As he walked into the abandoned room, a deathly silence filled the air. His skin tingled with goose bumps as if a cold wind had just blown through and given him chills. There was no wind however. Wesley's chills were just the result of some mysterious incident that still haunted the place he now found himself in; or so the running off of his imagination led him to believe. There was a single desk in the middle of the room. Wesley imagined that this piece of furniture had once been worth a fortune. It was obvious someone had specially designed this desk for someone in particular. The intricate, hand-carved design had the initials “L.W.” engraved amongst the pattern of twisted and broken lines. Once this desk had a rich smell of cedar. All one could smell now was the fungus slowly eating away at it. Many years ago, one may have commented on the luxurious, rich, brown color and golden inlay of this desk, but that was no longer the case. Dust had inhabited every crevice of this room, claiming dominion over every surface. This desk was no exception. Wesley was examining this beautiful furniture from underneath the doorpost. He dared not take another step but it was as if some enchantment was drawing him closer. This room was mesmerizing. Wesley's right foot slowly moved forward. As his foot hit the floor, so did his heart. For in that moment, a loud creak had shocked him into reality and broken the silence. Wesley regained his composure as he realized he was the one who had made the dreadful noise. His focus was no longer on the desk. Instead, he turned his attention to examining the other aspects of this room. There was a chair turned over on the floor as if someone in a hurry to leave knocked it over with no intention of ever returning to pick it up. It was just as beautifully made as the desk, and most likely made by the same hands. Again, fungus and dust had claimed another victim. Beside the desk and the chair, there were papers strewn about everywhere; on the floor, desk, and about the room. Some were crumpled, others were torn to shreds, and a few others were partially burned. These papers were once crisp and white. No torn edges; only written on by a hand trained in the antiquated art of calligraphy with the finest ink. The papers, however, were no longer in this condition. One could see how much they had aged by the distortion of color. They were stark white pages before but were now brownish in color. The edges were curled in some unnatural manner; as if time was slowly sucking the life out of them. They were on the verge of disintegration. After observing the papers, Wesley decided to once more try his luck in approaching the desk. He moved his foot forward and started at a pace that made every step more intense. It took him seventy seconds to walk fifteen feet but he was finally at the desk. Lying on top was a single piece of paper. It was not torn or crinkled and it showed less wear then anything in the room as if it had been taken better care of. In perfect handwriting without even the slightest drip or smudge of misplaced ink was written the following: “September 12, 1876: I’ve locked it away in the desk drawer which Landon Williams has given me so that I may not live in fear of it haunting my conscience ever again.” And he dared not open that drawer.