He and Tritia brought Billy home from the hospital later in the morning, and Doug turned on the television while Trish made a bed for their son on the couch. For the first time in nearly two weeks the house did not seem to Doug like a violated fortress, like a temporary shelter in which he slept. It felt once more like a home.

Tritia poured Billy a glass of 7-Up and took it to him.

“Dad?” Billy asked from the couch.

Doug turned. “Yes?”

“It’s over, isn’t it?” he asked.

He nodded at his son. “Yes,” he said. “Finally.”

“Finally,” Billy breathed gratefully, settling back on the pillow.

They made sure Billy was comfortable, then Tritia went into the kitchen to fix his favorite lunch—macaroni and cheese with chopped-up hot dogs. It was about as nutritious as lint, but this was a special occasion and he deserved a special lunch to go with it.

Doug turned the TV to Channel 5 so Billy could watch Dick Van Dyke, and he watched it with him for a few minutes. On an impulse, during a commercial break, he walked outside, onto the porch. He stood there for a moment, then began to walk down the drive to the mailbox. It was a beautiful late-summer day. The temperature was hot but not uncomfortably so, the harshness of June and July mellowed and gone. In the trees, bluebirds chattered happily and the sky above was cloudlessly blue. There was a slight breeze, not strong enough to disturb anything, but strong enough to act as a natural fan and keep his face cool as he walked.

He reached the mailbox and stopped. The box was open and Doug moved forward to peer inside.

Three coal-black envelopes lay neatly stacked next to the opening.

He remembered the sound of the car the night before, and he felt the return of a familiar coldness. Reaching in, he pulled the envelopes out. The paper felt strange and thick to his touch, slightly slimy, as though it was made from something organic. The contents were heavy and oddly shaped. A wave of revulsion passed through him. He had the sudden urge to drop all three envelopes on the ground, to stomp on them, to bury them with dirt. Without looking at their contents, he knew that whatever was inside the envelopes was evil.

He examined each piece of mail. On the front, in red scripted Old English letters, were his, Tritia’s, and Billy’s names. No addresses.

He wondered if other people in town had received letters like these. If everyone in town had received letters like these.

He stared down at the mail.

Inside the envelope addressed to him, something squirmed.