Sworn Confession

I swear this is the truth. Every word of it.

We’d just blown the safe. George was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear him, my ears were ringing.  We enter the office – it was very cold in there – we must have blown windows out. The combination lock was shattered and the safe was easy to open. It was not full of cash like promised.

I started looking through the piles of papers and records, throwing them out. At the bottom were a couple of small record boxes – in one was the watch you caught me with, some jewelry, and a wad of bills – so at least there was cash – I pass that to George – I reach for the other box, hoping for more. Inside is a gold chain and more papers – I grab the chain and am about to empty the papers into the mess all around when George jerks me upright and is yelling – I barely hear him, but I can see he is yelling. And pointing.

In the doorway is standing a figure, in a uniform – how did the police get here so quickly? But the uniform –  isn’t right – it is old-fashioned, and more like army than police. And a bowler hat. And how is it I can see him – we’ve nothing but a weak flashlight. George yells again – ‘ghost!’ I faintly hear. I drop the box, which had suddenly become ice-cold. We back away into the opposite wall, and the ghost glides over to the vault door, hovering over the fallen boxes and strewn papers, and glares at us. His mouth is working but I still don’t hear anything clearly. George suddenly makes a dash for the door and I follow him in a  beat.

The ghost doesn’t move from his post, and  as I rush past him, some of his words are clear – great change must expect opposition, because it shakes the very foundation of privilege. – and more, indistinct, threats to not return to this town. I swear, that is exactly how it happened! I don’t care if you don’t believe me, but get me out of this town. I’ll sign but only if you get me a quick trial and I get state penitentiary. Not the local jail. Yeah, we high tailed it out of there, to the river, by the mill. Took a boat, and rowed down-river. We’d planned to go back to our camp, clean up, and take our time out of town, but that ghost. That cold. Needed to get out now. 

Sworn by my Frank Clayton

This day of March 19, 1909

Sworn Confession

I will tell you but you keep your promise to get me out of town – I don’t care if the courts take time, get it done.

We’d blown the safe. I was telling Frank – ‘I hope you opened your mouth to not lose your hearing’. Clearly, the dolt had forgotten to do that, he is deaf as a post for the time being. He rushes in and swings the vault open – he yells – ‘where is the cash’ and starts pulling out the papers and piles of records. I look around the office to see why it is so cold – the windows are still intact. But when I look back at the door, I yell – there is a uniformed man standing there. We’re caught – my gut constricts, I shiver. We were promised there are no guards at the Courthouse and the police has no night watch. I yell to Frank – “trouble” but he doesn’t hear me – he is bending down and getting boxes from the bottom shelf. I stride over to get his attention, but he is oblivious – he reaches me a wad of cash which I take automatically, and yell again – ‘we’re busted’ but he’s still deaf, and opening the next box – it gets way colder, suddenly. I am behind Frank, and pull him up, still looking at the officer – why hasn't he said anything? Why isn't he moving? He’s wearing a Derby hat. His uniform is old fashioned – from the last century – from photos –  the last war – – – I am seeing a ghost.

I yell ‘ghost’ at Frank and point and he looks, drops the boxes and papers spill out as we back up. The figure moves over the dropped papers, in front of the safe. Leaving the doorway unguarded. I run. Frank follows. As I pass the spectre I hear a terrifying voice – do not interfere with the powers of choice and freedom – Any great change must expect opposition, because it shakes the very foundation of privilege. Leave this town. Do not return to this town. 

We bolt down the steps and to the river, abandoning the plan to return to our camp and jump in a skiff at the mill on the river. We row to Albany and in the morning catch  boat to Portland. We had a tidy sum from the safe – not the vast fortune we were promised  would be there, but we can lie low for a while – certainly stay clear of this cursed town. And now, you’ve dragged me back here and I can’t get warm and everytime I see a Derby hat my heart pounds. I am signing this so I can safely be incarcerated in Salem – that should be far enough away.

Sworn by me George Davis

On March 19, 1909