Hobie looked straight into his eyes, and for the first time since he’d stepped into the trailer, his friend seemed rational, lucid. “I know that,” he said. “I know the mailman’s doing this. The letters come at night. I can’t sleep anymore because I stay awake listening until I hear his car and hear him drop the letters in the slot. I’d like to go down to the post office and beat the living fuck out of the faggy son of a bitch, but I’m afraid of him, you know? Maybe… maybe he really can deliver letters from Dan. Maybe he can bring Dan back from the dead. Maybe he can bring Dan here.”

“He’s just trying to pressure you, to make you crack.”

Hobie laughed a short nervous laugh. “He’s doing a damn good job.” He pulled away from Doug and walked into the demolished kitchen, picking up a bottle of Jack Daniels from the crowded counter and pouring himself a shot in a dirty glass. He quickly downed the liquor. “If he is faking those letters, writing them himself, then he knows a lot of things only Dan could know. He’s even been able to copy Dan’s handwriting perfectly. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t.”

Hobie poured himself another shot, drank it. “There’s a lot of evil shit going down,” he said. “A lot of evil shit.”

Doug nodded. “You’re right there.”

Hobie looked at him. “He’s not human, is he?”

“I don’t think so,” Doug admitted, and just saying that aloud made him feel cold. “But I don’t know what he is.”

“Whatever he is, he can bring back the dead. Dan’s been writing to me. And now he’s coming to visit.”

“Maybe we should tell the police—”

“Fuck the police!” Hobie slammed down his shot glass, spilling whiskey. He shook his head, his voice softer. “No police.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“If you’re going to act like this, then get the hell out of here and go home.”

Doug held up his hands in acquiescence. “Okay, okay.”

And he stood there silently as, shot by shot, Hobie finished off the bottle.

And he did not leave until after Hobie had passed out on the couch.

Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight.

On the tenth ring, Tritia finally hung up the phone. Something was wrong. Irene always answered her phone by the third ring. It was conceivable that she was out of the house, but it was hardly likely. She did not seem to be of a mind lately to leave the house for any reason.

Maybe she had to buy groceries.

No, Tritia thought. Something had happened.

As soon as Doug got back, the two of them would drive over there and see if Irene was all right.

She picked up the phone again and dialed Irene’s number.

One ring. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.