The Letters

You keep them all in a box in the top left drawer of your desk. You want to throw them out, shred them, burn them, anything. But, you simply can’t bring yourself to. You feel as though doing so would only invite something worse to your door.

At least, that’s what you said on the phone.

You can’t help it, can you?

Right at 5:00 p.m., you stop what you are doing and go to stand up.

But you pause.

Your eyes slowly go back to the drawer. With a sigh, you walk over and pull out the box.

Laying it on the desk, you open it and look through the letters.

***

The first one came before you even bought the place. It was the only house available within your budget. The Realtor brought you into your friend’s room. The one that would one day become your office. It was staged to look like a child’s nursery, with a changing table, a white dresser, and stuffed animals.

And a white Crib, where the first was pinned.

Before you could react, the Realtor grabbed it and shoved it into their pocket. When you questioned it, they shook their head.

Pranksters, they said, were taking advantage of the open house to pretend the place was infested.

Though they wouldn’t answer with what.

They were too smart for that.

Despite the pranksters, the house was perfect. You put an offer in and received the keys a few weeks later.

The house was yours.

***

The Second came the week you moved in. You found it pinned to the box holding your new desk, buried under all the boxes you had meant to unpack that day. You looked at it, likely expecting it to be a note from the movers or perhaps a receipt for the desk that you hadn’t noticed before. But when you read it, your eyes widened. You looked around the room as though something was watching you.

But nothing was there.

You were alone.

You were safe.

You set the note down on the floor and worked for hours, sorting the boxes into piles and carrying them out of sight. But you seemed distracted.

You were thinking about the note, weren’t you?

Wondering.

You glanced over your shoulder at least five times. As you carried boxes, as you studied the lists that you had so carefully written about the contents of each one, and as you read the note over and over and over again.

You had been so calm before. Marching around the house like you owned it, going into every room and mumbling about where the bed would go, where the TV would be mounted, where your office would be.

But now, you seemed less sure of yourself.

Nevertheless, you sorted the boxes, putting all of them into their respective rooms. Then, sitting in your office, you began setting up shelves and filling them. Your friend watched over your shoulder as you moved yourself into its room.

You tossed the note in the trash can as you pulled it out of its box

Out of sight, out of mind.

But not for long.

***

Around a week passed before you got the Third. The Second sat in the trash can in your office, never being collected or put out on the curb. The trash people were one of the groups that kept you on the phone for hours, pacing back and forth as poorly recorded music blasted from your cellphone’s speaker.

It was during one of these calls that you found the third. Sitting on your desk next to the computer tower.

Your eyes widened again, and you quickly picked it up and read it. Dropping to your knees, you dug through your trash can until you found the other one. Comparing them, you hung up on the internet provider and called someone else.

15 minutes went by, with you wearing a hole in your office’s carpet by pacing back and forth. The doorbell made you jump, but you hurried to answer it.

You spoke with hushed tones with the stranger for about an hour, constantly pausing to look around as if someone was watching you.

But nothing was there.

You two were alone.

You were safe.

The person you were with didn’t take it seriously. They laughed at the absurdity.

Maybe your desk is haunted, they said, ghost wood.

But soon, the panic in your eyes brought them to the reality of the situation. They started giving more realistic answers to your frantic questions. You both went onto your computer and bought security cameras and an alarm system. You had been considering buying some anyway. The crime rate in the neighborhood was low, but it wasn’t zero. You had several brands and options saved on your Amazon wish list and had spent hours looking over the reviews. On that day, with your friend watching over your shoulder. You picked the best from the list and added them to your cart.

Nothing would get in now.

***

You bought the box after the fourth showed up, mumbling to yourself. Each one appeared when its predecessor was thrown out. You kept the notes out of the trash but still out of sight. That had to keep more from appearing.

You were becoming more and more superstitious, as if you were always being watched by an evil entity.

As you waited for the box to arrive, you put the three you still had in the top left drawer of your desk. You checked your security cameras on your computer to make sure nobody was at your door or in your house.

Who has ever thought about putting cameras in their walls?

Not you.

You worked on your computer, trying to ignore the drawer. It took you three hours until you gave in and opened it again. Reading them, you slowly spun around in your office chair. You studied the walls as you turned.

Where could they have come from?

Was this house infested with something? Like the Realtor had joked?

There wasn’t anybody else in your house. The camera’s confirmed that.

Nothing was there.

You were alone.

You were safe.

After around five minutes, you put them away and stood. Leaving the room, you feigned confidence and comfort, the kind you had in spades before the first one arrived.

There’s a rational explanation for this, you said. Soon, you’ll figure out where these things were coming from.

You left the room, leaving your computer on.

When you came in the next day, your friend had turned it off, though you didn’t notice that.

There was a fifth on your keyboard.

***

The fifth made you lose all your confidence. You checked into a hotel and called a priest. You couldn’t bring yourself to call the police, not yet.

It had to be supernatural, you reasoned.

There was no other way.

You hurried around your office, gathering the essentials and putting them into the various pouches in your backpack. You briefly paused to consider your computer but left it behind as you fled the home.

Nobody could follow you. Not even your friend

You were alone.

You were safe.

But you had to come back at some point.

The Priest came in the next day and sprinkled holy water into every corner of your office. He burned foul-smelling incense in the center of the room as he sprinkled more water on your desk. He opened the top left drawer of your desk and took out the box.

The next week, you returned and found all five spread across the floor, with the smell of incense lingering from the bowl in the center of the room. Taking a deep breath, you gathered them and put them back in the box.

You studied the bowl; it was odd that the Priest had just left it there; it was too ornate and expensive looking to be left behind.

He must have forgotten it, or something like that.

However, the Priest never responded to your calls. Eventually, you brought it to the local church to leave it for them.

They hadn’t seen him either.

***

For two months, there was calm. You fell into a normal routine. Coming to your office every day to work, taking breaks to eat, and call others. You slowly regained your old confidence, walking around the home as if you owned it, nearly forgetting that someone was still there.

Nearly.

It was still there, lingering in the back of your mind. Every sound that came from your walls had you looking over your shoulder or stopping your work to check the cameras from your office.

Of course, there was never anyone visible.

You thought you were alone.

You felt safe.

But there was still the box in the top left drawer. You had bought it to keep them all out of sight and out of mind, but you kept looking. You couldn’t help yourself. You had to read them. The people you spoke to tried to tell you to throw them out, but the lingering feeling in the back of your mind whispered to you:

That would be a bad idea.

The calm you experienced was a gift from your friend.

Don’t ruin that.

Time went on, and soon, a very special day came around. A stranger took you from your home, promising a meal and a chat. You seemed excited to see them.

While you were gone, more came in and began changing your office. They hung balloons from the corners and a banner on the wall opposite your computer. Brightly wrapped boxes littered your desk. And the strangers waited, hidden in your room. Your friend watched the door, waiting for you to come back.

They announced their presence when you turned your light on. Surprised, you greeted them and smiled. They gave you the boxes that had filled your desk, and you took the wrapping off.

Shoes, clothes, household items

And a black box with a dial on the front.

You looked confused and asked them about the last gift. They say it is to replace your box in the top left drawer.

It’s a time capsule, they said. You put the things in, and it will lock until the set date and time.

You smiled, but your eyes showed you were still confused. They took your box and opened it. Emptying its contents into the capsule, they shut the lock and spun the dial.

See? They said you can now have them in their box, but you won’t obsess over reading them every day.

You nodded, but that wasn’t what you wanted, was it?

They gave you cake and helped you clean up your office. It was dark by the time the last of them left. You sat in your chair and sighed, fiddling with the dial on the new box.

You noticed a piece of wrapping paper on the floor, which must have been missed during the cleanup. Picking it up, you went to throw it out.

Only to notice the sixth, scrawled on the back of the ripped paper.

Your eyes widened, and you dropped the wrapping paper. You pried at the new box and spun the dial, trying to get it open. Finally, you threw it down on the desk and ran out of the office, returning moments later with a hammer. Swinging at the new box, you broke it open, and the other five spilled out onto your desk like a pinata giving up its candy. You sat down with a sigh and read every one of them.

But this time, you felt no peace.

You went on Amazon and searched until you found the new box. After placing your order, you threw out the broken remains of your gift and put all six back in the old, lock-less box.

The fear had risen inside of you again, threatening to overwhelm you.

The false calm was washed away with your mistake.

You had broken the peace.

***

Around a month after your birthday, and after the seventh appeared, you began leaving once a week. On the phone, you told the others you were visiting a therapist who was helping you with your problems.

Helping you ignore your friend.

You wouldn’t allow that to happen, right?

But you still went every week, and it started to affect you. You stopped reading them, leaving the box in the top left drawer for longer periods of time. You looked more comfortable and relaxed as you worked in your office.

You decided to finally contact the police.

When they came, you showed them the box, allowing them to read their contents.

You stayed in the office with the officers the whole time. They read despite the noises from the walls.

They helped you reposition your cameras to catch more of your house and told you stories.

Stories of creatures, demons living in the walls of homes and driving the residents mad, until one day they switched places, taking your life as you got trapped in the walls.

Infestations, like the Realtor had said.

You glanced around your office, eyes wide. The officers clarified that the stories were just myths. Legends used to help children behave and explain why houses creaked at night.

Lies.

Soon, they left, and you were alone again.

You were alone.

Safe.

With nobody but your friend.

You shut your office door and turned around. Looking at the walls, you seemed to study them like you had never seen them before. The lies of the officers must have been burrowing into your mind. After a few minutes, you turned around and left again.

You haven’t spent a night in the home since.

***

With a sigh, you lay all the letters on your now-empty desk.

You must plan on taking them to your new home.

All your stuff has been packed into the boxes, and your computer, unplugged and prepped for travel, sits in the corner of your office. Your desk has been cleared off and cleared out.

Everything is ready to go again.

You look once more at the box in your hands. The seven notes that turned this place from a dream to a nightmare.

It’s time, you say.

You pick up the letters and rip them.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Dumping them into the garbage bag, you turn and leave your office, returning a few minutes later.

Empty-handed.

How dare you.

You turn to pick up your computer and notice something on the desk.

Number eight.

Breathing heavily, you read.

Slowly, you turn around.

Finally, after all these months.

You see me.

***

I walk out of the house, being sure to slide the key under the locked door for the landlord. Putting the computer into the car, I shut the door and look down the street, shading my eyes from the intense light.

The movers have packed everything. They had been waiting for me for ages. Apologizing to them, I get into the car. Taking one last look at the house as I pull out of the driveway, I smile.

Inside, you’re watching over your old office in my place.

It will be ages before anyone finds you, friend.

Nobody ever looks in the walls.