Going Once Going Twice 2

Going Once, Going Twice... is a story about what happens when the past refuses to stay hidden, and when the people uncovering it are brave enough to let it change them.

This is an older story that I wrote after my wife and I found something hidden in a trunk we bought at auction. I wanted to explore trust, voyeurism, mystery, and that tender, electric space where an established couple realizes they're not done growing or exploring.

Harold and Marge began as a straight-laced pair with one foot in routine and the other in resignation. What they found inside that cedar chest wasn't just a key to someone else's secrets, it was a mirror. A spark. A dare.

To me, the of the most most erotic things is honesty. Naked truth. And the courage to share it.

Thanks for reading--and may you always stay curious, stay brave, and never be afraid to watch what unfolds.-- Adrian Harper

Going Once, Going Twice...

The old auction barn sat just off County Road 17, nestled between a fading cornfield and a row of gnarled oaks that looked like they'd been there since the first tractor hit Illinois soil. Its roof sagged in the middle, and the old weather-beaten sign that read Gallatin Estate Liquidators hung crooked above the wide double doors. Dust floated like smoke in the shafts of morning sun that pierced the slats in the high rafters. Inside, the air smelled of old pine, furniture wax, and the lingering memory of lives boxed up and sold off.

Harold leaned on a stack of furniture as his eyes scanned the cluttered rows of mismatched chairs, iron bed frames, and forgotten curio cabinets. He looked every bit the retired insurance adjuster he had been, tall, graying, meticulous, with a pressed flannel tucked neatly into jeans and a habit of counting things under his breath. Next to him, Marjorie stood with her hands in her jacket pockets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She had a sharp eye, a keener memory, and the quiet patience of a woman who'd spent forty years loving the same man in a house that rarely changed.

It was her idea to come that morning. She'd seen the flyer at the coffee shop two days prior--"Complete Household Liquidation -- Saturday 9 AM -- No Reserves!"--and something about it had tugged at her. Maybe it was the words no reserves, maybe it was the way Harold had been spending more time watching TV and less time tinkering in the garage. Either way, she nudged him early, poured the coffee, and by 8:30, they were pulling into the gravel lot behind the barn.

They didn't need the furniture. Not really. Their home was already filled with well-worn heirlooms and auction rescues. But they both liked the chase. The hunt for something forgotten. Harold claimed it was about resale. Marge never argued, but she knew better.

"I like that chest," she said now, nodding toward a modest lot of five or six pieces lined up along the west wall. It wasn't the fanciest piece there--just a mid-century chest of drawers with rounded corners and spindle legs. Honey-toned wood. Clean lines. Simple. "Would look good in the upstairs guest room."

Harold followed her gaze. "Comes as a lot. Tagged as number twenty-seven. Chest, wardrobe, cedar box, two chairs, and a side table."

She smirked. "We'll flip the rest."

He grunted, already calculating. "Budget?"

"Three hundred."

"I was thinking two-fifty."

"And I was thinking I'm the one who has to refinish it," she said, giving him a knowing look. "So three."

He nodded once. That was that.

The auctioneer was a squat man with a voice like sandpaper and a silver belt buckle the size of a dessert plate. Lot by lot, the numbers moved. Coffee-stained rugs, yellowed books, a cracked baby grand that went for too much to a young man in corduroy pants. Then came Lot 27.

Harold lifted his number and kept it steady until the final call.

"Sold!" the auctioneer barked. "To bidder seventy-one! Going once, going twice... Sold!"

They spent the next hour arranging for pickup, loading what they could into the bed of the truck, and promising to return the next day with the trailer for the wardrobe. The cedar chest, squat and nondescript, fit easily behind the cab.

By late afternoon, the furniture was offloaded and lined up in the garage. The chest of drawers--Marge's real prize--was carried upstairs and set neatly into the corner of the guest bedroom. It already looked at home beneath the window, catching the last bit of sunlight. Marge admired it for a long moment, then gave Harold a nod of approval.

The wardrobe was too heavy for a solo move, so Harold left it in the garage for now. The two chairs had some character, though the upholstery was worn, and the side table had a water ring the size of a whiskey bottle. He figured they'd sand, patch, and list those within the week.

Marge circled the cedar chest with a mild look of disappointment. "Nothing special," she muttered. "Just one of those plain storage types. Looks like it's seen a few basements."

Harold hauled it onto a pair of sawhorses and gave it a once-over with a dry rag. The grain was decent--tight, old cedar with a few scuffs and dings that could be buffed out. As he worked, his brows slowly knit together.

He stepped back, studying the chest again.

"Something off?" Marge asked.

He tapped the end of the chest thoughtfully. "Dimensions don't add up. Doesn't match the wall thickness I'd expect."

Marge came over, curious now. Harold rapped his knuckles along the inside, then the underside. The sound shifted--soft in some areas, dull in others.

"Hear that?" he asked.

She nodded. "Sounds hollow near the bottom."

Harold fetched a small pry bar and a flathead screwdriver from the bench. "Let's have a look."

Working slowly, he wedged the flathead between two of the bottom planks on the inside. After a few careful taps, one board lifted with a dry creak.

What lay beneath wasn't cedar.

It was something else entirely.

The Discovery

Harold leaned closer, squinting into the narrow space beneath the lifted plank. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "We might have something here."

Marge moved beside him, brushing her hair back as she crouched. The air that wafted up from the hidden compartment was stale but dry, a scent of aged cedar mingling with something older--paper, film, the ghost of locked-away memories.

Inside were several objects nestled carefully in the false bottom: a canvas pouch, two metal tins, and--most curious of all--two sealed envelopes, both yellowed with time and marked in looping cursive.

Harold reached for the pouch first. It clinked as he lifted it, and the drawstring gave way with a tug. He poured its contents slowly into his hand--worn bills, some tightly rolled coins, and what appeared to be a stack of vintage notes.

"Cash," he murmured, separating the denominations with practiced fingers. "And these coins are older... Mercury dimes, a couple silver quarters. Not junk drawer stuff."

Marge's attention had already shifted. She gently picked up the two envelopes, eyes narrowing to read the faded writing.

One read:

July 4th Weekend -- 1968

The other:

Estes Park -- Fall 1968

Beneath each was a matching 8mm reel tin. One was labeled

Cabin 3 -- July 4th, the other The Green Room -- Estes Park

. Both looked intact, if a little dusty.

Marge looked up. "Someone took care to store this together."

Harold nodded, pulling out the rest--a small bundle of delicate paper slips. He turned one toward the light. "Bearer bonds," he said. "Good ones, too. Thousands in face value--uncashed. This isn't just memorabilia."

"This is someone's hidden stash," Marge added, laying the envelopes carefully on a nearby towel. She hesitated a moment, then slid her finger beneath the flap of the one marked July 4th Weekend and opened it.

Inside was a small stack of black-and-white photographs--dozens, maybe more. The first few were tastefully posed: a young woman, mid-twenties, dark hair pinned in a 60s beehive sitting on a dock near a beautiful lake.

In the next set of photos, the same woman was sitting nude on a checked picnic blanket in front of a lake cabin. Her smile was natural, easy, her body unashamed. A man joined her in the next frame--shirtless, trim, kissing her shoulder while her eyes closed.

On the back, in neat blue ink, were the initials D.M. & R.C. -- 7/4/68.

Marge flipped through several more. The same couple, but now joined by another pair--blonde woman, lanky man, arms looped around each other as they waded into a sun-dappled lake completely naked. The women kissed cheek to cheek in one frame, hands playfully over their breasts, laughing. The men were less discreet in another, swimming with obvious abandon.

Each photo had matching notations: D.M., R.C., H.T., and M.J. scrawled across the backs, all dated early July of 1968.

Marge paused, cheeks coloring slightly. "Maybe they were... nudists?"

Harold chuckled under his breath. "Maybe." He took a photo and squinted. "They don't seem shy about the camera, that's for sure."

"They're beautiful," Marge admitted quietly. "Young. Free. It doesn't feel lewd... more like they were just... uninhibited."

"Different time," Harold said. "Or different people."

Marge stared at the image of the two women again, frozen mid-laugh. There was nothing obscene in the pose--nothing posed at all; however, they were kissing openly. Just a moment, captured without apology.

She swallowed and slid the stack back into the envelope without looking at any more, folding the flap down.

"What about the other one?" Harold asked, nodding to the Estes Park envelope.

"Not yet," she said quickly. Her voice was calm, but she tucked the envelope slightly behind the other. "Let's take this in one piece at a time."

Harold gave her a long look, but didn't press.

"Well," he said, placing the reels and envelopes gently back in the false bottom, "this is every picker's dream. Hidden history. Real lives. Untouched for decades."

Marge nodded slowly, her fingertips still brushing the corner of one photo. "It's like we've uncovered a time capsule no one was meant to find."

"Or maybe one they hoped someone would," Harold added, tapping the wood. "Eventually."

Neither of them said anything more for a long minute. The tools sat idle. The garage was quiet but for the ticking of the old wall clock. And between them, on the sawhorses, the chest waited--no longer just furniture, but a question neither knew how to answer yet.

The Clue That Points the Way

Beneath the folded towel where Marge had set the envelopes, something else caught her eye--wedged tight against the inside edge of the chest's false bottom.

"Hold on," she said, reaching carefully into the corner. Her fingers brushed against paper. Thin. Fragile. She eased it out slowly, revealing a postcard.

It was a colorized image--one of those old linen-style prints--showing a lakefront lodge with a row of tiny cabins along the shore. Across the top, in faded cursive type, were the words: "Whispering Pines -- Lake Charmaine, Missouri."

Harold leaned in. "That's a clue if I've ever seen one."

Marge flipped it over. The card had been addressed but never mailed. No stamp, but the message was neatly written:

D -- Thanks again for Cabin 3. Best damn weekend we've had in years. Still can't believe you talked me into the reel. Hope the next one is even wilder. See you in Estes if you make it. -- H.

Below the message, a date:

July 6, 1968.

Harold took the card from her hand and studied it. "Cabin 3. That matches the reel label." He tapped the corner. "And that seals it--D must be D.M., and R must be R.C."

"Which makes H... H.T., and the woman must be M.J.," Marge finished softly.

They both looked at the envelope again, the stack of bare, sun-kissed memories, and the untouched reel beside it.

"Whispering Pines," Harold said. "Bet that place hasn't been around in years."

"Maybe not," Marge replied, but there was a spark in her voice. "But if it ever was, it'll be online somewhere."

They spent the next hour seated at the kitchen table, laptop open between them, chasing scraps of digital history. Marge searched the resort name while Harold jotted down possible county records. It took time, and a lot of dead ends--an active campground by the same name in Idaho, a closed B&B in North Carolina, a funeral home listing that popped up for no good reason.

But finally, on a forum devoted to "Lost Americana," Harold found a user-submitted page with scanned postcards and brochures.

"Here," he said, tilting the screen. The same lodge, the same shoreline. A note underneath:

Whispering Pines Lodge, Lake Charmaine, MO -- burned down 1974. Some cabins still standing on private land. Formerly operated by the Delacroix family (1951--1971).

Marge leaned closer. "Delacroix... D.M.?"

He nodded. "Could be. It's something."

They sat in silence for a while, the screen casting a soft glow across their quiet kitchen. Outside, a few crickets chirped in the last light of evening.

Finally, Harold pushed back his chair and stretched. "You know," he said casually, "we still have that old 8mm projector in the attic."

Marge raised an eyebrow. "The one you inherited from your dad?"

"Still works, last I checked. Needs a new bulb maybe, but I think I even have spares."

She hesitated. "You want to watch the reel?"

"Tomorrow," he said, voice soft. "Might be more in it than just memories. Could be another clue."

Marge looked at the reel canister still resting on the table. The words Cabin 3 -- July 4th stared back at her like a whisper waiting to be heard.

"Okay," she said after a moment. "Tomorrow."

They rose from the table together and turned off the light. The kitchen dimmed, leaving only the faint blue gleam of the laptop screen--and beside it, the reel and the envelope, waiting.

The First Reel

The following morning began with strong coffee and mild disappointment. The lead on the Delacroix family and Whispering Pines had grown cold quickly. There were no surviving owners listed, and the property had since been split and sold to private parties. No public access. No directories. Just decades of distance and weeds reclaiming whatever cabins were left.

Marge stood at the sink, drying the last dish from breakfast, her brow furrowed in thought. "It's not enough. That postcard got us close, but we need something more solid if we're going to trace any of them."

Harold glanced over from the doorway, coffee in hand. "Then maybe it's time we watch the reel."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Go get the projector. Let's see what they left behind."

By midmorning, the garage had been rearranged for their little viewing. Harold emerged from the attic with the old Bell & Howell projector, blowing a thick coat of dust from the case. He set it on a folding table while Marge strung up an old white sheet against the far wall.

The machine groaned when he flipped the switches, but after a few tweaks and a fresh bulb, it hummed to life. The scent of hot metal and dust filled the air, oddly nostalgic. Marge handed him the Cabin 3 -- July 4th reel, and he carefully threaded it into place.

The projector clattered as the reel spun to life. The screen flickered.

Then it began.

The footage was grainy but intact, colors faded to warm sepia hues. It opened on a dock--sunlight glinting off the lake, two women laughing as they splashed in the water, completely nude. One of them--dark-haired and curvy--was unmistakably the woman from the photos: R.C. The other, fair and slender with a riot of blond curls, had to be M.J.

The camera followed them as they waded ashore, uninhibited and playful. The men--D.M. and H.T.--remained out of frame at first, their voices audible, teasing, laughing.

Then a cut.

Now all four were gathered on the picnic blanket naked, wine glasses in hand. The camera shook slightly, like it was handed between the two men. The women lay side by side, their bodies overlapping occasionally in ways that were hard to dismiss as accidental.

When R.C. leaned in and kissed M.J.'s neck, Marge straightened in her chair.

"Oh," she said softly.

Harold cleared his throat but said nothing.

The scene lingered. M.J. rolled toward R.C., one arm draped over her chest, fingers lightly playing with the other woman's breasts. Their mouths met--slow, unhurried, natural, with tongues intertwined. Behind them, one of the men sat watching, sipping wine, and sporting a large erection. The other adjusted the camera slightly, framing the shot deliberately on the two women.

There were more kisses. More touching, and finally overt sex. R.C. leaned back with her legs spread. The woman assumed to be M.J. lowered her head between R.C.'s legs. R.C. tossed her head back as she leaned on her elbows, clearly in the throes of ecstasy. This went on for several minutes, as the camera work got a bit shaky.

M.J. lifted her rear to the air while she was pleasuring R.C. and one of the men started fucking M.J. The camera got even shakier in a rhythmic motion, assuming that the male who was filming was pleasuring himself.

The women were back in focus when the screen flickered again.

Another cut.

The group now appeared to be having sex on the cabin porch, R.C. leaning against the railing while M.J. stood between her legs, clearly pleasuring her. Their bodies moved together rhythmically, clothed in nothing but moonlight and the grain of old film. The intimacy between the couples was undeniable.

Marge sat forward slowly, one hand resting on her knee.

"Well," she said after a long moment, "they weren't just nudists."

Harold rubbed the back of his neck. "No... no, they were not."

He didn't look at her right away. Neither of them moved.

Then Marge leaned in, squinting at the screen. "Pause it."

Harold fumbled and hit the switch. The frame froze with a flickering stutter.

"There," she pointed. "In the background. That building."

Behind the porch, half-obscured by shadows, was a structure--a tall, narrow A-frame with vertical siding and a painted wooden sign affixed above the door.

Harold adjusted the lens, trying to sharpen it.

The words were hard to make out. Faded, and just off-frame. But the first part was clear:

"Charmaine Trading Post."

Harold took a picture of the frozen frame with his cell phone.

Marge sat back slowly. "That could be something. Something we can find."

Harold nodded, his voice low. "If that building's still there... we've got a location."

He started the projector again before it had a chance to burn a hole in the film, and shortly after the reel flapped as the final frames spun free, the screen turned white.

They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the projector fading, the air around them thick with something neither of them named yet--but both felt deeply.

Finally, Marge stood and unplugged the machine. She didn't speak, but she didn't look flustered either. Just... thoughtful.

And maybe a little flushed.

Things You Don't Just Return

The projector now sat silent, the final frame long passed. Marge stood by the workbench, arms crossed, looking down at the envelope labeled Estes Park -- Fall 1968 but not reaching for it yet. Harold unplugged the projector, wrapping the cord slowly as if stalling for the right words.

Finally, he spoke.

"You know," he said, carefully, "we're well within our rights to keep it. The money, the bonds. It was hidden, yeah--but it came with the chest. No one's claimed it in over fifty years."

Marge glanced at him. "I know. But..."

He nodded before she even finished. "Right. It doesn't feel quite right. Not yet. Maybe someone out there--kids, grandkids--could benefit. If we could find them."