The Letter
By
Heather Farrell
A lone letter sits on a bench in the park I pass through on my evening run. It is a white envelope with red letters spelling "For You." For me? Or someone else? Do I open it? Is someone watching? I scan the tree line around me, but it would be impossible to tell if someone is lurking at dusk. I will do my usual loop, and if it is still there when I come back, I will grab it and read it at home.
I passed by the usual neighbors. The Miller kids are playing basketball in the street, while Mr. Jones mows his lawn. His medicine makes the sun intolerable. But my mind keeps going back to that letter. What does it say? Who wrote it? Why this park? Why this bench?
The mystery sends me on a shortcut. I bypass a few blocks to end up back at the park. I can see the envelope from across the park. It is still there. Continuously scanning, I am alone in the park. As I approach, I pick up my pace, grab the letter, and run home.
I go to turn the handle, but I look around to be sure I am not being followed. A bush across the street trembles, and I freeze. Carefully watching it. Why did I take it? Suddenly, a raccoon emerges and wrestles with their garbage can. I laughed with relief. This letter has me on edge.
I go to my bathroom, the only room in my house without a window, and stare at the letter.
What if this is a confession to an awful crime? It could be nothing. A prank from one of the neighborhood kids. It could be something political. But I will never know unless I open it.
I grabbed a pair of gloves. Better to be safe than sorry.
Slowly lifting the seal, I check for residue. We did have that anthrax scare when I was a teenager. It could be coming back again. But there is no residue.
I open the letter, and it reads:
"This letter found you,
Who you are doesn't matter, or maybe it does. I picked you at random, but if we meet, the information I provide may be what saves you and ruins me.
I have a compulsion to kill. I must kill just as you must sleep and eat. I pick my victims at pet stores. They are always cat owners. I enjoy the way they smell. I always strike up a conversation in the wet food aisle. People love the opportunity to talk about their pussies. I follow them out of the store and home. Once I know where they live, I observe them until I know their schedule and routine. I only proceed if they live alone.
Once they leave, I sneak in and hide in their closets at 3 A.M. I slink out silently. As they sleep peacefully, I begin licking their toes. As they slowly rise, they kick a foot at me or attempt to reach me. They do this while puckering their lips into a "pst pst pst," thinking I am their feline friend.
They freeze as they realize the lump at the end of their bed is much larger than their familiar's. I let out a high-pitched "meow," and as they draw in oxygen, trying to compute what is happening, I spring at them and use my homemade metal cat claws to tear off their flesh.
Their cats and I enjoy batting around their parts—cats' fancy eyelids. After we grow tired of playing, I defecate in the litter box and resolve to nap on their rugs.
The police have not established a connection between the crimes and your feline companions.
If you have a cat, you could be next. Remember to check your closet before you go to bed.
Pleasant Dreams,
Meow"
Panic washes over me. I need to give this to the police. What if the killer followed me? Why did I open this? With the recent string of murders, how could I be so stupid? My hands tremble as I begin to search for the police department's number. I drop my phone because I cannot keep my hands still. My heart is pounding. My mouth has run dry.
As I reach to pick it up, I hear the closet door in my bedroom creaking as it opens wider. It is probably just Mr. Piddles, my cat. The floorboards begin to shift, and the weight is heavy. That is not my cat. The steps lead to the top of my stairs, where I hear a noise that sets off every alarm bell in my body.
"Meow".
Heather prefers to be referred to as a word artist rather than an author. She throws words at pages in the hopes her readers will enjoy the hallucinations they elicit. She is not a scholar, but she devours any reading material she can get her hands on, from books by neuroscientists to classic literature to splatterpunk. When she is not drinking the blood of her enemies, she spends time with her wife in the depths of forests, calling upon Satan to destroy the patriarchy. She also enjoys hiking, playing drums, and capturing souls on camera. At night, she is protected by her Tuxedo Norwegian Forest cat, Lucifurr, who is ready to attack demons. Her ideal life is one of seclusion from humans (apart from her wife), surrounded by animals, in a self-sustaining cabin. Her other works include Bless This Mess, a splatterpunk horror novel, through the lens of a killer who weaponizes their religion to justify killing. Her writing is cursed. Happy Reading!
By
Heather Farrell
A lone letter sits on a bench in the park I pass through on my evening run. It is a white envelope with red letters spelling "For You." For me? Or someone else? Do I open it? Is someone watching? I scan the tree line around me, but it would be impossible to tell if someone is lurking at dusk. I will do my usual loop, and if it is still there when I come back, I will grab it and read it at home.
I passed by the usual neighbors. The Miller kids are playing basketball in the street, while Mr. Jones mows his lawn. His medicine makes the sun intolerable. But my mind keeps going back to that letter. What does it say? Who wrote it? Why this park? Why this bench?
The mystery sends me on a shortcut. I bypass a few blocks to end up back at the park. I can see the envelope from across the park. It is still there. Continuously scanning, I am alone in the park. As I approach, I pick up my pace, grab the letter, and run home.
I go to turn the handle, but I look around to be sure I am not being followed. A bush across the street trembles, and I freeze. Carefully watching it. Why did I take it? Suddenly, a raccoon emerges and wrestles with their garbage can. I laughed with relief. This letter has me on edge.
I go to my bathroom, the only room in my house without a window, and stare at the letter.
What if this is a confession to an awful crime? It could be nothing. A prank from one of the neighborhood kids. It could be something political. But I will never know unless I open it.
I grabbed a pair of gloves. Better to be safe than sorry.
Slowly lifting the seal, I check for residue. We did have that anthrax scare when I was a teenager. It could be coming back again. But there is no residue.
I open the letter, and it reads:
"This letter found you,
Who you are doesn't matter, or maybe it does. I picked you at random, but if we meet, the information I provide may be what saves you and ruins me.
I have a compulsion to kill. I must kill just as you must sleep and eat. I pick my victims at pet stores. They are always cat owners. I enjoy the way they smell. I always strike up a conversation in the wet food aisle. People love the opportunity to talk about their pussies. I follow them out of the store and home. Once I know where they live, I observe them until I know their schedule and routine. I only proceed if they live alone.
Once they leave, I sneak in and hide in their closets at 3 A.M. I slink out silently. As they sleep peacefully, I begin licking their toes. As they slowly rise, they kick a foot at me or attempt to reach me. They do this while puckering their lips into a "pst pst pst," thinking I am their feline friend.
They freeze as they realize the lump at the end of their bed is much larger than their familiar's. I let out a high-pitched "meow," and as they draw in oxygen, trying to compute what is happening, I spring at them and use my homemade metal cat claws to tear off their flesh.
Their cats and I enjoy batting around their parts—cats' fancy eyelids. After we grow tired of playing, I defecate in the litter box and resolve to nap on their rugs.
The police have not established a connection between the crimes and your feline companions.
If you have a cat, you could be next. Remember to check your closet before you go to bed.
Pleasant Dreams,
Meow"
Panic washes over me. I need to give this to the police. What if the killer followed me? Why did I open this? With the recent string of murders, how could I be so stupid? My hands tremble as I begin to search for the police department's number. I drop my phone because I cannot keep my hands still. My heart is pounding. My mouth has run dry.
As I reach to pick it up, I hear the closet door in my bedroom creaking as it opens wider. It is probably just Mr. Piddles, my cat. The floorboards begin to shift, and the weight is heavy. That is not my cat. The steps lead to the top of my stairs, where I hear a noise that sets off every alarm bell in my body.
"Meow".
Heather prefers to be referred to as a word artist rather than an author. She throws words at pages in the hopes her readers will enjoy the hallucinations they elicit. She is not a scholar, but she devours any reading material she can get her hands on, from books by neuroscientists to classic literature to splatterpunk. When she is not drinking the blood of her enemies, she spends time with her wife in the depths of forests, calling upon Satan to destroy the patriarchy. She also enjoys hiking, playing drums, and capturing souls on camera. At night, she is protected by her Tuxedo Norwegian Forest cat, Lucifurr, who is ready to attack demons. Her ideal life is one of seclusion from humans (apart from her wife), surrounded by animals, in a self-sustaining cabin. Her other works include Bless This Mess, a splatterpunk horror novel, through the lens of a killer who weaponizes their religion to justify killing. Her writing is cursed. Happy Reading!
