Letters from North

Isn't it crazy when you come across something that would otherwise be insignificant, but turns out to be so much more?

I crouched in front of the storage unit, struggling to insert the key into the scuffed up lock near the cement. Sweat dewed on my forehead as I performed this task, making me pause to wipe at it before continuing. It was August thirteenth in Jacksonville, Florida, so of course, it felt like you were slowly dying in the summer heat.

Finally the key locked into place, and after some brutish jiggling, it finally turned. Sighing in both relief and annoyance, I wiped my sweatly palms on my jeans and proceeded to reach for the handle, bracing myself agaisnt the door to lift it. With a huff of surprise, I lifted tthere to be anything here.



As I took notice of the water damage on the lower cardboard boxes, which made them sag under the weight of those above it, I had to figure that anything left in there was no good. At least in the bottom ones.

The whole back of the storage unit was stacked in cardboard boxes and plastic storage containers, everything resting under a veil of dust, forgotten and frozen in time from the point that the previous owners abandoned it here.

Scratching my temple, I sighed. My “quick” movement of discarding some of my own items here had quickly turned into a full-on clean up job.

Well, what else could I expect, really? I bought the last creepy house on the end of South Pine drive, the one that had been vacant for years, and this key was on the house keyring, along with a note from the realtor noting me of it’s existence in the Jacksonville Storage Park.

It was nice of the previous owners to include it, I guess... Maybe they just forgot about all this stuff? It sure looked like there was too much of it there to possibly forget about. Maybe they’d want it back?

I grudgingly approached the nearest box, grabbing it firmly, I tugged it away from it’s prison of cobwebs and dust, the movement sending a fresh swarm of particles into the dimly lit air.

Inspecting the small box, I noticed that there was something written on top in Sharpie. I turned it around, and wiped off the dust, narrowing my eyes in confusion.

North’s photos.

I set that box aside and reached for the one that had been behind it, having to stand on my tippy toes to reach it on the very top. I slipped it down and inspected it: North’s journals.

Okay... I reached for a lower one. It wasn’t labelled. I looked at a few more boxes, and neither were they. Obviously these were important items, weren’t they? Who was North? Was she an ex-wife the previous owner had married? Maybe he’d just ditched everything here?... Seemed like an unusual way of disposing of belongings when there was a massive Dumpster right in front of the house, as well as a circular brick firepit in the backyard.

None of the other boxes had exciting titles, some were just labelled “Attic” or “cellar”. I looked at five more boxes, and only found one more labeled North. That was it, all it said was North.

I decided I’d take a few of the boxes back to the house with me, and I’d try to contact the seller, maybe he’d want this stuff back. I grabbed a short stack of boxes, including one of the one’s labeled “North”, and I headed out to my car to load them into the trunk. I was in no hurry to load all of them today.

Looking back in, I got a good look at all the grime and bugs there was. I’ll just bring some cleaning supplies with me tomorrow, I thought. This whole thing had proved to be very troublesome.

I locked up the unit, leaving the storage park feeling a bit put out and irritated, but curious nonetheless.