Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter Page A

the desk were locked. Though Gil searched everywhere, he couldn’t find the keys. He began to wonder whose desk this was. It couldn’t have belonged to his grandmother. She and Prescott had been divorced for thirty years. Her home was in California, where she ran a strawberry farm. Maybe the desk had belonged to someone who had lived in the house before his grandfather inherited it, though some of the objects inside didn’t look that old. The tube of glue was still soft, and the Magic Markers hadn’t dried out. Though he knew his grandfather wouldn’t care, Gil suddenly felt guilty exploring the desk, as if he were uncovering a secret identity, a mysterious presence in the house.
    Moments later, he heard Kipling begin to bark downstairs. Leaving the desk, Gil went to see who it was. Kipling was standing in the main hallway, growling and snarling at the front door. There was a brass mail slot in the middle of the door, and just as Gil arrived, he saw it swing open as a letter slipped through and fell to the floor. Gil tried to make Kipling quiet down, but the dog kept barking loudly. Glancing out one of the side windows, Gil couldn’t see any sign of the postman.
    There was just one letter, and when he picked it up, the envelope felt heavier than he expected, the paper thick like a wedding invitation. It had an old-fashioned look about it, and there were foreign stamps, with the profile of a man in a turban. On the front was an address:
    To Whom It May Concern
    12 Sharia Ful Medames
    Zamalek, Cairo
    Egypt
    This had been crossed out, and written beside it was “Please forward: P.O. Box 324, Carville, Massachusetts, USA.” Stamped over this in officious black ink was “Address Unknown.” There weren’t any names at all, and there was no sender’s address. The longer Gil held the letter, the heavier it seemed. When he flipped the envelope over, the flap was firmly glued and sealed with a circular glob of brittle red wax, at the center of which was the impression of an eight-pointed star. Though it didn’t have the symbol of Mercury in the center, Gil recognized it immediately.
    By this time, Kipling had quieted down, and Gil headed back upstairs to the rolltop desk. He felt an irresistible urge to open the envelope. The letter was obviously meant for someone else, yet the address was vague—“To Whom It May Concern.” That could be almost anyone. Thinking about this, Gil realized he was already picking at the wax seal with his fingernail, as if it were a scab. Wondering if there was any connection between the star on the seal and the carving in the basement made him want to open the letter all the more. His fingers seemed to itch, as if every nerve in his body was prodding him to tear the envelope open.
    Holding the letter up to the light, Gil tried to see whatmight be inside, but the paper was much too thick. By now the envelope felt uncomfortably heavy in his hand, as if it were filled with lead.
    The miniature scimitar glinted in its pigeonhole and Gil hesitantly reached across for it, taking the letter opener between his thumb and forefinger. Unable to stop himself, he slid the point of the blade under the envelope’s flap. With a sudden, involuntary motion, Gil sliced it open in a single stroke.

19
The Overland Mail
    Ouch!” cries Lawrence as Tommy-two cuts off a piece of red hair with his sword.
    â€œHey! Stop complaining! ’Tisn’t every day you get a free haircut, laddie,” says Tommy-one.
    The deserters have taken their hostage to an abandoned dak bungalow in the hills above Ajeebgarh. Dak bungalows are rest houses located at regular stages along highways in India, though this one happens to be situated along a road that isn’t used very often. It’s a damp, ruined place with spiders in the rafters, lizards on the walls, mice in the floors and snakes in the drains. The Tommies have lighted a fire, over which they roast a pigeon