Rooms - James L. Rubart [36]
More? No, he wouldn’t go there again. Ever. Hadn’t he finished that? But he couldn’t stop shards of the memory from bursting into his mind—his dad standing over him, screaming over and over, “What have you done to her, Micah? What have you done?”
Micah slammed the memory back into its dark corner. Get a grip! He pounded his leg with his fist. “C’mon, Archie I need something with a little more hope than that.”
I expect by this point you have begun to understand what the home is. If not, then I am afraid I will be spilling a bit of the proverbial beans.
The structure is far more than a home and will make a significant impact on your future if you allow it to. The home is a part of you, and you are part of it to a greater degree than you can imagine. I designed it this way with help from a close friend. His singular ability and assistance makes this home extraordinary.
Along with the healing of your heart and the trials that will entail, I pray you find rest as well. The Cannon Beach section of the Oregon Coast has always been a place of peace. I trust it still is. I counsel you to soak in the music of the ocean and the accents of the seagulls crying, and the hope of finding a sand dollar still whole.
Your great-uncle,
Archie
P.S. Remember, Micah, one letter per week. I look forward to being together again in seven days.
Micah set the letter on the armrest, tilted his head back, and let out a small groan. Answers? Archie raised more questions than he’d answered. The house is part of him? What’s that supposed to mean? Face more than just reliving his mom’s death? What, the memory room wasn’t enough?
Maybe the second letter would help. He smacked its edge into the palm of his hand three times in a quick cadence. One a week? Sorry. He wasn’t waiting another seven days for the next cryptic letter about the mansion and its secrets.
He slipped his forefinger under the top flap of the second envelope and stopped. Instantly he was seven years old again, sneaking out and opening his presents on Christmas Eve while the rest of his family was snug in bed. Shrugging off the feeling of guilt, he ripped open the envelope. He wasn’t a kid anymore.
He sucked in a quick breath, held it, and yanked out the letter. The paper scraping free sounded like firecrackers. He looked around the room and assured himself it was okay.
October 24, 1990
Micah,
I am in a bit of a quandary with regard to how I should start this next letter or what type of forewarning I should attempt to impress upon you before you read the following words. For no matter how complete my effort may be, you will likely be a mite traumatized at the message it contains.
Before I reach the portion of the letter I believe will elicit this reaction, let me assure you I am just an ordinary man; by the time you read these letters, I will likely have been with my Lord Jesus for many years.
Micah put down the letter. He wasn’t in the mood to be shocked. He’d had enough surprises since coming to Cannon Beach to last a year. But how could he stop reading?
I know you are reading this letter before I’ve intended you to. Please do not do this. Stay true to the schedule I instructed of one letter per week. I realize this might be difficult to adhere to. You will want to race ahead and receive answers to your questions right now. It is a strength God has given to you—to strive forward strongly in all that you do—but in this case, it is a weakness and a hindrance to truth.
Please allow the process of being in this home to take the time it needs, that you need.
Archie
Micah’s heart jackhammered. He thought little could surprise him after what he’d been through already, but this was over the top. How could a man back in 1990 know he would disregard his request and open the second letter early? There was no logical explanation. A chill swept through the room, and the ticking of the grandfather clock at the top of the spiral staircase