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Archivist's Note
I knew before I saw the signature that this would be his final act. At the foot of a witness statement, the 4-letter mark was there. His tiny scribbled name, discreet, unflourished. A reminder that dad had held this paper, sat over it, thought about it. This made my spine curve like a withering tree branch.
This damned record— a sandy pit with an antlion lying in ambush— is what he died for? By viewing its contents, I'd already begun the slow slide down. The greedy fine grains shifted beneath me. I was in the insectary now, watching the snap-limbed bugs writhe through glass, dismemberment on full display. At first I couldn't believe I'd have to stick my hands in there. I stared for a while, arms at my sides, just feeling my pulse flexing at my neck with black-night highway speed worry.
But after a team of suits deposited two small truckloads of files into my study, I knew. The musty moats of dust swirled like flies over a cadaver. Everything smelled aged and alien. It had been there. In Okinawa. That dank island air was corrosive perfume, inhabiting anything that stayed within its perimeter for too long.
Years of fighting bureaucracy and it was finally here.
Yet, even after running my finger over the top box’s beaten sides, it still felt far away. The sun-scratched U.S. Space Force insignia, peeled chain of custody stickers, fingertip sweat smears— so many hands had held the boxes without understanding why they existed at all.
If I ever step foot on those shores, I would know it by the lingering scent of storied decay floating everywhere. I'm starting to understand why Dad never talked about it.
Secret. That's how his feelings were classified. One stabbing pump of my heart forced me to recall how avoidant he always was.
After I'd signed several release forms, the team of dark-suited deliverymen began filing out. The man in charge lingered, looking up to me (under average height), pores oozing greasy sleep debt on his face. He glanced at the boxes, then back at me.
"You sure you want to handle this alone, ma'am?" His neutral American accented voice carried concerned warning. "We can leave a team to help catalog—"
"I'm sure." I slipped my pen over the last form’s signature line. No direct look at him.
"It's just... your father's estate specifically requested you. By name. Most family members, they'd take one look at a haul like this and—"
"I'm not most family members. I'm the only family member… for now."
"No ma'am, I suppose not." His expression turned gloomy, resigned. He blew his peanut butter sandwich breath out hard then said, "Well I'm just sayin’, for nearly half a century, these files have occupied a single room in some hardly acknowledged U.S. military storage facility. Few ventured in there, and when they did, they signed their log, then quick-stepped out. That's what I heard. It's like they're cancer-causing or cursed, or both."
"I understand."
He looked as if he wanted to say more. Or to try and protect me, this small tired Asian woman, from the creatures in the boxes. He had the eyes of a half-time hero.
"I'll be going then. Sorry for your loss and good luck with it."
"Thank you."
I shut the door. Then heard a slide by the wall. The wall of cartons was a portrait with traveling eyes.
Or was it something else? I suspected so. It wasn't only the droopy sight of the boxes that spurt liquid dread through me. The way they slanted— exhausted, defeated— triggered micro-shifting groans from their lids. Not every few minutes. Constantly. A low chorus of cardboard stress and settling weight, like joints popping in an empty house. I tried to tell myself it was normal. Boxes settle. But boxes don't breathe.
Whatever language spoke through those disembodied creases stayed indecipherable— but made me whip my head up in watchful paranoia. Every few minutes. Every *tap*. Every *crack*. Sometimes when I was certain I'd been facing the window, I'd turn to find a box had shifted orientation. Corners now pointed at my desk. Lids slightly more ajar.
As much as I didn't want to admit it, staring at the shoulder-high wall of sagging containers, there was a force emanating from them. Not metaphorical— physical. It steamed out subtly at first, like exhaust over asphalt on a balmy summer afternoon. Then it intensified. The air near the boxes had weight. As if the space itself had been compressed and now wanted to expand into my lungs. I breathed shallowly. Despite the climatized blow of air pushing wisps of my hair under the vents, the side of my body warmed when I passed by.
My back flexed and arms shook when I lifted the first one down and pulled out the first file— a folder goblin with papers hanging out of the folds, like an overstuffed laundry hamper reeking and half-dry.
When I lifted the lid fully, the smell hit first— not mildew, though that was there. Other smells puffed out. Copper, salt and another hard to name. Whatever it was made my hindbrain scream meat even though these were only papers.
The first file folder was damp to the touch, defying the room’s refrigerator dry cold. My fingertips came away clean, but I rubbed them together anyway, expecting residue that wasn't there.
Pulse jamming in my ears, I cleared my throat and sat. Adjusted my jacket. Sip of water— ritual, not thirst. I smoothed the first folder flat with both palms. Once. Twice. Three times. Only then could I read it.
As I pulled the first document free, I noticed something I hadn't seen in the initial inspection. In the margin of a transmission log, someone had written in pencil: *They're listening. Even now.* The handwriting wasn't my father's.
I didn't know yet if that made it better or worse. But I was ready.
Prepared to spend as long as necessary digging through fear and falsity, to learn what my father had become in that place.
To discover what followed him home and killed him.
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