"Return to Sender":
I’ve been a postal worker in this small town for twelve years. My route takes me through quiet streets lined with old houses, where I deliver letters and packages to folks I’ve come to know well. There’s a rhythm to it: the weight of my mailbag, the clink of mailbox lids, the occasional chat with a neighbor. I’ve always felt safe, like I belonged. But that changed a few months ago, and now every step feels like I’m being hunted.
It started with little things. Packages I’d delivered would vanish from porches by the time I looped back around. At first, I thought people were just quick to grab them. Then I noticed letters in mailboxes, ripped open, their contents missing—bills, birthday cards, even junk mail. I chalked it up to raccoons or bored teenagers. I mentioned it to my supervisor, Tom, at the post office. He was sorting mail behind the counter, barely looking up. “Probably just kids,” he said. “Report it if it keeps happening, but don’t worry too much.”
I tried not to, but it got worse. One morning, I found a note in a mailbox on Elm Street, tucked between a catalog and a utility bill. It was addressed to me in sharp, jagged handwriting: “I see you every day.” My stomach twisted, but I laughed it off, thinking it was a prank. I stuffed the note in my pocket and kept going. The next day, another note appeared in a different mailbox: “You can’t hide from me.” My hands shook as I read it. This wasn’t a kid’s joke. Someone was watching me.
By the third note, I was scared. It was in a mailbox on Pine Road, and it read, “I know where you live.” My house is miles from my route, a small place on the edge of town. How could anyone know that? I showed the note to Tom that afternoon. He leaned back in his creaky chair, scratching his graying beard. “Sounds like someone’s trying to spook you,” he said. “Maybe a coworker pulling a prank. Keep me posted, but don’t let it mess with your head.”
His words didn’t help. Every morning, I’d start my route scanning the streets, my heart pounding. I noticed a car—a dark gray sedan with tinted windows—parked at the corner of Maple and Oak. It was there every day, sometimes moving to a different spot but always nearby. If I walked toward it, the engine would rev, and it’d peel out before I could see the driver. I tried to catch the license plate, but it was always too far or too blurry.
One afternoon, I was delivering to Mrs. Clara, an older woman who lives in a tidy yellow house. She was watering her roses when I handed her a stack of mail. She noticed my hands trembling. “You okay, dear?” she asked, her voice soft but concerned.
I hesitated, then pulled the latest note from my bag. “Someone’s leaving these,” I said, showing her the one about my house. Her eyes narrowed as she read it.
“This is no joke,” she said, setting her watering can down. “You need to tell the police. Now.”
“I don’t want to make a big deal out of it,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant. “What if it’s nothing?”
She shook her head, her silver curls bouncing. “This is serious. Someone’s targeting you. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
I nodded, but I didn’t go to the police. I wanted to believe it was nothing, that I could handle it. That was my first mistake.
The next week, I was delivering to the old Jenkins house, a crumbling place that’s been empty since the owner passed away. As I slid a flyer into the rusted mailbox, I saw a shadow move behind the house—a man in a dark hoodie, ducking out of sight. My pulse spiked. Was that him? The one leaving the notes? I should’ve walked away, but my feet moved before my brain caught up. I crept around the house, my hand on the pepper spray in my bag. “Hello?” I called, my voice shaky. “Who’s there?”
No answer, just the crunch of leaves as someone ran into the woods behind the property. I followed, my heart hammering, the trees closing in around me. The woods were thick, branches snagging at my uniform. I lost the figure in the shadows, but then I tripped over something—a small campsite hidden in a clearing. There was a worn tent, a sleeping bag, and a pile of empty food cans. On a rotting log sat a notebook.
I picked it up, my hands trembling so bad I almost dropped it. Inside were pages of sketches—drawings of me. Me walking my route, me sorting mail at the truck, me sitting on the park bench where I take my break. There were notes, too, in that same jagged handwriting: “8:45 AM—Clara’s house.” “10:15 AM—Coffee shop.” “11:30 AM—Bench by the library.” My knees buckled. This wasn’t a prank. Someone was tracking my every move.
I dropped the notebook and ran back to my truck, my breath coming in gasps. I drove straight to the police station, the notebook clutched in my hands. The officer, a guy named Jenkins, took one look at it and frowned. “This is disturbing,” he said, flipping through the pages. “We’ll look into it. Stay vigilant, and call us if you see anything else.”
For a few days, things were quiet. No notes, no sedan. I started to hope it was over. Then, one night, I woke to a crash downstairs. Glass shattering. My heart leapt into my throat as I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. “Someone’s in my house,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. The operator told me to stay calm, but I could hear footsteps—slow, heavy, deliberate—coming up the stairs.
I slipped into my bedroom closet, pulling the door shut as quietly as I could. I pressed myself against the wall, my phone shaking in my hand. The bedroom door creaked open. A shadow moved across the floor, stretching long and thin in the moonlight. The footsteps stopped right outside the closet. My breath caught, my body frozen. The closet door started to open, inch by inch.
Then I saw him—the man in the hoodie. His face was half-hidden, but his eyes gleamed in the dark, locked on the crack in the door. He held a knife, its blade glinting faintly. “I told you I’d find you,” he whispered, his voice low and cold, like ice sliding down my spine.
Before he could open the door fully, sirens blared outside. He froze, then bolted, his footsteps pounding down the stairs. The police burst in moments later, flashlights sweeping the house. They found a broken kitchen window and muddy footprints leading out the back door, but he was gone. They promised to patrol my street, but it didn’t feel like enough.
I couldn’t sleep after that. Every creak in the house, every shadow outside, made my heart race. I started carrying a flashlight and checking every lock twice. Weeks passed, and the notes stopped. The sedan disappeared. I tried to tell myself it was over, that he’d moved on.
Then, last Tuesday, I came home from my shift to find my front door ajar—just a crack, but enough to make my stomach drop. I pushed it open, my hands shaking. Inside, my house was destroyed. Couch cushions were slashed, their stuffing spilling out like snow. Drawers were yanked open, their contents scattered across the floor. My family photos, the ones on the living room wall, were smashed, glass glittering on the carpet. In the kitchen, on my table, sat a single sheet of paper. That jagged handwriting stared back at me: “I’m still here. I’ll always be here.”
Now, every night, I hear things. Footsteps crunching outside my window. Whispers in the dark, too soft to make out. Shadows moving just beyond the glow of my porch light. I’ve installed cameras, bolted every door, even bought a baseball bat to keep by my bed. But it doesn’t matter. I check the camera footage every morning, and sometimes I see him—a figure in a hoodie, standing at the edge of my yard, staring at the house. The police can’t find him. They say he’s careful, leaving no prints, no trace.
I don’t know who he is or why he’s doing this. I don’t know how long I can keep living like this, jumping at every sound, checking every shadow. All I know is he’s out there, watching, waiting. And I’m terrified he’s never going to stop.
"Fourteen Fountains":
I woke up early on August 20, 1986, careful not to disturb my wife, Lois, who was still asleep in our small house in Edmond, Oklahoma. The quiet of the morning wrapped around me like a blanket as I pulled on my postal uniform, the familiar blue shirt and pants still crisp from ironing. In the kitchen, I poured coffee into my favorite mug, the one with a faded Oklahoma Sooners logo, and grabbed a piece of toast. Lois stirred as I leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Have a good day, honey,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “See you tonight,” I said, grabbing my keys. Those words felt so ordinary, but they’d soon haunt me.
The drive to the post office was uneventful, the streets of Edmond quiet, with only a few early risers jogging or walking their dogs. I pulled into the employee lot behind the post office, the gravel crunching under my tires. As I walked toward the back entrance, I spotted Jerry, a rural carrier with a graying mustache, unloading his truck. “Morning, Gene,” he called, flashing a grin. “Ready for another day?” I nodded, forcing a smile. “Always, Jerry. You got plans for the weekend?” He told me about taking his family to Lake Hefner for a picnic, his eyes lighting up as he described his daughter’s love for fishing. I mentioned catching the Sooners game on TV, maybe grilling some burgers. It was the kind of easy chatter that made the job feel like home.
Inside, the post office buzzed with its usual rhythm. The air smelled of ink and paper, mixed with the faint metallic tang of sorting machines. Clerks shuffled through stacks of letters, their hands moving like clockwork. Carriers checked their routes, double-checking addresses. I settled at my station near the sorting area, a cluttered desk piled with envelopes and rubber bands. Patti, a clerk with a quick laugh, was already there, telling me about her daughter’s soccer game. “She scored twice last night,” she said, her face glowing with pride. “You should’ve seen her out there, dodging those defenders like a pro.” I grinned, picturing it. “She’s gonna be a star,” I said, tossing a bundle of mail into a bin.
Around 7 a.m., a loud bang jolted me from my work. I froze, thinking a door had slammed or maybe a pallet had tipped over in the loading dock. Another bang followed, sharper, louder. Then another. My stomach twisted. Something was wrong. A scream ripped through the air: “He’s got a gun! Run!” My heart slammed against my ribs. I whipped around and saw Patrick Sherrill, a part-time carrier, standing in the middle of the room. He held a pistol in each hand, his face twisted into something unrecognizable—eyes cold, mouth set in a grim line. He fired again, the sound so loud it felt like it punched through my skull.
Chaos exploded. People screamed, diving under desks, scrambling for exits. I grabbed Patti’s arm, yanking her down behind our desk. “Stay down!” I hissed, my voice shaking. The desk was flimsy, just wood and metal, but it was all we had. I peeked out, my breath catching. Judy, a clerk who always brought donuts on Fridays, crumpled to the floor, blood blooming across her chest. My mind reeled. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.
Sherrill moved like a predator, deliberate and unhurried, his boots thudding against the tile floor. Each gunshot was a hammer to my nerves. I smelled gunpowder, sharp and bitter, mixing with the coppery scent of blood. “We need to get out,” I whispered to Patti, my voice barely audible over the screams. I turned to her, but her head was slumped, her eyes wide and empty. A bullet had found her, leaving a red stain on her blouse. My throat tightened, tears burning my eyes, but there was no time to grieve.
I had to move. The back door was closest, but Sherrill was near it, his shadow looming as he fired again. I crawled toward the side exit instead, my hands slipping on the slick floor. My knees ached, my palms stung, but fear drove me forward. Another scream cut through the air, high and desperate. I glanced back and saw Bill, a clerk with a knack for bad puns, sprint past a row of mailboxes. He was fast, but not fast enough. A gunshot cracked, and he fell, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst. I kept crawling, my breath ragged, the pain in my chest growing with every inch. Then, a searing agony tore through my back, like someone had driven a hot poker into my spine. I gasped, collapsing, my face pressed against the cold floor. Blood soaked my shirt, warm and sticky. I’d been shot. The world blurred, sounds muffled—screams, gunshots, the clatter of overturned chairs.
Sherrill’s shadow fell over me. I looked up, my vision swimming, and saw him standing there, his gun pointed at my head. His eyes were empty, like he wasn’t even human anymore. I thought of Lois, our kids, the life we’d built. I braced for the end, my eyes squeezing shut. But then a voice broke through: “Pat, no! Stop!” It was Tom, a supervisor with a calm demeanor, standing with his hands raised. “You don’t have to do this,” he pleaded, his voice steady despite the terror. Sherrill paused, his gun wavering. Then, without a word, he turned and fired. Tom dropped, blood pooling beneath him.
That moment saved me. I dragged myself toward the side door, every movement agony. My hands left bloody streaks on the floor. The exit was so close, just a few feet away. I pushed through the pain, my vision darkening at the edges. I didn’t dare look back. Another gunshot rang out, then another, each one a reminder that Sherrill was still there, still hunting.
I reached the door, shoving it open with my shoulder. I tumbled into the parking lot, the air hitting my face like a slap. I gasped, clutching my side, blood dripping onto the asphalt. “Gene!” a voice shouted. It was John, a carrier who’d worked there longer than me. He and Steve, another carrier, were crouched behind a delivery van. “You’re hit!” John said, his face pale as he ran to me. They grabbed my arms, dragging me behind the van as sirens wailed in the distance. “Hang on, man,” Steve said, his voice tight. “Help’s coming.”
An ambulance screeched into the lot, its lights flashing. Paramedics rushed over, their faces grim as they lifted me onto a stretcher. As they loaded me in, more gunshots echoed from inside the post office, each one making me flinch. The doors of the ambulance slammed shut, and we sped away, the world fading into a haze of pain and fear.
At the hospital, doctors moved fast. They said the bullet had torn through my kidney and lodged in my stomach. Surgery was a blur of bright lights and masked faces. They got the bullet out, stitched me up, told me I was lucky to be alive. But I didn’t feel lucky. Not when I learned 14 of my coworkers were gone—Patti, Judy, Tom, Bill, and so many others. Sherrill had turned the gun on himself after the rampage, leaving behind a slaughter that lasted less than 15 minutes but changed everything.
The weeks that followed were a fog. My body healed slowly, the scar on my back a constant reminder. But the real pain was in my mind. Nightmares woke me up every night—Sherrill’s face, the sound of gunshots, Patti’s lifeless eyes. I’d wake up shaking, Lois holding me, whispering, “It’s okay, you’re safe.” But I didn’t feel safe. I’d jump at loud noises—a car backfiring, a door slamming. The smell of ink or the sight of a mailbox would send my heart racing.
I tried going back to work a few months later. The post office had been cleaned, repainted, but it was still a graveyard. Every corner held a memory of that day—the spot where Judy fell, the desk where Patti died. I’d freeze mid-task, my hands trembling, seeing Sherrill’s shadow in every doorway. I lasted a week before I quit, retiring early. I couldn’t do it anymore.
Lois pushed me to see a therapist, a kind woman with a soft voice who listened as I poured out the fear and guilt. Why did I survive when so many didn’t? The therapy helped, but it didn’t erase the scars. I started visiting the Yellow Ribbon Memorial, a quiet spot in Edmond with a statue and 14 fountains, one for each life lost. Standing there, I’d trace the names etched in stone, remembering Judy’s donuts, Patti’s laugh, Tom’s courage. It hurt, but it also reminded me of the good—the coworkers who risked their lives to help, like John and Steve dragging me to safety.
Years later, in 2025, I’m still here, but that day is never far away. A loud noise, a certain smell, a news story about a shooting—it all brings me back to that morning. The fear, the blood, the loss—it’s carved into me, as permanent as the scar on my back. But I hold onto the moments of bravery, the people who stood up in the face of horror. It’s what keeps me going, even when the nightmares come.
"Dead Letters":
I’ve been a postal worker for fifteen years, and I’ve always loved my job. There’s something special about delivering letters and packages, connecting people across distances. But after what happened last night, I’m not sure I can keep doing this. Some places hold onto their darkness, and this post office is one of them.
It all started a year ago when Carl Johnson, one of our carriers, was arrested for murdering his coworker, Lisa. They found her body in the alley behind the post office, stabbed multiple times. Carl claimed it was self-defense, that Lisa had attacked him first, but no one believed him. He was sentenced to life in prison. What made it worse was that, due to some union technicality, Carl was still considered an employee, on paid leave while serving his sentence. It didn’t sit right with any of us, but that’s how it was.
The post office hasn’t been the same since. The building itself is old, built in the early 1900s, with high ceilings, creaky wooden floors, and long, dimly lit hallways. After Lisa’s death, a heavy tension settled over the place. Coworkers whispered about strange noises—doors slamming when no one was around, faint voices echoing in empty rooms. I never believed in ghosts, but even I noticed the air felt heavier, like the building was holding its breath.
Last night, I was working the late shift, sorting mail in the basement. It was around 2 AM, and I was the only one left. The sorting room is a cavernous space, filled with the hum of machines and the rustle of paper. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows. I was in the middle of sorting a stack of letters when I heard a door slam shut somewhere above me. The sound was sharp, deliberate, not like the usual creaks of the old building.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice echoing in the empty room. No answer. I tried to focus on my work, thinking it was just the wind or a loose door. But then I heard it again—a woman’s voice, soft but clear, saying, “Help me.” It came from the direction of the locker room upstairs.
My heart started pounding. I grabbed my flashlight, my hands already shaking, and headed toward the stairs. The hallway to the locker room felt longer than usual, the shadows stretching out like fingers. When I pushed open the locker room door, the fluorescent lights flickered, casting an eerie glow. That’s when I saw it—Lisa’s locker was open. Inside was a photograph of her and Carl, smiling together. It was strange because I thought all her things had been cleared out after her death.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, shining my flashlight around the room. No one answered, but I heard footsteps—heavy, deliberate—coming from the hallway behind me. I spun around, but the corridor was empty. My stomach churned. “This is ridiculous,” I muttered, trying to calm myself. “It’s just an old building.”
But then I heard the voice again, closer this time. “Help me.” It was coming from inside the locker room. I backed away, my flashlight beam darting across the rows of lockers. That’s when I noticed a package on the floor, addressed to Carl Johnson. My blood ran cold. Why was there a package for him here? He was in prison.
I picked it up, and that’s when I saw it—a small, red stain on the corner of the package. It looked like blood. My hands trembled as I set it down. I needed to call someone. I pulled out my phone, but there was no signal. The building’s old wiring often caused dead zones, but this felt too convenient. I tried the landline on the supervisor’s desk, but it was dead, just a faint buzz on the line.
The intercom crackled to life, making me jump. “You can’t escape,” a voice said, deep and menacing. It sounded just like Carl’s voice. My knees went weak. “This isn’t happening,” I whispered. “It’s a prank. It has to be.”
But then, there was a knock on the sorting room door. Soft at first, then louder. “Let me in,” the voice said again. I backed away, my heart hammering in my chest. The knocking grew more insistent, each thud echoing like a drum. “Go away!” I shouted, but it didn’t stop.
I grabbed a heavy stapler from the desk, holding it like a weapon, and hid behind the sorting machine. The knocking stopped abruptly, leaving a deafening silence. I waited, barely breathing, listening for any sound. After what felt like forever, I crept toward the door and pressed my ear against it. Nothing.
Cautiously, I unlocked the door and peeked out. The hallway was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. I let out a shaky breath and decided to get out of there. I grabbed my coat and headed for the back exit, my footsteps echoing in the quiet.
As I stepped outside, I froze. There, by the dumpster at the edge of the parking lot, was a figure in a postal uniform. He turned slowly, and even from a distance, I could see his face. It looked like Carl. My breath caught in my throat. I blinked, and he was gone, like he’d never been there.
I ran to my car, locked the doors, and drove away as fast as I could, my hands shaking on the wheel. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see him standing there again.
The next morning, I went to work early and told my coworker, Jenny, everything. She’s been here longer than me and knows all the stories. “You’re just stressed,” she said, stirring her coffee in the break room. “This place gets to people, especially after what happened with Lisa.”
“But I heard his voice, Jenny,” I said, my voice shaking. “And I saw him.”
She frowned, setting her mug down. “Carl’s in prison. You know that. Maybe someone’s playing a prank. New guys sometimes do that to mess with people.”
“A prank?” I asked, incredulous. “With a bloody package and his voice on the intercom?”
Jenny shrugged, but I could see the unease in her eyes. “Look, just talk to the supervisor. He’ll check the security footage.”
I did just that. I went to my supervisor, Tom, and explained everything. He listened quietly, then said, “I’ll check the tapes, but you know this building’s old. It makes noises, and stress can make you see things.”
Later that day, Tom called me into his office. “I checked the footage,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “There’s nothing. No one else in the building, no doors slamming, no one by the dumpster. Just you.”
“But I heard things,” I insisted. “I saw things.”
He sighed. “Maybe you need some time off. Stress can do funny things to the mind.”
I left his office feeling more unsettled than ever. That night, as I was leaving work, I found a letter on my windshield. It was addressed to Carl, from Lisa’s family, demanding answers about her death. Someone had written on the back in red ink: “Deliver it.” I don’t know how it got there, but I didn’t touch it. I left it on the ground and drove away.
The next night, I was back on the late shift, against my better judgment. I kept my head down, sorting mail, trying to ignore the creeping dread. But then I heard it again—the woman’s voice, louder this time. “Help me, please.” It was coming from the locker room.
I didn’t investigate this time. I grabbed my things and left, locking the door behind me. As I walked to my car, I saw him again—Carl, standing on the side of the road, staring at me. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched.
I got into my car and sped away, my heart racing. I know it’s impossible—Carl’s in prison. But I saw him. I heard him. And I can’t shake the feeling that Lisa’s death left something behind, something that’s still here, watching me.
I called in sick today, and I’m thinking about quitting. Some jobs aren’t worth the risk, and some places are better left alone.