like the infirm mind of an elderly gentleman playing tricks on him. I hope that is the worst of our fears, but I felt compelled to warn you of my situation.
Last week, my young boy Toby found me in my library and spoke of a man in the wood outside our home. While gathering firewood, Toby said he saw a man in a black cloak watching him. The man slipped off into the trees.
Toby spoke of seeing the man on two other occasions. Both times the man was in the wood, watching the home. Both times, the man slipped away quietly into the trees. Since then, I have forbade Toby from gathering wood, deciding it better to risk the life of an old man rather than a child, should the man mean us harm.
What compels me to write, at this time, are the events of this morning. I saw the man myself though the window of my study. He was quite a distance off. At first, I feared that I was growing infirm and gullible to the wild imagination of a young boy. I waved to the man, and he simply turned and slipped away into the trees, just as Toby described. It was when he turned and revealed his profile that I began to dread more seriously. I believe he was the tall dark man who escaped us at the ferry and created the tragic accident that is causing us to lay Evan Fields to rest.
Should there be trouble, my oath shall hold. I have destroyed my copy of the key and committed it to memory, as you have begged me to do for so long. Should you worry about the lock, rest assured that I have made arrangements so that dear Evan will have been the one to take the secret to the grave, should you ever need to convey that fact. The new lock fits the old key. Those outside our order, those without faith, would fail in a headlong rush of greed that blinds them to their surroundings. Only we, who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.
The choice of Philadelphia was an excellent one. Do not sway in your choice of the site. It will show how we held the door so that the old ones could not deny Christ’s name. It will show everyone the truth in our faith. That is reason enough to give one’s life.
If I cannot have the pleasure of your company again, I will say that I will rest happily knowing that the door will rest safely at the feet of Francis.
--
Your servant,
George Trumbull
John looked over the letter again, and marveled at the pretension strewn through it. One line, in particular, showed a self-righteous tone—a tone he hated. He mockingly recited, “Only we , who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.” He took a sip of bourbon and groaned, “Give me a break.”
A second large sticky note clung to the bottom of the second page. Hallman’s script shrank to a barely readable size, to fit a great deal of text on the small piece of yellow paper. The note read:
The references to the door, Philadelphia, and the denial of Christ’s name confused us at first. See the passage from the Book of Revelation.
Trumbull died three days after this letter: heart attack in the woods. Hanstitch was already dead when Trumbull wrote this: killed in a struggle with his wife’s lover. She committed suicide in grief the next day. (over)
John lifted the sticky note to reveal writing on its back. The note continued:
I still have not figured out what was meant by the feet of Francis. Another letter read something like “at Francis’ feet, only when the second sign no longer points to the prize, shall it be revealed.”
John turned to the next page to see the printed passage attributed to Revelation 3:7-11, which he had read at Hallman’s apartment. Given all the religious references, John suspected that the passage that mentioned Philadelphia was from the Bible. John’s brow furrowed in thought, his mind occupied by the idea that a city founded only a few hundred years ago, was named in a holy book that was much older. Unfortunately, he lacked a Bible to validate the
Last week, my young boy Toby found me in my library and spoke of a man in the wood outside our home. While gathering firewood, Toby said he saw a man in a black cloak watching him. The man slipped off into the trees.
Toby spoke of seeing the man on two other occasions. Both times the man was in the wood, watching the home. Both times, the man slipped away quietly into the trees. Since then, I have forbade Toby from gathering wood, deciding it better to risk the life of an old man rather than a child, should the man mean us harm.
What compels me to write, at this time, are the events of this morning. I saw the man myself though the window of my study. He was quite a distance off. At first, I feared that I was growing infirm and gullible to the wild imagination of a young boy. I waved to the man, and he simply turned and slipped away into the trees, just as Toby described. It was when he turned and revealed his profile that I began to dread more seriously. I believe he was the tall dark man who escaped us at the ferry and created the tragic accident that is causing us to lay Evan Fields to rest.
Should there be trouble, my oath shall hold. I have destroyed my copy of the key and committed it to memory, as you have begged me to do for so long. Should you worry about the lock, rest assured that I have made arrangements so that dear Evan will have been the one to take the secret to the grave, should you ever need to convey that fact. The new lock fits the old key. Those outside our order, those without faith, would fail in a headlong rush of greed that blinds them to their surroundings. Only we, who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.
The choice of Philadelphia was an excellent one. Do not sway in your choice of the site. It will show how we held the door so that the old ones could not deny Christ’s name. It will show everyone the truth in our faith. That is reason enough to give one’s life.
If I cannot have the pleasure of your company again, I will say that I will rest happily knowing that the door will rest safely at the feet of Francis.
--
Your servant,
George Trumbull
John looked over the letter again, and marveled at the pretension strewn through it. One line, in particular, showed a self-righteous tone—a tone he hated. He mockingly recited, “Only we , who look to heaven for the true path, would have the way, which we already knew, confirmed.” He took a sip of bourbon and groaned, “Give me a break.”
A second large sticky note clung to the bottom of the second page. Hallman’s script shrank to a barely readable size, to fit a great deal of text on the small piece of yellow paper. The note read:
The references to the door, Philadelphia, and the denial of Christ’s name confused us at first. See the passage from the Book of Revelation.
Trumbull died three days after this letter: heart attack in the woods. Hanstitch was already dead when Trumbull wrote this: killed in a struggle with his wife’s lover. She committed suicide in grief the next day. (over)
John lifted the sticky note to reveal writing on its back. The note continued:
I still have not figured out what was meant by the feet of Francis. Another letter read something like “at Francis’ feet, only when the second sign no longer points to the prize, shall it be revealed.”
John turned to the next page to see the printed passage attributed to Revelation 3:7-11, which he had read at Hallman’s apartment. Given all the religious references, John suspected that the passage that mentioned Philadelphia was from the Bible. John’s brow furrowed in thought, his mind occupied by the idea that a city founded only a few hundred years ago, was named in a holy book that was much older. Unfortunately, he lacked a Bible to validate the
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