amanda-kraft1664221938 Amanda Kraft

Guilherme lived a simple life. Until an anonymous letter appeared in his mailbox. At first he didn't pay any attention, but the letters kept coming. Someone knew his secret and wanted something from him that he wasn't willing to give up.


Thriller/Mystère Tout public. © Todos

#theblackmail
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The Letter

I was sitting on the porch, drinking coffee and admiring the garden. I remember the clouds slowly moving across the clear sky, forming patterns that I once enjoyed identifying as a child. I sighed at the memory and, as I placed the cup on the table, Dona Celeste approached.

— Mr. Guilherme — she called me, rummaging through a blank envelope, looking worried.

— What is this, Dona Celeste? — I wanted to know, amused by the expression on her face.

— I don’t know, boss. Someone left this envelope in the mailbox. But it’s all blank! — she exclaimed, frowning.

— It’s probably nothing, Dona Celeste. Leave it there on the table, I’ll see what it’s about.

It took me a while to get to it, although I was curious about its contents. The paper was ordinary, cheap. I tore open the envelope and pulled out a piece of brown paper. There were only a few words: “I know who you are and what you’ve did.” I felt a certain discomfort as I read the shaky, poorly written handwriting.

Anonymity is a wonderful thing. At my age, being able to come and go without anyone knowing who you are or how much you have in your bank accounts is priceless. That’s why I can’t understand the need some people have to expose their lives to anyone who wants to listen. Money has never been a problem for me, but I live a modest life, with a simple car, a nice house, and whenever I can, I travel in search of things that please my eyes. I live in anonymity, so I found the content of the letter strange.

I crumpled up the paper and made a move to throw it away, but I held back. I started to look at the details, but nothing came to mind. I left it aside, continuing with my business, although every time I passed the mailbox, I opened it. A week later, a new blank envelope. I gulped as I picked it up. I folded it and put it in my shirt pocket. I went to my room and sat on the bed. A drop of sweat ran down my back. The same brown paper was in front of me, along with a new sentence: “I’ll tell what you done. If you want me to shut up, give me the stone.”

I let go of the piece of paper and watched it land by the dresser. I went to the window and looked out at the street. Whoever had put the letter in the mailbox was no longer there. I closed the curtain and lowered my head, thoughtful. I couldn't figure out who was blackmailing me and how could he know about the stone? And why after so many years? The bastard didn’t reach out. Was he just investigating me? Anonymous letters didn't give me a chance to defend myself. After hours, I decided to keep up my routine, because if I was being watched, I wanted him to know that he hadn't affected me. On the other hand, I would also watch the street. I needed to find out who wrote the letters and solve this problem.

I had a video camera that I hadn't used in a long time. I took it out of the box and blew the dust off. Dona Celeste wasn't the most dedicated of maids, but she was trustworthy. I placed it on the tripod and positioned it in the direction of the mailbox.

For days the tape showed me nothing out of the ordinary. Just the postman bringing the usual mail. Life went on as usual, with Mrs. Celeste cooking, Mr. José taking care of the pool and garden, and a few sporadic delivery men.

I was almost relaxing, thinking that the evildoer had given up on his attempt, since fifteen days had passed and I hadn't received another letter. I even put away the useless camera. But then, to my surprise and despair, when I entered the room after returning from the supermarket, there it was, right on the bed. My heart jumped. I looked around and screamed. Seconds later, Mrs. Celeste and Mr. José were next to me.

— Who was in the house? — I asked, perplexed.

— Nobody came in here, boss, — they said in unison.

— Who put this envelope on my bed?

— Oh, boss. I did — said Mrs. Celeste, relieved. — It was there in the mailbox and since I noticed that you were always looking at the street, I thought you were waiting for it. Did I do the right thing?

— Y... yes — I replied, exasperated.

Once again I sat on the bed and, with trembling hands, I held it between my fingers. I tore the envelope open and there it was. There was an old newspaper photo, in black and white, of a man lying on the floor under a tree, eyes closed and mouth open, with a dark stain on his collar. I jumped when I saw it and started pacing back and forth. This was a threat. He knew my secret. But how? I calmed down and went back to the envelope. The brown paper fell out and I could read: “Take the stone tomorrow to the post office on Aurora Street and leave it there, in P.O. Box 32. If you don’t obey me, I will tell everyone what you ‘done’.

The bastard was smart. He chose a neutral place, meaning he would be nearby, watching, waiting for me to obey him. My world fell apart. Those memories were still fresh in my mind. I couldn't help what happened...

I was about twenty-five years old at the time, in the mid-1940s. I had just graduated and decided to visit some historic cities. I hitchhiked on several roads and when I landed for a few days in São João del Rei, Minas Gerais, I was amazed by the city. I walked along those cobblestone streets, visited churches, enjoyed the typical food and then set off on the road. I chose a land route to reach Tiradentes, a small town that was only 9 miles away. The nights were beautiful, with few lights and a sky full of stars. I thought about resting in a clearing, lighting a fire, playing the harmonica a little and sleeping out in the open. Before nightfall, consulting the map, I walked to an open space. I put my heavy backpack on the ground and stretched my back. I looked around for twigs and stones to light the fire and heard a crackling sound around me. I turned around abruptly and saw a young man, almost the same age as me, walking a little unsteadily, wearing a sun hat and carrying a bottle of alcohol.

— Hey, friend! What are you doing around here? — he asked, smiling. His face was pleasant, tanned by the sun.

— I’m going to Tiradentes. I decided to rest before continuing my journey. What about you?

— I’m going there too — he said, sitting down under a large tree. He put the bottle down and looked at me. His eyes seemed to lose focus. — How rude of me! Would you like a drink?

— I don’t drink — I replied, curious. — Where are you coming from, friend? — I asked, seeing him open a beautiful smile.

— From the city. I’m celebrating. These things don't happen every day — his voice became thick, before taking another sip from the bottle.

— What's the occasion? — I asked, celebrating with him, who put down the bottle and looked at me, relaxing.

— We work hard all our lives, young man. But there comes a day when our luck changes. Today mine changed — he smiled, blinking hard.

— That's true, friend. May I know what your big break was?

— Stones... the biggest... the river... was generous... — he revealed and simply passed out.

I was intrigued by his words. That region is considered the land of precious stones. There used to be many diamonds there. I felt compelled to search him in such a drunken state. I waited about fifteen minutes. I touched his hand and he didn't even move. Very slowly I felt in the pockets of his pants and worn shirt, but found nothing. I sighed, believing he had sold them in town. I sat by the fire listening to him purr. I was almost falling asleep when a thought occurred to me. If he had sold the stones, where was the money? Since I had found nothing, I assumed the stones were still with him. I approached slowly and took the boot from his feet.

He stirred, but did not wake up. Disappointed, I realized I was being a fool, believing his story. I stared at him and just as I was about to return to my corner his head fell and his hat fell to the ground. It was as worn as his clothes, but the felt beneath the elastic band was new. I picked it up, feeling my heart leap in my chest. I shook it and heard a soft jingle. Slowly, I pulled the lining and felt one-centimeter-long stones roll into my hand. There were many. Some were translucent, others more opaque. I held my breath and noticed a slightly larger protrusion in one corner, where the fabric was folded. I squeezed it and noticed that a much larger one was stuck. I pushed it free and it rolled into the palm of my hand.

I spent a few seconds admiring the size and yellowish color underneath the stone that looked more like a river pebble, but something told me it was a large yellow diamond. I was astonished. I must have had a real fortune in my hands, while that poor guy slept drunk. Never in my entire life had I wanted anything that wasn't mine, but the devil took hold of me. They had to be mine at any price. I put them at the bottom of my backpack and was about to run away when he opened his eyes. He seemed sober as he looked at his bare feet and noticed the hat lying there without the bottom.

— Bastard — he yelled, trying to get up, but I was faster. I picked up a sharp stone and went after him.

I left his body there and ran away, horrified by what I had done. For a long time I couldn’t sleep, seeing his deformed face and one of his eyes popping out of its socket. As soon as I arrived in Tiradentes, at dawn, I hitched a ride and returned to my city. Little by little I sold the smaller stones and, with that, made my financial life.

Staring at the letters, I thought back to that night and I’m almost certain that someone, as eager as me, followed him, because I can swear I remember a slight rustling in a bush near us. Although, if I’m right, if that someone saw me commit the crime, why did it take so long for them to come forward? Forty-five years is a long time. I grabbed a box cutter and cut a plank below my bedroom window. The same frenzy came over me when my hand groped for the velvet bag. I cannot describe the pleasure of having the yellow diamond rolling between my fingers, a small fortune that belongs to me. I cannot allow myself to be blackmailed. If it is a stone he wants, a stone he will have.

The next day I carried in my pants pocket a small bag, containing a pebble and something else: “You shouldn’t have messed with me, friend.” I put it in P.O. box 32 and laid in wait, disguised, watching the entrance to the Agency on Aurora Street, but not before trying to find out who it belonged to. They told me that my request could not be fulfilled, but that the signature had been made that month. I arrived at opening time and waited for a few hours without noticing anything suspicious about the users who arrived with letters, boxes and small packages in their hands. Around noon a man came in empty-handed, which put me on alert. I entered the agency carrying an envelope and headed to the counter, keeping my eyes on him as he walked towards the metal boxes. I held my breath when I saw his back. He stretched out his hand and led me to 32, making me freeze. I saw him grab the little bag and leave in a hurry. I left the agency and started following him. He walked quickly, turning corners, heading towards the São José neighborhood, very close by. From the corner I saw him going into a small, simple-looking house. I waited a little to see if he would come out right away, but he didn't. I went back to my house and waited.

Late in the afternoon, a new letter was brought by Dona Celeste.

— Do you have a secret admirer, Mr. Guilherme? These unaddressed letters seem to me to be coming from someone in love — she smiled, delighted with the idea.

— Who knows, Dona Celeste. Who knows!

She left, reluctantly, and when I saw her close the gate I tore open the envelope. “You tricked me and you will regret it.” I assumed that the blackmailer knew about stones and knew that one was just a simple pebble. I smiled and got ready. In the dead of night I headed to that address. He hadn’t counted on my cunning to enter houses. I like and possess things that please my eyes. I found him in bed, fast asleep. I sat on a chair and kicked his foot, while pointing a gun at his face. He woke up startled and looked at me. He confessed to me that he had spent forty years in prison for murder. He killed the young man who saw me that night. I remembered him. I had talked to him at the bar where he worked, before heading to Tiradentes. The poor young man followed me down the road, because I had forgotten a book on the bar table. He was the one who rustled the bushes. He must have run away scared and, in his desperation to tell what he saw, he revealed what he shouldn't have and ended up dead, because his killer didn't want anyone else to know about it. After he was arrested, he spent five years looking for me, but he didn't realize that I was a more cunning killer than he was, since I never let myself be caught. I hit him on the head with the back of a gun, stunning him. I suffocated him with the pillow. Easy work for a professional. The diamond is mine and no one will take it from me. It will stay with me while I maintain my precious anonymity.

11 Octobre 2024 19:12 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
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A propos de l’auteur

Amanda Kraft Participo com mais de duzentos contos em diversas antologias de várias editoras. Vários e-books (livros e contos) lançados pela Amazon, Buenovela e impressos pela Uiclap.com.br e Ópera Editorial.

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