Locked
By J. L. Young
(Bark and old wooden trunk)

Two weeks out of escrow, I finally moved into my new home. I negotiated for the furniture to remain because it felt right. The house was old but well-maintained. It sold for less than it should. Good for me. I even liked the sound my shoes made on the reclaimed hardwood floor.

The scent of new paint came from every room in the house, but it was strongest in the kitchen, where I enjoyed a cup of Cappuccino. The gray-black granite countertop looked fresh from the quarry and the grain caught my eye every time I stepped foot into the room.

As night fell on my new-to-me home, I sat in the comfortable maroon leather wingback chair by the fireplace, turned on the lamp on the table beside me, and set to read. Time moved without notice. My dog came in through the doggie door and began lapping up water from his dish, pulling me from a Science Fiction world of bounty hunters, lovers, and villainous aliens.

I rubbed my weary eyes and took to the kitchen for a drink of water for myself. Diogie looked up from his nearly empty bowl and he walked out of the room. I procured a bottle from the fridge when I heard his familiar bark. He was hardly ever this talkative.

Diogie wasn’t on the first floor, so I climbed the stairs and into the long wide hallway flanked by many doors. The Malinois stood beneath the attic door. Diogie saw me and sat. “What is it, boy?” I asked.
He pointed his snout at the attic door. “Is something up there?” He responded with a slight whimper.

I opened a small compartment on the wall and procured a hooked pole, which I used to pull the attic door down. I hooked the stairs and pulled. Diogie sat at the bottom of the stairs as I ascended. Once my head was above the ceiling, I twisted the antique light switch by the door frame. The orange glow from the lights filled the room. At the far end of the room were blankets piled high.

What I uncovered was astonishingly beautiful. It was an old wooden trunk. Judging from the shape, it was a steamer trunk. The pine box was clad in black leather and accented with weathered brass rivets and straps. It had a large brass hasp in the center of the front side complete with a large brass padlock. The padlock had some patina, but it was in remarkable condition, from a layman’s point of view.

I called a local locksmith. The next day my doorbell rang. A young woman with long black, red, blue and purple dreads stood holding a heavy-duty backpack. The truck behind her on the street had the name of the locksmith emblazoned in fiery red on the side. She wore the uniform shirt with the locksmith company logo on a patch. “Hello, I’m Scarlet Locke from Locke Locksmith Company.”

“Hi, Scarlet. Please, come in. Can I get you anything?”

“You said on the phone that it was an antique lock,” Scarlet said.

“Yes, it is in the attic. I would’ve brought it down, but the trunk it’s attached to is too heavy to be lifted by man or beast.”

She settled in front of the lock and began examining it as though she were a medical examiner examining a novel body. “Miller Champion Six Lever, circa 1870-something, sliding shackle, pivotal movement, push key.”

Scarlet unzipped her backpack and fished around in the bottom. She seemed overly excited when she produced something unexpected of a professional, two pieces of wood held together by two large paperclips. Sandwiched between the wood pieces were several nails. She pressed the nails against the floor and then slid them into the slot on the bottom of the lock as she pulled down on the body.

“Oh, you haven’t been open for some time. I can feel you want to open,” Scarlet spoke to the lock.

I could sense the exuberance coming from the locksmith. The shackle steadily moved under her pressure. It gave up and the brass popped. She released a victorious laugh, slipped the shackle from the hasp ring, gathered up her makeshift tool, and handed me the lock. She then slipped a pad from her bag and wrote the invoice. “It looks like, $64.50 please.”

I paid her and she started down the stairs. I asked, “Don’t you want to see what’s inside?”

“It’s not for me, Sir.”

I showed her out. As I closed the door, the trunk called to me. It wasn’t a voice or anything, but it drew me back into the attic. I unbuckled the straps and lifted the lid. Laid across the top was a wool suit untouched by time. What it covered were several layers of gold bars, like the kind you see in the movies. The bars didn’t fill the space. Something was beneath them. I removed several of the 400 troy ounce bars and set them aside.

Something red appeared. It was fine cotton, like something my mother wore when she was young. I removed some more of the bars and found a crushed hand within a red blouse. Who was she?

Instinctively, I took out my phone. I held it and waited for a better idea, which never came. Looking down at my phone, I dialed.

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