Short Story: A Series of Shocking Letters

by O'Keefe
Late night at eight, I drove into the Colonel’s driveway, parked my car, and sat there for a while. My old brown sedan contrasted against all the other cars in the driveway like gold against plastic. There was a sleek yellow Lamborghini, which belonged to Mike Beegan, a young, gaudy entrepreneur who was well known for investing in things that, to the naked eye, looked stupid. He once invested five million dollars into Fake Noses LLC, a company that made fake ears. Everyone said that he was using money like toilet paper, that his investment was the worst thing since bread that was not sliced, but he stuck by his guns, saying they were all wrong and couldn’t see the big picture, that they were melodramatic wusses who couldn’t lite a candle for fear the fire alarm would go off. All his life, he knew himself as a risk taker; a pioneer, if you will. He said he was smart enough to see this was a good investment, and sure enough, he lost five million dollars.
Beside the Lamborghini was a black Porsche, which belonged to John Woodward, a successful businessman and CEO of the Mochrespek Foundation, a charity whose favorite act of charity was helping themselves, if you know what I mean. Ninety percent was pocketed, and the other ten was sent to Africa, where ninety percent of that was taken by the distributors, and ten percent of that was sold to the poor.
And in front of the Porsche was the car of the Colonel’s; a white, shiny BMW. The Colonel had that car ever since he was honorably discharged from the military, having served twenty-eight years in it. Although many would assume he was a stern bowl of angry steel, due to his military background, he was nothing of the sorts. He partook in a plethora of shenanigans, most notably starting a gambling ring in the nursing home. He was busted, and now ran it in the privacy of his home. For this reason, I was surprised that there were only three cars in the driveway. The extra driveway the Colonel had put in was a desert of asphalt, and the atmosphere strange. It hadn’t been this quite since the Colonel made everybody play the silent game.
I sighed to myself. I was the Colonel’s lawyer, which meant he had probably called me over because the police found out about his private ring. He was rather vague on the phone, only telling me that it was important. Then again, he said the same thing when he wanted me to come up with a name for his new parakeet (I said he should drown it, but that’s besides the point). So I really had no idea what he had called me over for was.
I got out of my car, my shadow long in the light of my car, then slammed the door shut and locked my vehicle. I climbed the steep steps of the manor, then rang the doorbell. It was rather chilly out, and so I drew my jacket closer to myself and watched my breath as it rose in frosty white clouds. The door opened, and the Colonel’s butler/bouncer Henrik, an old, muscular man, appeared in the doorway.
“Hello, sir,” he said, in a deep, rumbling British accent. “What is your business?”
“I’m the Colonel’s lawyer!” I said, now very cold. “Can I come in? He called me over himself!”
“Very well,” said Henrik passively, and he opened the door just a little wider, so that I had to squeeze through the opening between him and the door. A minute later, I walked through the lobby and into the drawing room, where the Colonel entertained his guests, John and Mike, with some liquor.
“Is that you?” asked the Colonel, peering through the door at me.
“It is me,” I said. “What’s the matter? Did the cops bust your little ring?”
“Oh, no, no; nothing like that. Come; sit down.”
I entered the room, and saw John, who looked at me with interest, and Mike, who was looking at both me and everything in the room, were sitting on a fine green sofa across from the Colonel, who sat himself in his favorite armchair. Between them was a softly crackling fireplace, the embers glowing like small suns. There was a poker table in between them, but instead of chips and cards, there was a box of letters. The paper kind, not the kind they hold up on Sesame Street. There was also a tray of small meat patties, for some reason.
“Ah, there you are,” said the Colonel, leaning a little out of his chair to shake my hand. His shake was like a moray eel trying to rip its prey’s head off. “Glad you could get here on such short notice.”
“Well, I do live forty blocks over,” I reasoned, reaching into a bowl of mints that was on the coffee table. Something inside snapped at my fingers. I yelped, and pulled out my fingers, along with a mouse trap.
The Colonel cracked up, his eyes like leaky faucets, his face redder than a bleeding tomato. I growled, and said, “D’ya have to make everyday April Fools’? Why don’t you rub the fire poker with gasoline? That’d be funny too.”
“Oh, ha! ha! I’m sorry; boy, I’m sorry; it’s just so funny!” And his walrus roar quieted to a low chuckle.
“I don’t wanna feel like Indiana Jones every time I try to eat some candy….” I grumbled, taking up a patty. “Is this boobs trapped too?”
“Oh, heck, no! Hee! Hee!”
“Well,” said John, a dumb grin on his face, “Let’s get on with it. The Colonel didn’t call us here just to prank his lawyer – or did you?”
“Ho! Ho! No, I didn’t… although it’d be pretty funny.”
“I swear, if you didn’t pay me overtime, I’d be gone by now,” I said, coaxing my sore fingers into a state of limbo.
“Look,” said Mike, with a scowl deeper than the Grand Canyon, “I got places to be, so why not cough up your reasons and be done with it.” As he said this, he kept blinking and tapping his feet. He was like a windup toy slowly breaking down.
“And so I shall!” boomed the Colonel. Then, following a swift swig of his glass, he picked up the box of letters and held it in his hands. “See these?” he asked.
“Of course!” snapped Mike. “What, are we here to take a test for blindness or something?”
“No,” said the Colonel, setting the box down. “No, you are not. I may as well hop to it. You know of my old friend Tyler Taylor, I presume?”
“No,” said Mike.
“No? Well, then I shall tell you.”
I inwardly groaned.
“Taylor and I were in the military together, though not for as long as you’d think. He became a sergeant, but then left to become a professional hunter.”
“Disgusting,” said Mike, taking a bite out of a patty.
“Well, anyway, he decided that the hunting life wasn’t for him when he failed to shoot a lion five feet in front of him.”
“Well,” said John, “Lions are pretty fast.”
“It was a dead one.”
“Oh.”
“Well, anyways, he then opened up an ice cream parlor and – .”
“An ice cream parlor?” I asked skeptically.
“Yes. Why not? Anyway, he became world-renowned for his world-renowned ice cream, and that caught the eye of the U.S. government, who wanted the shop in order to pull their economy out of the dirt. And so an agent blackmailed him and sent him to prison on Alcatraz.”
“Now you’re just making things up!” growled Mike.
“Not true, not true. He dug his way out of Alcatraz, claimed sanctuary in a nearby church, and then put his digging skills to work as an archaeologist.”
“Well,” I said. “Is that where it ends?”
“If by that you mean his career hopping, yes. But that’s where it really began for him. Unearthed an ancient Egyptian city. The perfect prize for any self-respecting archaeologist. But enough about that. Now, to the reason why I called the bunch of you over here. As I presume you’ll assume, these letters were sent to me by Taylor. He was doing archaeological work in the Lacandon Jungle. And that’s why he sent me these letters.”
“He sent you multiple letters all at once?” I asked skeptically.
“No; of course not. They all arrived here while I was taking notes at Vegas.”
“So you weren’t at the church social!”
“No; I wasn’t.”
“Are you jealous they can hold a gambling ring lawfully?”
The Colonel sputtered. “It’s nothing of the sorts!”
“Okay,” said John. “Why don’t you read them letters, then?”
“Okay,” said the Colonel, taking out the first letter and ripping it open . “I will.”
He read:

Dear friend:
I know it has been quite awhile since we last met, but I seem to recall your fancy for whimsy, and your penchant for letters, and so I write this to you in hopes of stirring up our ancient friendship. I looked up your current address in a Computer Café in Mexico City before I left for the ancient ruins of Meshika. Not that I thought you’d be interested in old ways for plumming, but I thought the location and separation from society might pique your yearning for adventure and mischief. 
As I write this, I am on the trail of the ruins of Meshika. It is 5/12, and I am currently crouched down in a tent with a lantern hovering over my paper, much to the displeasure of my fellow historians. But, hey, I’m the boss. Anyway, I should reach the city by noon tomorrow, and so I shall keep you posted periodically. Best regards;
                                                                                                                    T. Taylor

“Is that it?” asked Mike quickly, as if he was giving a presentation in front of the classroom and wanted to get it done as quickly as possible. “You called us all here just to read us one sappy sack of nothing?”
“Maybe I should test you for blindness,” pondered the Colonel. “There are, after all, several more letters in the box.” And for proof, he lifted it up for everyone to behold.
Once he beheld it, Mike said, “Oh, great! So we have to listen to all these stupid letters?”
“Now, Mike,” said the Colonel, “I wouldn’t insult the dude who bailed you out of that bad hot air balloon investment.”
“Are you going to read the second letter?” asked John mildly. “Or are you going to continue chattering about Mr. Beegan’s horrible investments?”
The Colonel, amidst Mike’s rage, picked up the second letter and read it.

Mailed on 5/13. Arrived at 5/20 – Correos de Mexico.
Dear friend:
I have already embraced a great deal of information and responsibility. A little before noon today, I arrived at the ruins of Meshika – or, at least, I think I did. It didn’t appear as ruinous as I thought – in fact, a tribe of what some might call ‘savages’ live there. The savages weren’t savage, however; on the contrary, they welcomed us wholeheartedly. To find people living in what top archaeologists assumed were ruins is truly astonishing. They speak not Spanish, as most Mexicans do; their language is peculiar and mysterious. A translator was requested from the Mexican government, who are funding this expedition, and he will be coming shortly. 
I very much suspect that these people are living in one of the cities of the old Aztec Empire. The artwork and architecture remind me of the Aztecs very much. The entire city is about the size of two football fields, and is hidden in the recluse of the jungle; streetlights are very much a necessity in this dark, dank world. The lights look somewhat like glowing rocks, though I suspect it is merely a fancy shade hiding a flame. I will be studying them tomorrow. 
Anyway, at the center of the city is a temple. It is a pyramid made of stairs, with a small room at the top. When I tried to enter this room, two guards denied me in their strange tongue, and so I will have to communicate to them my desires once that translator arrives. I will start intense studying tomorrow, and by then I hope to gain the tribe’s trust. Until then;
                                                                                                                   T. Taylor

“Oho!” said the Colonel. “That seems pretty exciting, indeed!”
“I guess so,” said John, “But are you sure your friend is a credible source? After all, you haven’t met him in quite a while, and what he’s suggesting is a little startling. I mean, surviving Aztecs? Come on.”
“Tyler Taylor, I’ll have you know, never told a blessed joke in his life.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant to say that maybe he is mistaken on some of his assumptions.”
“Well we’ll find that out, won’t we?” said the Colonel, and then picked up the third letter and began to read from it.

Mailed on 5/14. Arrived at 5/21 – Correos de Mexico.
I am very excited, yet a nervous, leathery butterfly is flapping in my stomach. The translator, for one, arrived at night only, and so hadn’t time to properly translate anything; I think, however, he has a reasonably good grip on their language. 
But that is not the meat of my story. Today, the Aztecs took me into their shrine, which rested at the base of the pyramid. It was covered in intricate drawings of Aztec people and their daily lives. Pictured also was an image of them cutting a victim to pieces, atop the pyramid, with the sun directly overhead and a tall, strange man sitting on the sun. This depiction disturbed me, because these people seemed so tame, yet they had such an image on their wall… I’m not sure what to think of this. I tried asking them by pointing to it and signaling and such, but they just smiled and made weird gestured… I don’t think they understood what I was trying to tell them. 
I then entered one of their sacred burial tombs, which they seemed pretty nonchalant about, believe it or not. Sarcophaguses shaped in the image, I presume, of the people cased inside it. They were probably the past kings of this Aztec city, as their images were adorned with gold and certain ornaments. I then reached the first king, all the way at the back, and was a little startled. His sarcophagus was huge, at least thirteen feet long, with odd features like a huge mouth with sharp teeth and large eyes. I thought this might be somewhat exaggerated, as the earlier coffin makers wouldn’t have the skill of the later artisans. But it bugged me still.
The plumbing in this supposedly ancient society is pretty good, to my standards. Running water isn’t found in most civilizations such as these. Also, the ventilation and heating is better than most hotels I have been in. You don’t even need a blanket to go to sleep. I didn’t get to check the lights today, as I had a lot to do, what with translating and trying to get the Aztecs to talk to me and all that. However, I did make another attempt to enter the temple at the top of the pyramid. Again, I was denied. 

“Well, now,” said the Colonel, “What do you all think so far?”
“You wanna know what I think?” said Mike. “I think this is all just a bunch of hyped trash. I mean, living Aztecs, with unknown, possibly hostile intentions? That’s just… just idiotic.”
“I don’t know about that,” said John. “I mean, scientists thought that the Coelacanth was extinct until fishermen caught it in the earl nineteen thirties.”
“But these are people, not fish!” retorted Mike. “They aren’t swimming at the bottom of the ocean or anything like that…. They live in Mexico, for crying out loud! That’s like right next door!”
“Well,” I said, “These letters are very clearly from Mexico, so we know he is sending them from Mexico. Why not call and ask if any archaeological expeditions concerning Tyler Taylor are ongoing?”
“Oh, right!” snapped Mike like a snapping turtle, then moving around violently as if he just had a spasm. “Like we can just call the Mexican government!”
“Well,” said the Colonel, “At any rate, there is nothing so far that clearly suggests a farce. In fact, it all seemed rather credible. And what’s so surprising about it? That people have evaded scrutiny for so long? Happens all the time. I mean, Columbus had no idea who the Native Americans were.”
“Yeah,” said Mike, “But that was before 24/7 surveillance and satellite imagery… not to mention greedy rich people buying up every square foot of land the world has to offer.”
“In my opinion – .” began John.
“I don’t care about your damn opinion!” said Mike, scowling like a piece of crumpled newspaper. “I didn’t come here just to get my leg pulled!”
“At least listen to the rest of them!” said the Colonel. “so thought this might interest you. Who knows? The remaining letters might satiate you.”
“Fine!” grumbled Mike, his head hanging low like a deflating balloon. Then, with a flamboyant wave of his hand, said, “Continue reading.”
“Thanks,” said the Colonel sarcastically, with the slightest hint of an edge. He then tore open the next letter and thusly read from it:

Mailed on 5/15. Arrived at 5/22 – Correos de Mexico.
Friend:
I would not at all feel upset in the slightest if you reject everything I am about to say, for indeed, it is rather incredible. I do, however, wish to bring to your memory how I have always been humorless, and due to my Calvinistic upbringing, have not been one to gravitate towards deception. So here is the meat: this Aztec city is both strange and dangerous. 
I am aware of how ridiculously vague that sounds, but it is a tricky package to disassemble. Last night, after I mailed the last letter to you, I went to sleep, as per usual, when I awoke to a strange whistling sound. It was not a whistle a human could have made, but rather, a machine. This led me to believe one of the Aztecs was using my machines, and so I snuck out of the tent and looked at my equipment. Nothing was in use. 
But then I looked up at the temple in the distance, and I saw a blue light coming forth from the forbidden room atop the pyramid. It was unlike any I have seen, and I just had to find out what it was. I was under the impression it was either a pagan ritual or a natural phenomenon. And so I crept to the pyramid in the dead of night, hearing nothing, not even my footfalls, but that strange whistling. When I got to the base of the pyramid, I quietly looked up and into the room at the top. I could barely see into it; the king of the Aztecs was standing in the doorway, talking to someone inside. There was a shadow cast on the eerily-lit wall, and that shadow was of a huge humanoid, with big hands and a big mouth. I was scared, especially when it started to eat something. Whatever it was eating came in large chunks, and the shadows were so despicable I could almost hear the crunching. 
I hastily returned to my tent, keeping my jungle machete beside me all night. I didn’t sleep, as you can imagine. When I awoke, all seemed normal; there were no lights nor whistling, and so, with much trepidation, I continued my studies. The streetlights were a mysterious specimen of glowing rock, one that I have not yet beheld before. 
Also, the translator that had arrived had suddenly disappeared. No one had seen him since last night. I am finding myself wanting to leave this wretched city of the past, but I know my funders aren’t going to take it kindly if I suddenly leave on account of the heebie-jeebies. I have forwarded a message to the Mexican government – in fact, that is the first thing I did this morning – and have requested troops to make sure we are all safe. If they do not come soon, then I suspect madness will befall me. 

We all sat stunned, not one wanting to break the tenuous security of the silence. But of course, it had to be done.
“Well,” I said, “This is pretty unbelievable. Is he suggesting… suggesting that a big creature is in the pyramid, and that the Aztecs’ intentions are hostile?”
“I think,” said the Colonel, blanching, “I think I need a drink.” He reached for the fine liquor, downed two cups, and then said, “Well. Imagine that. Old Tyler Taylor is suggesting that giant monsters are – .”
“Shut up!” said Mike, more annoyed than scared. “Look, he saw the lights and all in the middle of the night. And why is that? Because people dream at night! That’s why everything crazy happens at night – people like Taylor are stupid, and confuse their dreams with reality!”
“Then what about the glowing rocks?!” challenged John.
“What about ‘em?!”
“Well, how could there be rocks that glow like streetlamps?”
“Why not? Look, I’m not denying everything in his tale. But some aspects are delusions, while others are truly fiction.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said. “This doesn’t have to be fiction to make sense; just misunderstanding. He sees this culture extremely different from his own, and he’s spooked. These are people living in the ruins of an Aztec city, and they have painting of another culture on their wall. They haven’t sacrificed him as of yet, and so I think it’s safe to say they know as little about the paintings as does he – perhaps even less. And as for the giant shadow – Well, shadows often look bigger than they actually are. It’s probably just one of the priests, or something.”
“Then explain the blue glowing light!” challenged John.
I shrugged. “Blue glowing rocks. Just like the ones on the lampposts.”
“It is… rather odd,” said the Colonel thoughtfully, his eyes staring at nothing. “But let’s see what else he has to say for himself.” And he picked up the next letter.

Mailed on 5/16. Arrived at 5/23 – Correos de Mexico.
If I was fearful before, now I am double that. If you do not receive any further letters from me, you can assume I am dead. 
Firstly, the troops I requested did not come. Mexico has not contacted me back, and the situation is worsening. Another in my group of archaeologists has disappeared, and when I tried to ask the Aztecs, they just smiled and ignored me. I tried to get the Land Rover running, but the wheels were missing from it. I then sought to hike out of Meshika, but guards were blocking all visible exits, and when I approached them, they just smiled and turned me around. 
I tried to plan an escape with the rest of my men, but most of them thought I was being paranoid, and that the missing man was merely doing his job and studying. They apparently didn’t care about the translator. 
In a desperate attempt to find an exit, I climbed a tall spire and looked around the city. There seemed to be no exit, and other than a large crater just outside of the city, there was no new feature for me to find. However, I did see a large group of people – in fact, most of the city – gathered around the pyramid, looking up at the top of it and cheering. I squinted, and could see a throne set out at the pyramid’s peak – and seated on it, its back to me, was a large humanoid, about twice as large as any human I have ever encountered – reaching into a pot set at its feet and pulling out great red chunks, then devouring them. 
I wanted to see more, yet I was so terrified. I then knew I had to get out. Oddly, the Aztecs still treat me the way they have always treated me, ever since I came here – but now that I know more about them, I am very much afraid. 
As the invisible sun sets, and my companions get ready to hit the hay, I plan my escape. Oddly enough, the Aztecs send out whatever mail I ask them too. They have treated me hospitably, but I know better than to trust me. I have already sent five letters of distress to the Mexican police and government. I cannot stand to be around these creatures much longer – I will keep you posted, though, and if you receive this letter early – or at all – then please send aid to the city of Meshika in the Lacandon jungle. 

We were quiet, and there was a creeping sense of foreboding in the room. We all were scared. I wasn’t thinking skeptically about the situation anymore; in fact, I wanted to listen to the next letter, to see what would happen to Taylor.
John spoke my thoughts for me. “Do you want to read the next one?”
“Yes,” said the Colonel, reaching into the box. “Yes, I do.” Then he paused, parking further still, and peered into the box.
The box was empty.
We all sat still, shocked.
Eventually, John suggested, “Well, maybe it didn’t arrive yet. When did the last one arrive? May 23rd? What date is it today?”
“John,” I said, “It’s June 1st.”
“Oh,” he said.
Then we sat still once again. I was cold, even though the fire was ongoing, and I could hear my own blood flowing through my body. No one spike, not even Mike, for we all knew the outcome of these shocking letters.