The Box
by Pamela June Kimmell

Imagination can be a wonderful thing. As a writer, I made my living imagining and transcribing my ideas to paper for others to experience.

Yes, imagination is a tremendous gift - unless it takes you to dark places that are hard to return from.

Of course imagination was the last thing on my mind, as I sat parked on the side of the narrow country road with my out-of-date road map trying to find Route 267. While finding my way from dark places was a major concern, if I'd just left my place earlier I would have been making this journey in the light of day. Oh well - I hadn't, and it was too late now.

The ad in the paper had said "old farmhouse in idyllic, private setting". It was the 'private' part of the description that had really appealed to me. As a writer who needs peace and quiet (at least more of it than I was getting in the noisy condo complex I lived in then), it seemed just right for me. There were three bedrooms and two bathrooms and an attic space that would be perfect for an office. The real estate agent handling the property had said it had been unoccupied for some time and needed some "TLC". I could certainly handle that part.

But there I was, lost in the dark. The agent had offered to accompany me. But - oh no! - I had to say, "Thanks, but I'm sure I can find it myself." I couldn't. I wasn't even certain I could find my way back to town, at that point.

I saw headlights come around the corner behind me. Hallelujah! Someone else was out here in the middle of nowhere.

I clambered out of my car and stood in my own headlights, waving at the vehicle as it slowly approached. The old red truck was nearly as ancient as the man behind the wheel. He, barely tall enough to see over the dash, wore a faded wrinkled baseball cap covering a few strands of wispy white hair.

"Lost?" he said, rolling down his window.

"Yes, I am. Can you tell me where Route 267 is?"

"Yep - sure can. You passed it 'bout a mile back. Look for the mailbox. Says Honey Farm - that's Route 267. On your left."

I thanked him. As his truck slowly moved off, I climbed back into my car, wondering where on this goat path I could find room to turn around. Further down the road I found a wider spot, maneuvered around the other way, and headed back, looking for the landmark mailbox.

How stupid there was no sign saying "Route 267"! Just a battered old mailbox marked the intersection, but I found it, turned in, and proceeded down an even narrower track than I'd been on - and full of potholes as well! How ridiculous. Any sane person would have given up even before flagging down a stranger on a dark country road. Not me. I had to prove my self-sufficiency, didn't I?

So down the bumpy dirt road I went, with tree limbs brushing the roof and sides of my car, until I came to a clearing. Just ahead of me I could see the big frame house - with paint so white it almost glowed in the dark.

I pulled into the short driveway and stopped beside the house. I dug a flashlight out of the glove box and stepped out of the car. The night sounded different - no traffic sounds out here in the middle of nowhere - just the chirping of the crickets and the hooting of an owl in the distance.

There were no shrubbery or flowerbeds surrounding the house. It sat in the middle of a large grassy area as if it had dropped out of the sky and landed right there.

A rocker stood near the front door. I imagined bringing my coffee out there each morning to sit in that waiting chair. Crossing the deep porch, I heard no creaks. Solid. I fished the key from over the doorframe, as instructed by the real estate agent, and unlocked the door.

I expected mustiness but smelled fresh paint as I opened the heavy door. My eyes validated my nose as my flashlight revealed smooth, unmarked, oyster white walls. I located the light switch and flipped it up. A bare bulb fixture came on in the hallway so I turned off my flashlight and began exploring.

To my left was an arched doorway into a large room that occupied most, if not all, of one whole side of the house. Another light switch lit two wall sconces on either side of a large fireplace. The floors, though rather creaky, were beautiful wide oak planks that had been buffed to a shine.

So far I saw no evidence of the "TLC needed", but there was a lot more to see.

The kitchen was filled with older model appliances, but they were shining and clean. A glossy butcher-block table sat in the middle of the room. Lots of cupboards lined the walls and a walk-in pantry opened off the side.

Back through the hall to the other side of the house, where there was a dining room with a built-in corner cupboard, which would be a perfect setting for my antique porcelain serving pieces. Floor to ceiling windows, which I liked, overlooked a sheltered nook of lawn in which I could imagine a small, blossom-filled garden. A door off the dining area led to a cozy room with lots of built-in shelves - a library, I supposed. I pictured evenings there, surrounded by all my books, most of which were in the storage compartment at the condo.

Up the stairs I went and, having found no light switch in the vicinity, I again used my flashlight as I climbed upwards to the second floor. At the top was a long hall with four closed doors, and at the far end of the hallway I could see a very steeply pitched staircase to the attic.

The bedrooms were nice and about the same size. Again beautifully polished floors and fresh paint in every room. I had yet to see where any "TLC" was required here. One of the bedrooms had its own bath - again filled with old, but serviceable fixtures - I especially liked the claw foot tub. I chose that room for mine.

The other bathroom, just as clean, contained more modern fixtures and some lovely flowered wallpaper.

At the far end of the hall, where the narrow staircase was located, I found another light switch. I was hoping it would illuminate the stairs, but it didn't. In fact, it didn't do anything and, since I didn't see a ceiling fixture, I had no idea what the light switch was for.

I already knew, even without going up into the attic, that this was going to be my house. I loved it. It called to me and I felt comfortably at home here. The only disappointment so far was that the attic room, which I'd thought would be my office, might not be practical in view of this difficult little staircase.

Carefully, I started up. The narrow stairwell made a sharp turn to the right about halfway. I shined my flashlight ahead but the darkness swallowed the light like a hungry animal. I shivered and noticed goose bumps on my arms. Chilly air spiraled around me, cooler with each riser.

Under the sharply pitched roof, near the crescent shaped window, a bare fixture dangled from the rafters. Thankfully, the bulb was good and bright, for I was anxious to see the space in a better light. The attic was empty except for a large trunk. I'd have to let the agent know that the previous owners had forgotten it.

I allowed my curiosity to get the best of me and raised the lid to see what, if anything, was inside.

At the bottom of the chest was a box tied with faded and tattered ribbon. I lifted the little lovingly stored package out, closed the lid of the chest and sat the box on top. I had no business being so nosy but who could resist such a treasure from an old chest? The contents shifted and rustled softly.

Carefully I slid the old pink ribbon off the end of the box. It was dusty and delicate. Within, a small packet of letters, held by a narrow pink ribbon, rested on some silky fabric.

I set the letters aside, took the cloth out and held it up to inspect. It was a beautiful gown of white silk, with thin satin ribbons for straps and tiny pearl buttons down the deeply scooped front. There were two rows of white lace attached to the bottom of the gown and, as I held it against me, I knew that the hem would brush the floor if I wore it.

The style was flattering and very feminine. It had to be old, but appeared to be in perfect condition. I folded it back into the box, and picked up the packet of letters, knowing that my curiosity would drive me to look at them too.

Even though it was late, and chilly up in the attic, and I knew that I had no business reading these letters, I sat on the floor in the attic directly under the bulb and pulled off the ribbon.

The top letter was addressed, as were the other six or seven, in very fancy script to Miss Emmaline Porter.

I pulled out the first letter and became instantly mesmerized by the zealous love letter to Emmaline from Charles Putnam on the eve of their wedding. The depth of emotion and desire that Charles felt toward his soon-to-be wife was expressed in a most explicit and intense yet, somehow, sensitive way. I felt a thrill reading his words; I imagined that Emmaline must have as well. It would have certainly set the stage for a passion-filled wedding night.

I should have been embarrassed reading that most personal letter from the lover to his love, but I wasn't. It occurred to me that the exquisite lingerie had to have been Emmaline's, chosen especially for her wedding night. What an impression she would have made on Charles, entering the bedroom softly lit by candlelight, in that decidedly alluring gown.

Instead of reading more, I found myself daydreaming. I imagined walking towards my new husband with a secret smile on my face as his adoring eyes drank in the sight of me.

Just then, the single bulb made a popping sound and went out, breaking my trance. I needed to head for home - my watch told me it was 11:38 PM. I'd been there for three hours! At least I would be driving away from this house knowing that it soon thereafter would be mine.

I groped for my flashlight and used it as I began to replace everything in the box, intending to return it to the trunk.

I hated the idea that the gown or the loving letters would spend another night forgotten or abandoned. Impulsively, I made the decision to take them home.

So, with the box under one arm, and my flashlight showing the way, I went carefully back down the steep stairs and down to the first floor. I retraced my steps through the house turning off the lights, and, locking the door behind me and leaving the key where I'd found it, I carried my borrowed treasure to my car and placed it on the seat beside me.

I hardly noticed the bumpy ride to the country road because my mind was on the gown and the letter. I was sure the other letters were further avowals of Charles's feelings for Emmaline, which most likely had led up to the one I'd read, given to her on their wedding night.

I got home and parked in my assigned spot. I could hardly wait to read more.

I settled on to the couch with a cup of herbal tea and my treasures. In the bright light of my living room, the gown lost none of its glory. Indeed, closer inspection only heightened my appreciation for the obvious craftsmanship. Practically weightless in my hands, the lovely tidbit of silk and lace was so well preserved that I could have bought it that morning in an exclusive lingerie shop in town.

The remaining letters were as passionate and sexual as the one I'd read in the attic. For a young woman of the Victorian times in which they'd been written, the expressions of his admiration and intentions would have been quite bold.

I finished the letters and put them back in the box. As I was folding the nightgown to return it to the box as well I decided, on some overwhelming whim, to try it on.

In my bedroom, I stood awed by my reflection in the full-length mirror. The gown accentuated every curve. The fabric was so soft I hardly felt it on my skin. My hair, released from its usual ponytail, curled gracefully over my shoulders.

I couldn't part with it. I fell asleep as soon as I slipped into bed. My dreams were of Charles. Not him and his Emmaline, but Charles and me. It was our wedding night, and what a night it was. I remembered, just before waking, Charles promising me whenever I wanted him, I should wear the gown and he would be there.

My next few days were a whirlwind of meetings with real estate agents, bank officials and loan officers. But, finally, I was the new owner of Honey Farm. In the frenzy of moving after settlement, I neglected the box and its contents.

When I was at last in my new home with the furniture placed where I wanted it and the movers pulling out of the drive, I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was take a hot bath in my claw foot tub and sleep - maybe for days!

I took a long rose-scented soak in the marvelous tub. Relaxed, I thought again of the gown and the promise. I'd brought the box with me in the car rather than trusting it to the movers. It was sitting on my bed - waiting for me. That night, the first in my new home, I would wear the gown and dream about Charles.

As I slipped the gown on over my head I heard a faint noise downstairs. I decided an empty carton had fallen over - nothing worth my going down to see. I wanted to get some sleep. I wanted to be with Charles, so I slid between the clean sheets and, just as I was drifting off, I heard footsteps - definite footsteps - on the stairs.

I was not afraid. I turned on my bedside lamp and there before me, standing in the doorway, was Charles. I was truly more exhausted than I had realized! Why wasn't I petrified at this apparition smiling at me from the entrance to my bedroom? It was because I knew Charles - we had spent an incredible night together in my dreams and he was back to be with me yet again. I must be asleep. This must be a dream.

I sat up and Charles came to me.

"My darling, at last we are together," he said, holding his arms out to me. He was tall and handsome and with me again. He enfolded me tenderly in his arms and so it began.

I barely touched my writing projects in the next weeks. Nothing meant more to me than spending time with Charles.

My editor at Farnum & Gaines pestered me daily to finish the last two chapters of my book but I had lost interest. I disconnected the telephone and ignored my mail.

I noticed nothing, ate very little, and slept a great deal. Charles came to me only at night, and only if I wore Emmaline's nightgown.

One morning, as I crawled out of bed I glimpsed a tear in my gown. One of the delicate straps was loose - hanging by a thread. I needed to do some sewing. I did the best I could - I was not a seamstress - but, as I made the minor repairs, I noticed other little things that I'd been too bemused to see.

My constant use of the old gown was taking a toll on the delicate material. Two of the tiny pearl buttons were missing, and the bottom row of lace was unraveling at the hem. The once tight stitches were loose along the sides. My beautiful gown was - literally - coming apart at the seams. I mended it as best I could, and then carefully washed the delicate thing. Later, with misgivings, I laid the gown on my bed to wear that night for Charles' visit.

When I went upstairs to bed, my freshly laundered and repaired gown looked like the old garment that it actually was. I donned it though and faithfully waited for my lover. I spent the night sitting in the bed expectantly, but Charles never came to me. The same thing happened the next night and the next. I was distraught. I felt abandoned. I truly had become obsessed with Charles and the gown and the fantasy.

In the end I accepted it. I stared in my dresser mirror, unseeing, at my haggard face and the deep shadows under my eyes. My unkempt hair and sad expression nudged me out of my deeply depressed state and I realized it had all been a dream. Wishful thinking or a mental anomaly that I did not understand had ruled me for weeks. The whole interlude just had to have been something I made up in my head to take the place of having no real romance in my life. I had almost convinced myself until I noticed the envelope propped up on the pillow of my unmade bed.

There was no writing on the envelope but I tore it open and read:

I threw away the gown, as well as the old box, the remaining letters, the faded ribbons, and my fantasy.

I've stayed in that house, writing my books, never marrying, and living my secluded life for years and years. It's been a fairly content life, but I've never forgotten Charles. In many ways, it seems like yesterday when I first saw the house, found the trunk in the attic, and discovered the magical contents. I remember it so clearly.

I am now eighty-two, and very, very tired. But my tale, apparently, is not quite told.

Tonight, while preparing for bed, I opened my dresser to take out my flannel gown and there was a package there in its place. My quaking hands pulled the bright pink ribbon off the crisp white box and shook the top loose.

Inside was Emmaline's gown. My gown. As pristine and exquisite as it had been when first I'd seen it!

I held the silk to my face and felt the softness on my parchment-like skin. I slipped the gown over my head and looked in the mirror. The beautiful woman I had once been stared back at me!

I smiled at my reflection. I wait in my bed.

I know Charles will come to me this night for the last time and, just as I felt I would that first time we were together all those years ago, I will die in his arms.

Copyright © 2002 Pamela June Kimmell
All rights reserved

About the Author

Pamela June Kimmell was born in Louisville, Kentucky into a career Air Force family, and she says that she's been traveling and seeing the world ever since.

She paints and writes full-time now from her home in the beautiful Virginia countryside. She also serves as fiction editor for Epiphany Magazine and says that she enjoys reading submissions from the "wealth of talent in the writing world."

Pamela has written a mystery novel and is working on a second in that series. At the same time, she's working on a fantasy novel and several short stories, and has had several of her poems published. If you'd like to learn more about her work, please visit her website at
hometown.aol.com/junekimm/myhomepage.