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Back THE MAILMAN Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. DEDICATION
  2. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
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  24. 22
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  26. 24
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  28. 26
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  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
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  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
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  46. 44
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  48. 46
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  51. 49
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  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55

What would Dan have been like had he come back?

Hobie put down the letter and scooped up the photographs. His gaze fell upon the eviscerated pubescent. The fear which had receded for a moment returned full-force, and he quickly reached over and turned on the lamp next to the couch, clicking the switch until the bulb was on the third and highest wattage. The light successfully evaporated the shadows in the room but could do nothing to dim the shadows stalking him from within.

He’d had enough of this. Doug was right. Something was definitely screwy here, and tomorrow morning he was going to go over to the post office and find out what it was. Find out why he was getting twenty-year-old letters and photographs, and why they were being delivered in the middle of the fucking night. He’d demand that Howard do something, and if the old man didn’t want to, well, then, he’d damn well better have his insurance paid up.

Hobie folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, shoving the pictures in with it. Half of him wanted to crumple up the letter, rip the photos, and throw the whole thing away, but another part of him wanted to save it all, to keep this last memento of Dan, and he put the envelope on the coffee table. He’d think about it later, decide what to do in the morning.

He was about to get up, turn the light off, and go back into the bedroom when he heard the sound of footsteps shuffling outside the door. Fear flared within him, and he sat unmoving, afraid even to breathe. A low metal clanking told him that the mailbox had been opened and closed.

Another letter delivered.

He knew he should jump up and confront the mailman, rush outside and beat the crap out of the scrawny faggoty bastard, but he was afraid to so much as acknowledge his presence. He shut his eyes, muscles tense, trembling within, until he heard the sound of retreating footsteps, the purring sound of a fading engine.

He sat there until dawn, afraid to return to bed, afraid to look into the mailbox, afraid to move, and it was only the sound of his alarm ringing at six o’clock that forced him to finally leave the couch.

22

Doug sat in the hard-backed chair, glaring at the police chief. “I saw it!”

“Okay, let’s assume that the mailman was dancing in the dark. So what? It’s not against the law to dance. Dancing is considered a legitimate form of self-expression.”

“Don’t play games with me. There’re some weird fucking things going on in this town, and you’re giving me this piddly-ass bullshit.”