already fully clothed and ready for her late-night birthday adventure. She crossed to her window in her socks, gathering up her sneakers and draping them around her neck by the laces, which she'd carefully tied together before climbing into bed a few hours earlier.

It was a short drop from her window to the porch roof, and then a matter of shimmying down the trellis with the creeper vines to get to the backyard. Darcy moved as quickly and quietly as she could. The sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears made it difficult to listen for signs that her family had heard her sneaking out. The creeper vines were the loudest part of her journey, swishing with each movement she made in her descent, but she hoped it sounded like a breeze rustling the leaves or a small animal scuffling about for bugs. Once her feet touched the damp grass of the backyard, Darcy unknotted her laces and slipped on her shoes before racing out across the lawn and disappearing into the tree line at the edge of the property.

She had forgotten to bring a flashlight, but the moon was so bright Darcy had no problem picking a path through the trees to the rendezvous spot. Following the dry stream bed, she worked her way toward the old forest service guard tower. It was off-limits, but meeting at the tower after dark was a rite of passage for every fifth grader in Townsend. Now that Darcy was officially ten, it was her turn to make the trip.

Anxious voices drifted out of the trees to her left. Darcy slowed, looking for a good place to climb out of the stream bed. She had just started clambering over a couple of boulders when a ghostly hand stretched in front of her face. Darcy yelped and fell back. Laughter floated down to her, some of it genuine, some of it muted with quiet anxiety.

"Come on Midget, we don't have all night."

Darcy recognized Daniel Felter's voice and immediately felt her cheeks burn. She should have recognized her best friend, even in the dark!

"Alright, alright. Don't call me Midget!" she whispered as she tackled the boulders again and pulled herself up, level with the rest of the group.

There were just five of them, including Darcy, for this trip. Daniel, the only boy that was allowed to call her Midget (even though she publicly denounced it), Tyler Moore, Sarah Fielding, and Sarah’s twin brother Jacob.

"Are you sure we should be here?" Tyler asked.

"You chicken?" Sarah taunted, sprinting toward the short path that led to the tower.

"No!" Tyler hissed, racing to catch up with her.

Jacob shrugged and followed them, with Daniel and Darcy close behind.

The tower loomed before them, easing out of the dark and into the moonlight as if by magic. Darcy tipped her head back to take in the full view, from the spiraling metal staircase to the spindly stilts that held up a small, boxy room that had once served as a guard tower. In the daylight, it looked like a rundown, abandoned building. In the moonlight, it looked sinister.

Sarah had bolted up to one of the stilts, slapped her palm against it, and raced back to the safety of the group.

"Ha! I touched it first you chickens!" She sang out in triumph.

"Shhh! Someone might hear us," Jacob scolded her, making his way to the stilts where Tyler was also reaching out a hand to touch the tower.

Daniel gestured for Darcy to go next. Feeling braver than usual, she said, "Has anyone gone up there?"

Tyler, Sarah, and Jacob hissed in shock.

"No, dummy. No one actually goes up there. It's probably haunted. Or you'll fall through the floor and die or something," Sarah said.

"It's haunted for sure," Tyler added.

Darcy placed a hand on the nearest stilt, peering at the staircase in the center for any obvious signs of danger. Jacob and Sarah were whispering behind her.

"She'll never do it."

"Well don't push her!"

"I'm not!"

Without a word, Darcy crossed to the stairs. They groaned against her weight but held as she raced to the top and burst out onto the small deck surrounding the tower room.

"Are you crazy? Get down!" Sarah called up to her.

Darcy ignored her, overcome by a sudden fear of the dark woods sprawled out below. She was vaguely aware of arguing among the others and watched as Sarah, Tyler, and Jacob turned and disappeared into the trees. Frozen in fear, Darcy wanted to follow but her body wouldn't move.

"Midget? Time to go." Daniel's hand was soft on her shoulder as he coaxed her away from the railing and back down the stairs. He made her go in front of him, and she skipped the last few steps, leaping for the ground and scrambling away from the tower as if it was haunted.

Darcy was halfway to the stream bed before she realized Daniel wasn't with her. Where was he? She swallowed, listened. A breeze rustled the trees, but nothing else stirred. He must have gotten stuck on the stairs.

Racing back along the path, Darcy was driven by the only thing that could push aside her fear: love for her best friend. She reached the stilts and peered up at the stairs but didn't see anything. That's when she heard it - an otherworldly sound like the moans of an angry ghost. Daniel must have heard it too and taken off. He'd probably passed her in the woods, and she hadn't realized it in the dark. Dummy!

Darcy bolted for the stream, not slowing until she had reached the trellis and clambered back into her bedroom. With the window safely locked behind her, she settled into bed and hoped that Daniel had gotten home safe. She'd hate for him to get caught sneaking back inside his house.

Stupid, Darcy thought as the clock swam back into view. She'd been so stupid. There was no ghost. Only her best friend, broken at the base of the stairs, moaning in agony.

When a couple of hikers found his body the next day, none of the four others that had been out that night came forward and admitted to being with Daniel before his accident. Darcy had gone essentially mute for weeks, too ashamed to tell anyone it was her fault. The school counselor chalked her behavior up to the trauma of losing a friend, but Darcy knew better. Daniel had only been up the tower because she'd had to be brave, had to climb those stupid stairs. Maybe he would have survived if she'd realized it was him moaning and hadn't run like a scared child.

That's what she'd been, though. It didn't matter how many times the logical part of her brain explained that she was a child, that she was scared. She had killed her best friend, and she'd been too scared to admit it her entire life.

Now here she was, twenty years later, staring at a package with her name on it in his handwriting.

The second hand circled the clock.

9:52.