It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. Footsteps in the snow on the airstrip lead to an old hanger, one that had been abandoned for years, yet this evening there was footsteps. For what reason those steps were taken no one knew, but I was going to get to the bottom of it.
While approaching the withered hanger, the number 18 appeared in bold black lettering above the opening fit for a small plane, maybe a jet or something to that effect. Once close enough to see that the old doors had been torn down, there was a scent that sucker punched me right in the nose, the kind of smell that made its way through your body and into your soul and then back out leaving you with a sense of meaning. The smell was intoxicating, it was so intriguing to me, that i was determined to find its source.
On this evening, I was going to find where these foot prints lead, and where this odor was spewing from. I Hadn't thought about it much, but i had a somewhat empty feeling in my stomach, i was both nervous and excited to find out the answers to my curiosity.
Once I was within twenty feet of the hanger, I could hear the engine of an old crop duster kick over a few times then start. The smell had manifested itself in the wind that was coming from the propeller of the plane that had just started in hanger 18. I stood for a moment wondering who was in here, then proceeded forward to see who this smelly pilot was.
The Engine got louder and louder, then all of a sudden, from behind i felt a tap on my shoulder and hear the word "hey". I was started by this because i thought i was alone, when I turned around to see who it was that wanted my attention, there was no one there, and the sound stopped, the air was still.
I walked into the hanger and saw nothing but boxes, storage shelving, and scattered news papers. Among the boxes, sat a box about 7 feet long that was wrapped in chain. something about this box was begging me to open it, i had to open this box.
I found an old rusty crowbar which i used to smash the chain which kept me from the contents of the box. I unraveled the chain and noticed the top of the box was nailed down. I pried at the top of the box, once there was a crack, you could hear the air from the room suck into the box, as if the box had spent all these years full of nothing, not even air. just emptiness. I flipped the top off and the smell crawled up my nose and took me under.But this box was not empty, oh no, this box was not empty. Inside this box was something unbelievable, I looked into the box and saw myself, I feel back in awe and because the scent had left me light headed.
I sat there and watched myself sit up in the box and turn my head in my own direction, sitting on the ground in awe I was unable to do anything but watch. I came out of the box and handed myself a note, one which read "December 25th 1982, I killed myself".
P.S Fanny Howe was right, she said that most of the stories her students wrote were violent, and bewildering, and i feel as though, (partially violent, mostly bewildering) that is what kind of writing this is, and id say she was a successful English teacher, because it got me thinking.