Wednesday, January 30, 2013

To the Postman


A postman in Dover, NH found this letter in an envelope stuffed in a mailbox. The enveloped has no stamp, no return address, and had been licked shut. The address line simply read: “TO THE POSTMAN”

Dear Mr. Postman,
I have tried to get your attention many times throughout the years, but I’ve never yelled quite loud enough. I used to watch you from the basement windows and cry and shout, but at best you might have given a confused glance to the side. I was beginning to lose hope when they messed up. They left blank paper out.
You’re my only hope, Mr. Postman. If you’re still reading this, you need to stop and go to the police. Go to them right away, PLEASE! I can’t contact them myself, but you can. You have to bring them here, bring them right away. We’re going to die here if you don’t.
They’ve kept me here for twelve years. For twelve years I grew up here, I learned here. I’m afraid to say “raised” but in a way I was. I gave birth here half a dozen times. This is the only world I know. This is the only world my daughters know. It’s not a world anybody should know.
We eat like pigs, being fed buckets of leftovers and scraps. More often than not, maggots and slugs have already found their way into our trough, but sometimes there’s an apple core or an orange peel. These make it almost bearable.
Mr. Postman, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know this must be getting hard to read. Between the poor writing and the tears and the weird grime that seems to cover everything.
There’s a good chance we won’t be alive by morning, so I have to tell you about myself now. This is all the police will have to go on, and this is the last bit the world will hear from me. My parents have probably forgotten about me, but I want to let them know that I love them.
When I was fourteen I had a friend named Gracie. She lived across town, so I was forbidden to see her on my own, but I often did anyways. My parents didn’t like her. She was a goth, and my father had always told me that if I ever got a piercing in my life, he’d rip it right out of me. That was part of why I liked Gracie. She was a big “fuck you” to my dad.
But Gracie was into some weird stuff. She thought her boyfriend was a vampire, and I soon learned that what I suspected were emo cuts were actually from “feeding” him. She told me she was a witch, and that she was going to help her boyfriend chase off a wolf pack. The crazy bitch ran with all the freaks, and I should have run the other way, but for some reason I was drawn to it.
That’s how they got me.
I was sleeping over Gracie’s house one night when her boyfriend tapped on the window. “They’re coming,” he said, and I’m ordered to leave. She said they didn’t want me getting hurt. I’m “just a human.” They didn’t give me a choice, and locked me out at three in the morning. As I slowly walked home, I noticed the street was eerily empty. It was totally silent, and the street lamps hadn’t turned on.
The next thing I knew there was a pain in the back of my skull, and the road rushing up at me. Then I was in a dark room that smelled like manure, and they’re all over me. I tried to fight them off, but my wrists were chained to the ceiling. They laughed at my attempts to fight them, and bite me. They bite me until I bleed. When they finally finish, I feel them release my shackles. I cry and try to rub the soreness out of my wrists. I thought it was over, but I was wrong, and before I could catch a breath more of them are on me, and I’m too overwhelmed to fight back.
I’ve been pregnant seven times since they brought me here. Two were stillborns, three were boys, and two were girls. Each delivery has been the same. No drugs, a cold table, and shackles. The girls were left with me, and I named them Carolina and Janet. I was born in Carolina. Janet is my mother.
The boys were taken from me and put in a basket they placed on a table across the room. They wouldn’t come back for three days, leaving me alone with the child. My shackles kept the table just out of reach, and I could do nothing but weep as my son’s crying became a weak, wheezing groan, and eventually, silence. Their names were Eric, Kevin, and Jeremiah.
They would come back after three days to bring me food, but leave the basket on the table, allowing the room to fill with the stink. In all twelve years, I have never seen them take it out.
My daughters are kept down here with me. Carolina is eleven now, and her hair is platinum blond like mine. Janet is chained to a wall at the other end of the basement, and the shadows are too thick to see her. I have no idea what she looks like.
Both of my daughters suffer the same torture I have endured for most of my life. Often I am forced to watch, listening to the screams as they bite them. Sometimes they will torture Carolina and I together. They make us look into each other’s eyes as we’re bitten and whipped for hours.
Carolina is now pregnant. She is coming close to term, and I know she isn’t going to survive the labor. You have to get the police. You have to help us. I managed to get out, but I can’t leave my daughters. Please, help us. Please. You are our only hope.

~ Ellen Duvole

The postman rushed the letter to the police immediately after reading it, but by the time they arrived at the house it had caught fire. The fire department managed to put it out, but everything had been drenched with gasoline. All that remained was a fine ash

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