The Family Legacy

Crossing the cattle grate into Willy’s Self Storage Unit lot Lucy unleashed a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.  Hearing the rhythmic sounds of gravel crunching under her truck tires as she drove down the gravel path she braced herself for the unavoidable, awkward encounter she was anticipating. 

A month earlier, Lucy received a past due notice from Willy’s Self Storage Unit in Valdosta, Georgia. The bill, which was in her name, said she owed $120 for her 10x15 storage unit. The standard $110 a month charge was upped with a meager $10 late fee since she, unknnowingly, failed to pay on time. After ignoring it for two weeks–since she's never been to Valdosta before, nor does she have a random storage unit housing items she is unable to part with–she received a very persistent voicemail insisting she come and settle her account. 

After paying the bill– $120 was inconvenient, but she could afford it with her job as attorney in St. Petersburg, Florida– she found her way to unit number 247. 

Standing before the tiny house sized storage unit, she readies her mind for whatever she may find on the other side. The door track sticks a little as she squats down and  forcefully tugs and jerks on the hand to raise the rusted garage door, revealing a minimalist’s nightmare. 

Boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes are piled high to the ceiling. Some molded, some not. Coughing as the dust and dirt resettle, she takes inventory of the room. Weaving through the brown towers of gloom, she spies out of place–what she believes to be– antique armoires lining the back wall. The dank musky smell of moldy cardboard singing her nose hair as she crosses weaves deeper into the unit. Not knowing where to start, she begins peering into the tops of boxes.

Filled to the brim with yellowed newspapers, as if a paper boy boxed up his leftovers and for safe keeping, boxes of pillows, boxes of books, and so on and so on. Nothing of value. Feeling at a loss, confused as to why she had been summoned to unit 247 Lucy surveys the room one more time, deciding if it’s worth it to sort through this mysterious hoarder's trove or to leave it for the Georgia humidity’s consumption. 

Resigned to looking through a few more boxes, she  begins a methodical sorting process for the boxes, willing herself to find some connection… some reason as to why this storage unit was reserved in her name. 

“Maybe I’ll find a big bag of money?”  She thought. 

“As long as there are no dead bodies in here–I can figure this out…” Her inner monologue was spiraling with what if’s and silent prayers. 

The front office had been of no help–the payments were all made in cash, a year in advance for the last 5+ years. Sighing as she moves another box of newspaper to her trash pile, her mound of disappointment, as she stumbles slightly and her foot finds an unyielding surface.

Puzzled, she turns around. Shifting the stacks of boxes in front of her she sees a pristine wooden box, a storage trunk, dusty but clearly the only item to have escaped the southern Georgia heat and humidity. Blowing the dust away, the words G-R -E -E-R are written on top of the box. 

Greer? That’s her last name. Weird–but, OK. 

She moves to open the lid realizing too late that there are two spring loaded locks, and no key. After a herculean effort, tugging and pulling, some more tugging and pulling, the lock didn’t budge. Subdued, she turns back to her boring box pile. After what seemed like an hour of monotonous sorting, and frenzied searching Lucy opens perhaps the moldiest box in the unit.

Lifting the flaps of the cardboard box, expertly folded so they would hold themselves shut, she eyes a large antique looking knife, two keys–one red and one blue–and a letter, addressed to her. In her Dad’s handwriting. 

With a shaky hand, she opens the letter. 

***********

Dear Lucy, 

If you are reading this I have been missing for at least three months and the storage unit bill came due. We don’t have a lot of time so read carefully and quickly. 

The two keys you see are what you will need to answer all the questions that I am certain are flowing through your mind right now. The blue key is for my desk. It will unlock the bottom left file cabinet where you can find my safety deposit box information and key. In it, you will find my last will and testament, copies of the house and car keys, deed to the house, life insurance policy, and the number for a trusted friend and executor of my estate. 

I can’t come back–even if I’m still alive. This was the only way. 

The red key can be used to unlock the storage trunk you undoubtedly have already found and tried to open. The contents of that box have been our family's burden for the last 125 years, we have protected its secrets for generations. My father, and his father before that, and so on and so on. All of us grew up, ‘training’ to an extent to do this job. I failed to train you–in hopes that you would find a new path for your life. But it seems that if you are here, you are well on your way to following in the footsteps of the Greer line. 

Before you go any further, this is your last chance to walk away. This decision must happen quickly. I have taken precautions to protect this room, should anything ever happen to me. Not all of these boxes are filled with old newspapers or ‘random’ pillows. In addition to what lurks inside this unit, there are people who will be looking for this box once they have discovered I am gone. 

Choose now. Walk away and live your life as you wish and forget about this place. If you choose to stay and carry out what those before you did, then you must know that you can’t go back. You can’t unknow what you are about to learn and the world as you know it will cease to exist. 

If you are going to open the box, you will need to move it to another location. Check how much time you have been in here. You should have had about four hours from the time you opened the unit before anyone came looking for you. This unit, while unsurprising, is heavily monitored. The moment you opened the door, a silent alarm sounded and they will be on their way by now.

If you are closing in on the four hour mark, shut the door. Get to the back right corner of the unit and move the armoire away from the wall and it will lead you to where you need to go. Remember: trust your instincts and if you find yourself at an impasse, left is right, right is wrong.  

Remember that I love you and  I am so sorry I am not there to help and guide you. 

You are everything father could ask for. You are smart, you are brave and you are important. You’ll know what to do when the time comes. Now get moving.

***********

She felt it then. The eerily calm quiet of her surroundings. Looking down at her watch, she realized she was rapidly approaching the end of her four hour grace period. 

How has it been three and half hours already? There’s just a bunch of shit in here. 

Internally cursing herself, she begins to fold up the letter and sliding it into the back pocket of her jeans–reaching for the remainder of the contents in the moldy cardboard box– noting the absence of birds chirping, the swaying of palm tree fronds, or the incessant clicks of the cicadas. As if in recognition of her mood change, the clouds overhead conveniently produced a sliver of cloud coverage as she peaked through the storage unit door, taking inventory of her surroundings as she surveyed the road out of the storage unit. 

In the distance, she could see the rising dirt cloud–a warning of new arrivals to the storage unit lot, thanks to the half mile long old gravel dirt road you have to drive down to get here. 

Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was the tone of her missing father’s letter that had Lucy on edge. Seeing that that dust cloud rapidly approaching Willy’s front gate, jolted her  into action. She ran to the front, slamming the garage door down, finding a strategically placed lock with an index card dangling from it with familiar handwriting on it “ USE ME TO LOCK GARAGE DOOR”. Sliding the internal garage door lock into place, followed by snapping the steel security bar through the conveniently located latches.

Whirling toward the back of the unit, searching for this supposed back door. She began shoving over the wretched box towers, not pausing long enough to wonder what other things her dad may have left inside of them. Shifting the armoire out two feet, she saw it. 

“What in the actual fuck.” She thought. 

“This isn’t a back door. It’s a goddamn escape hatch… what the hell?”  

Dragging the trunk with her to the hatch, Lucy hefted open the metal door–coughing as the familiar marsh smell of rotten eggs overcame her. Shining her phone flashlight down, she saw she had a 5 foot drop. 

The trunk landed with a thump. Taking an extra minute to adjust some boxes and pulling the armoire in front of the hatch, just in case.  She had just begun easing the door shut, balancing on her barely stable,  legacy-filled trunk as she heard the garage door on unit 247 start to shake with movement. 

Heart now thundering in her ears, she was momentarily paralyzed while she tried to process what was happening. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of metal groaning from the intense pressure of someone trying to force it open, when she sprang into action. Scrutinizing her phone lit surroundings, she saw two reinforced hand dug tunnels–barely big enough for her to crawl through, let alone drag a trunk through it. Should she go down the left or right tunnel?

Pausing for seconds she couldn’t afford to waste, her hand absentmindedly resting on her back pocket where her father’s letter still resides. She reached down and began dragging the trunk, making her exit through the left tunnel.