8. Ami
Chapter eight
Ami
The next morning, I wake up to the distinct sensation of something warm and heavy on my chest. Blinking groggily, I focus on the furry face of Dusty, her green eyes staring intently at me.
She is settled herself comfortably, purring contentedly, as if she owns the place.
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, gently lifting her off and sitting up.
She stretches languidly, then hops off the bed with the grace only a cat can possess.
Aunt Maggie had quietly opened my door to deposit said cat earlier. I think she said it was the monthly pest control guy coming to the bookstore and she figured Dusty would have more fun with me than alone in her house. But what about me with a small monster loose in my house?
I glance around the room, now bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.
And Dusty is now sauntering over to my desk, her paws deftly navigating the mounds of scattered papers and notebooks.
"Careful, you little tornado," I warn, watching as she bats at a pen and sends it rolling to the floor.
She pays no heed, of course, and continues her exploration, her tail flicking playfully.
As I get out of bed and stretch, Dusty jumps onto a stack of the old letters Ethan and I had found last night.
She makes herself comfortable, sprawling across them with a proprietary air.
I can’t help but chuckle at the sight. I pick up a particularly ancient-looking envelope, its edges frayed and yellowed with age.
Dusty’s eyes follow my movements, but she doesn’t budge.
It’s as if she’s decided these letters are her new bed.
"Alright, you win, at least for a while" I say, giving her a gentle scratch behind the ears before heading to the kitchen.
As I make my morning coffee, I hear the rustle of papers and the soft patter of cat paws.
Coffee in hand, I see that Dusty has relocated to my chair, curled up and purring. I shake my head in amusement, nudging her gently. "Come on. I need that chair."
With an indignant meow, she hops down, flicking her tail in mild annoyance. As I settle into my chair, sipping my coffee, I glance to see her now perched on the windowsill, watching the world outside.
For the next few days, Ethan and I work together to make sense of these old letters we found.
Most of them are ruined, the ink is faded, or they are torn apart.
The boxes are filled with old drawings, poems, stories.
"It seems like the people needed to hide them and keep them away from everyone's eyes.
I wonder why?" Ethan wonders aloud as we go through another box of old documents.
"Yeah, same. Because these are some of the most amazing drawings I have ever seen, and I can't believe someone would hide this away. And for what reasons?" I’m questioning everything. We’re both equally confused.
“Look here,” Ethan points at something. 'I look over at him, and he is showing me an old letter.
It says " SBSS: Seabrook Secret Society.”
"Whoa. So, did this town had a secret society?" I turn to him; he looks just as shocked as I am. We begin to look more closely into the box, hoping to find something else related to this secret society. We both start looking through the secret society box.
We find lots of stuff, including letters signed by the founding fathers of this town.
I question to myself, but out loud. So, this society was operating under the leadership of the founding fathers of this town.
But if they were founding fathers, then why was there a need for them to have a secret society?
They were the leaders; they could have done anything.
I look over at Ethan. We both need answers.
I stumble upon a letter in the box. “Is it another SBSS related letter?” Ethan asks.
"No, it looks like a personal letter written to someone," I say and then begin to read.
“ My dear darling daughter Margerette. I hope you're doing well.
I am doing well, too. However, things in this town are not as good as they were before.
Although I am happy that this town has grown a lot, but with more people, there are troubles increasing as well.
We created this place as a safe haven for like-minded fellows.
Artists, poets, writers, and musicians from all over the world came here to explore their creativity and be free.
But now, things are changing. Our culture and traditions are fading away.
I am deeply saddened to see this town fall apart right in front of my eyes, but me and the rest of the old residents and we are all helpless.
People don't want to participate in our festivals where we celebrate art or events that we hold to share our talents.
Our cultural center was turned into a community hall.
The history of this town is fading. My beloved, I am writing you this letter because I don't know when I will get to see you again.
I am gravely sick, and my heart is hurting seeing the current situation of the town I and my friends worked so hard to create.
I hope one day I get to see your face again, but if I don't see you again, I want you to carry on my legacy.
With this letter, I am sending you some pieces of my heart; my old Seabrook. Please cherish them forever.
All my love.
Your father,
Gregory Matthew”
Ethan and I sit in silence for a minute after reading this letter, wondering why it is still here and apparently never mailed to Margerette.
We go through the whole box and find lots of the things that are mentioned in the letter.
Everything Gregory Matthew wrote has started making sense of our finds.
These poems, short stories, and drawings belong to Seabrook.
They are all the history of Seabrook. History is something that others have tried hard to erase.
“So, Seabrook is not some typical town after all,” Ethan looks at me and smiles.
"But what happened to all of this? I mean, if this is what Seabrook used to be, then where did all of it go?" I turn to him for answers, but he is just as clueless.
“Let’s look at more stuff. I am sure we will find something. Someone tried to erase the true history of this town and apparently succeeded; I’m hoping that we can find the culprit within these documents, too.”
We go through most of the rest of the old letters and boxes. And with each letter we open, we find something new about this town.
“I can’t believe that I’ve lived here for so long and had no idea what this place was really about.” Ethan looks at me with disbelief.
“I wonder if Aunt Maggie knew anything about this.”
"I don't think anyone who lives here right now knows about any of this. These are secrets that have been hidden for decades now."
“What should we do with this new information now?” I ask him.
Ethan doesn’t know. But he agrees that we can’t just keep it hidden.
Now that we know, we owe it to this town and its founding members to tell their stories.”
"Are these all, or is there something more?" Ethan looks at me.
I produce the last bunch of the documents that we’ve found so far from under the table and put it in front of him. I’m hoping if we go through these, we may find the actual reason behind everything that happened and why the history was erased like this."
We start looking. And Ethan finds another letter and checks who it is written to.
“Is it from Gregory Matthew again?”
"No, it's addressed to someone named "Mitchell Johnson," he replies.
"'Johnson,' you say?" I look at him.
"Yeah, it's on the envelope; why?"
“That is Aunt Maggie’s maternal family name,” I explain. “So this could be her ancestor. Let’s see what it has to say.”
"Mitchell. I am leaving town for four months; I have business elsewhere.
I must leave things in your hands. I hear that a secret society has been formed, and they are still operating underground.
You must put an end to this madness. We cannot let these people tarnish the name of our good town.
The reputation is at stake. I have done my part, and now I have to leave things in your hands for the time being.
I am sending you this package that contains all the information about this secret cult; take care of things while I am away.
Make sure you leave no trace of what Seabrook used to be.
I know I am asking a lot, but you must do it for Seabrook's sake.
Agnes.”
I don’t know what to say after reading this letter.
“This… what is this?” I look over at Ethan in shock and he is looking at me.
“Agnes. Whoever she was. She was working with this guy named Mitchell Johnson to change this town and erase the founding fathers’ society,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, but what for?” I’m more than intrigued. From the looks of it, I think they didn't want the town to have the art enclave reputation that it had. I look at Ethan and ask:
"But the town was full of creative people, and they came to erase them. Why exactly? I don't understand." I really don't get it. I’m sure Ethan can’t tell me either, but I have to let my frustration all out. His response reflects what I think as well. “It’s only a guess, Ami. I presume many people in those days didn’t accept creative people, and they used to think very lowly of such people. Maybe that’s why they erased the history, made it a typical town, and tried to harden the real history of this place. "
"That is so messed up, though Ethan. I mean, Seabrook clearly wasn't any typical town.
It was a special, lively town full of music, art, fun traditions, and an amazing, unique culture.
Look at all those documents that show the real history.
I can't believe all of that was erased like that," I shake my head in disbelief.