Spelade
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Conway archives two more odd letters this week. A struggling chef encounters a new customer with unusual tastes. A secret admirer reveals his game.
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(CWs: blood, food, stalking, implied death)
TRANSCRIPT:
CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.
Dead letter 12603 was found in a vacant building before demolition on July 22nd, 2011. It was addressed to the ****** Police Department, but was not postmarked or sent. There was no return address. It was forwarded to our office for verification and processing. The letter has been subsequently opened and read per the state’s revised code. The letter reads as follows:
NARRATOR: I’m not sure if what I’ve done--and what I’m about to do--is technically a crime. A sin, sure, one of the gravest, depending on your outlook. But you don’t deal with sinners, do you. This is a confession, regardless; I’ll leave it to you whether it’s religious or criminal. Let me start at the beginning.
I’ve been in this neighborhood for over three decades. I built this place, and I’ve stuck it out through fires and floods and all kinds of hardships. I’ve seen this place rise and fall and get back up again. But things are different now. I used to know a lot of the people coming in. I could ask them about their kids or job or whatever. Even if the place wasn’t packed, it could stand on its own. But the old faces just don’t come here much anymore, and the new ones are not the same. It’s all young people in their jumpers and track pants and fancy watches with no numbers. They spend more, but their tips leave a little something to be desired.
The old businesses have vanished along with the old faces. The Fledermouse is gone, now it’s just a store for lampshades. Not lamps, mind you, just the shades. And across the street they’re done building some fancy studio apartments. Used to be a real workin man’s neighborhood, lotta immigrants, real good folk. Now it’s a sanctioned “arts district,” and with that comes “arts district” rent. This city’s too chickenshit for any kind of rent control, so I’m looking at shuttering my business and moving out within the year if things don’t pick up.
Well one night we’re unexpectedly swamped, and I hear some chatter about a food writer for some internet website being here. Always looking for new experiences and all that. So I’m in the back sweating up a storm, trying to get these orders out to the good people. I’m dicing up chives for the garnish and I slip a little. No time for errors if I want to keep this place alive. I keep my head down, toss on the chives, and slide the bowl down the line to be taken out to the table. I take a breath, lean back against the counter, and wipe the sweat off my forehead with my greasy apron. Then I can feel my finger pulsing when I press it against my face.
And that’s when I see it. The fresh, dark red on the apron, dripping from my finger. When I was chopping, I must have nicked it. I go to pick up a dry towel next to the cutting board, when I see it again. Those same red globs on the chives, on the knife. Holding the towel over my finger, I rush to the kitchen door and crane my neck, straining to see out the window. The guy’s lifting the spoon to his mouth and sipping it just as I peer out.
Well, that’s it for me, I figure. I had a good run, time to pack it in and close shop. I take a seat and bandage my finger, thinking about the old times here.
I’m stirred from my thoughts by one of the servers, she says the food guy called her “garcon” and says he wants to meet whoever was responsible for the soup. Well, time to face the music, folks. I slip my damp hat off, run a hand through my thinning hair, and amble to his table. I don’t hear much of what he’s saying, I’m looking past him and thinking about the fat fine the city’s gonna stick me with. That is until he holds out his hand for a shake. He says something about a genius reinvention or deconstruction or whatever. Says it was unlike any soup he’s ever had. I’m speechless for a minute, half-tempted to fess up right then and there. Instead, my self-preservation instinct kicks and I zip my fat lip and shake his hand. He says he feels reinvigorated and will be back next week for the same dish.
So next week rolls around and here he is, Mr. Food Blog himself, asking for the soup, exactly as before. I put in the same ingredients, prepared the same way (minus the finger incident of course) and send it out. Not two minutes later, he sends it back. He sends back my soup! Says it’s not the same as the first time, it’s boring, it's missing something. The only difference this time was...well I look around the kitchen for anything bloody I can squeeze into this soup, but nothing turns up.
Now, the first time was an accident. I don’t think that’s a crime, at least not one an attorney would waste their time on. Can’t imagine God getting too upset about a thing like that either. Here’s where it should have ended: he sends the soup back and I let the guy leave disappointed. But this was my business, my life, we’re talking about, on the brink of drowning, and here was a life jacket floating right by. How could I not grab it?
Yeah, this second time, I knew what I was doing. Motive makes a difference, don't it? So it was my poor finger’s time to shine again.
He loves it. Be back next week. With friends.
Next time I’m prepared. It’s pretty easy to get your hands on some livestock blood. I can keep it in the kitchen without too much suspicion from the line cooks.
Around dinner time the following week, he comes in, flanked by a few guys in nice shirts and sneakers and two girls with big hats. He orders the soup. Exactly the same as before, he says. For all of them.
I finish preparing the soup and sneak a few drips of cow’s blood into each bowl. It's not too different from lard or meat, right? I don’t see any harm in it. I send out the bowls and await the praise. But instead, I’m met with 6 bowls of soup, sent back. “Exactly as it was before,” the guy scowled at my waitress, pointing to the bowl.
I can already see where this is going: he doesn’t just want any old blood, he wants my blood.
Well, what’s running a restaurant if not putting your blood, sweat, and tears into every dish? What’s a little blood if it means I can pay the hiked rent? The problem is, for six bowls, a little finger nick isn’t going to do it. I clear out the kitchen, under the pretenses I’m still upset about the food being sent back and need a minute. Next thing I know, knife meets palm and the customers are raving. Better than ever, he says, a total rejuvenation.
The weeks pass by as more and more of my new neighbors stop by for the famed soup and the old customers slip away entirely. More and more bandages show up on my hands, arms. My employees think I’m getting slow, shaky, with my age. But I’m sharper than ever, and business is booming.
It all goes real smoothlike for months. I get some nicer ingredients, tweak the presentation, the whole shebang. None of it seems to make a difference to these people besides how much of uh myself I put in the dish. The more I lose, the more they pay. Sure I get woozy, need a break. Yeah, I’m looking a little pale these days, feel a little weaker. But if it means keeping this place open, keeping some small part of the old days intact, I’ll deal with it. The plan's working.
Until last week, that is. Rent’s up again. They’re tryin to push me out for a high-tech gym, or some artisanal dog food joint or something. “Arts district” my ass, it’s just a shopping mall now. On top of this, Mr. Food Website is bored of my stuff. Says it’s stale, wants to move on to other places and take his crowd with him. Says the place could use shaking up. Something big, something truly impressive, truly enlivening.
So now you know what I’ve done. I’m guilty, absolutely. Guilty of caring, of passion, of doing what it took to stay afloat. If that’s a crime, I’ll gladly face my punishment.
He’s coming back tonight, though, the same day I’m writing this letter. If he doesn’t like the dish, he’s leaving and taking all my business with him. If this isn’t the best thing he’s ever, ever tasted, I’m shit out of luck. I’m done, gone. Demolished and forgotten after 30 years.
So this time, I’m leaving nothing behind. Oh, it’ll be big all right. A real shakeup, a total showstopper. I’m putting my everything into this last supper. I’m leaving all of myself on the table, roasted and served on a silver platter.
CONWAY: There were no names or addresses provided, and research into similar events in the area have come up inconclusive. The DLO has thus ruled this letter deliverable. One of our carriers will deliver a lightly redacted copy to the correct address, and the original letter will be stored in our vault.
Dead Letter 07104, found cramped and crumbled at the bottom of a filing cabinet at the *****, Ohio police department. It had been opened and read previously, and one of our carriers intercepted it at the way to the dump. The letter reads as follows.
SECRET ADMIRER: You were not supposed to see me. We were never meant to meet. You were not supposed to see me, but oh I saw you. I saw so much of you. Alone in the cafe, reading rejection letters from various institutions. You were a meandering, flat person, nothing special inside or out. I saw you in the cafe, and that’s when you invited me into your dull little life, Daniel. All you could have seen was a man in reflective shades and a scarf. It’s a stroke of luck that you did not see behind the shades, nor under the scarf. An unfortunate number of my previous clients have done so and I deeply regret it. I am here to help, after all. Do you remember me there, Daniel? My entire appearance is tailored to ensure that you do not. I trailed you from that cafe. I took countless photos and copious notes as I followed your every move for months. I saw you in your home, at your job, in your car.
To any outside observer, your life must have appeared interesting, very interesting indeed, from that point on. Yes, to any outside observer, you were quite interesting. Not because of who you were, or what you did while you were followed, but simply because you were followed.
You were made noteworthy by this very act of following. You see, I believe that in order to be complete, every person must have at least one secret for themselves. And what better way to keep a secret than by not knowing you even have one? To any outside observer, your secret made you fascinating, thrust you from your flat world into three dimensions. Oh, life has dimensions beyond what you could possibly know, and I had only begun to show you.
Does it matter that there was no film in my camera, that my notes were unrelated sketches? Does it matter that I will leave no record, and forget you as soon as you leave my sight? I should think not. You have a secret now, Daniel, a kernel of mystery forever in your life. No longer a mannequin, you are now fully rendered.
No, I’m not with any government or business, I’m what you might call a free agent. A purveyor of mysteries, an admirer of secrets, if you will. But then you saw me, and foul suspicions formed in your mind. Now I shall take my leave. Before I go, you must admit: I have irrevocably changed your entire life by simply following you. Do not bother with authorities, I'm already long gone. And besides, why would you tell them? Secrets are powerful, Daniel. Remember to keep them when you can.
Sincerely,
A Secret Admirer
CONWAY: This letter appears to have had quite the history. It was initially mailed and delivered to a Daniel ****, and from there was apparently forwarded along with additional information to the **** police department. What happened to it once it arrived at the police department, we have no way of knowing. But it seems it has not seen the light of day in a number of years.
We here at the DLO deem this noteworthy enough to store in our vault. For Dead Letters 12603 and 07104, this is Conway with the Dead Letter Office of **** Ohio, signing off.
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Conway archives two strange letters this week: one involves a bad neighbor, and the other relates a short story about a fad toy from the '90s.
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TRANSCRIPT:
CONWAY: This is Conway, receiving clerk for the Dead Letter Office of ***** Ohio, processing the national dead mail backlog. We here at the DLO are no strangers to odd parcels and unusual letters, and these two here are certainly unusual. The following audio recording will serve as an internal memo strictly for archival purposes and should be considered confidential. Need I remind anyone: public release of this or any confidential material from the DLO is a felony. Some names and places have been censored for the protection of the public.
Dead letter 11501, postmarked October 19, 2009, was flagged by a carrier and sent to the Dead Letter Office for verification and processing. The letter has been subsequently opened and read per the state’s revised code. The letter reads as follows:
WILLIAM, NARRATOR:
Dear Terry at ***** realty,
We’re a small college town, so there will be parties. I grew up here, I get it, I’ve lived it myself. Sometimes the people living above you are loud, and obnoxious. Not much to be done about that. But for the tenant above me, it seems that every night is a blowout. Most lights on our block go dim a few hours after sunset, of course other than the orange halos of the street lights and blue streams of tvs filtering through blinds. One night I’m watching reruns of Frasier or Jeopardy or whatever, the windows open to let the cool fall air in. But I can’t hear a damn thing over the commotion upstairs.
Pounding music seeps through the ceiling like a burst pipe. I’d almost rather have a water leak, because maybe you’d do something about it for once. I try earplugs, I try the pillow over the head, I try it all. Eventually sunlight starts to creep through the window. And when the sun does come up, the music just stops. And then I have to go to work exhausted and frustrated.
One brisk evening, as splashes of red sunset coat our building, I slip a small note under his door. Something like “Please keep it down after 10 p.m. Some of us do work early!” Problem solved, I hope. But as the last rays of daylight fade and my grilled cheese is fully melted, the damn music starts again. Some kind of dance music, uncomfortably loud, constantly thrumming like a wicked heartbeat.
That night, I’m looking up at the ceiling, just seething over this guy. It’s past 12, and the music still bleats, a single voice interwoven throughout. So I get up, march out to the hallway, and stomp up the narrow stairs. I knock heavily on his door in three quick successions. The door opens just a crack, as bright multicolored light and hammering drums buzz through the frame.
“Hey, my dude, what is the deal?” is all he has to say for himself. I’m squinting against the harsh lighting now as my eyes struggle to adjust. He looks like he’s in his late-thirties, a bit haggard. Wearing neon shutter shades and a few days of stubble.
“Did you get my note?”
“What?” he leans in to hear me over the commotion.
I clear my throat and ask again, louder this time, about the note. I don’t want a fight, I just want to sleep.
“Note? No, my dude, there are no notes here,” he laughs to himself, but his voice is shaky. Eventually my eyes get used to the tacky backlight, and I can see a bit between the slats of his glasses. His eyes are huge, bloodshot, always moving. My gaze trails to the wrinkles creasing around the corners of his mouth and eyes. Scruffy, uneven hair held in place by a faded headband, slick with sweat and grease. The tip of a worn vape pen sticks out of the pocket of his baby blue polo shirt. And the man doesn’t blink. He doesn’t blink the entire conversation.
“Well, could you keep it down at night? At least weeknights? I have to work and--
“No can do, my dude. ‘Party all day to keep the darkness away,’ know what I mean? Keep it from clawing its way inside,” I can’t tell if he’s joking or sick, but his red, staring eyes keep darting behind me to the shadowed stairwell.
“Okay, well you can do whatever makes you happy during the day, that’s not the problem. It’s the nights that I take issue with.” I look past him and into his apartment, trying to make out any shapes in the room. I see a lot of lights, but no other people. If this was a party, it was a pretty bleak one.
“This ain’t just for me bruh, gotta keep rockin’ all night to keep the dark--” he starts, or something to that effect, as he wipes moisture from his upper lip and chin. It’s chilly in the building, but he’s still glistening with beads of prickling sweat. I tell him I don’t have time for this, and that if he doesn’t knock it off, I’m calling the landlord.
He says something about he's been here a while and no one's complained, but I turn as he trails off. I rub my temples, and go back downstairs to write you an email.
I usually work in the morning, but that day a co-worker had gotten sick and I needed to cover her class. I didn’t finish grading until well into the night and then stopped for dinner. So when I got home around 11:30, of course the one-man-party upstairs was still going strong. On my way in, I passed by our outdoor breaker box and an idea crossed my mind. It may not have been my proudest moment, but I was at my limit. I popped open the breaker cover and switched off the upstairs power. The light from his room disappeared, and the music finally, thankfully, ceased. All was quiet in our building, all dark.
I went inside and sat on the edge of my bed, relishing the silence and, admittedly, hoping to hear at least a grumble or complaint after what he'd put me through. I assumed he’d figure it out eventually and check the breaker. If he’s got that much lighting and music and who knows what else going all the time, it was bound to trip someday.
But instead I heard a wailing. A despairing, guttural sound coming from upstairs. I could only make out a few words between the shrieks, some terrified gibberings about the light going out and the dark going in, going to him. It dawned on me that there could be some kind of medical equipment in there, some life support or insulin in the fridge, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to be responsible for accidentally killing an aging frat bro by shutting it down.
I was slipping on my shoes when I heard a heavy thud from above, which seemed to end the raving, then a long, drawn out scratching along the floor, like the sound of dragging heavy furniture across hardwood.
I’ll admit that gave me pause. But I left my apartment and stepped warily up the narrow stairs, straining to hear more. There were marks across the concrete floor and up the wooden stairs below my feet--long slashes and scuffs leading from his room, down the stairwell, and toward the vacant apartment below. You may want to check out the floor in his room, too. This is no fault of my own, so you don’t take it out of my deposit.
His door was still partially open, and I could see a faint green glow from beyond the frame. I snuck closer, following the marks and peering in through the gap in the doorway. It was a complete mess. Hundreds of melted candles littered the room, dripping wax frozen in strands and pools on the tables, rugs, even right onto the twenty-or-so lighters and countless burned matches scattered around the floor.
Towers of cassette tapes and CDs leaned precariously in the corner, while boomboxes and speakers were nested in coiled extension cords and power strips snaking along the ground. Tall, thin halogen lamps were plugged in at nearly every outlet and aimed at the center of the room, casting eerie shadows along the floor. They were off, but I could still feel the heat radiating from the bulbs. It was hot, stifling, even on this chilly evening. Strings of unlit Christmas lights webbed across the walls in meandering patterns like reaching ivy. Old portable televisions faintly hissed with static from the empty bedroom.
I had started to regret flipping that breaker, but I needed to convince myself he was unharmed. So I inched my way farther in.
The stench of sweaty shirts overflowing from laundry baskets and the smell of overheated electronics filled the muggy room. Whoever this person was, he seemed desperate to avoid any silence, any ounce of darkness.
I trailed the gashes in the floor to the source of the green light: in the bathroom, a huge pile of bent old glow sticks--several hundred at least--filled the bathtub to the brim. Their glow had mostly run out, but a dim sick-green pall still clung to the basin from the few that remained active. The marks ended here, next to the tub. Or maybe they began here. Either way, the man was gone, the only trace of him left in the sty he lived in being a crumpled note by the tub. Finding no medical instruments or any evidence of injury, I left, closing his door on my way out. I was tired, confused, but overjoyed that it was finally quiet, so I went to bed.
That was two days ago, and of course a new problem has arisen: something reeks in the building, probably some food the man left behind in his fridge that’s gone rancid. And there’s the occasional scratching sound downstairs. It is vacant down there, right? You told me on the phone when I moved in not to worry about the basement apartment since nobody lived there. Perhaps some raccoons took up residence. Regardless, they are also not my problem, and the noises downstairs are getting louder. I tried sending you another email about all this, but it bounced back, saying the address was invalid. I know the rent is cheap so I shouldn’t complain, but you really ought to update the email address you give to tenants. I’ve been advised that I should hold my rent in escrow until the odor problem is sorted. I do have some rights, you know. Squatters rights and all that.
Now I’m writing all this out by hand, along with the contents of the first email and the man’s note, while fruitlessly trying to ignore the scratching outside my door.
Yours,
William
CONWAY: Per the policies of the DLO, we have looked into the recipient’s address. The realty company was bought out around this time by the Greenwoods and shuttered its old office. We could find no current address for the sender, and the address it was sent from now appears vacant.
The Dead Letter Office has verified this letter, DL-11501, as undeliverable, and the letter, along with this note, will be safely archived in our vault.
****
CONWAY: Dead letter 08602, postmarked December 29th 1999, was flagged by a carrier and sent to the Dead Letters Office for verification and processing. The letter reads as follows:
NARRATOR: To Hasbr**
You have to take this toy back. K-Mart will not let us return it on account of it’s been opened and is “technically functional”. Our kids have been goin nuts for this Furby thing, seen it all over the commercials, and we waited in line for hours just to get one.
First thing when we got it home, the dog growls at it and hid under our bed. Then the thing would not stop talking, just jib-jabbering that fake furby words all night. Speaking of Furby, this thing don’t got fur, it’s got hair, and lots of it. The kids told me it learned some swears, bad ones, too, so I took the batteries out, you know to reset it, hoping it would resolve itself. I got some new double-As in it, but it just stood there blinking and moving its little beak nonstop with no talking at all. We set there for a minute, just to see what would happen. The kids asked me if I heard what it was saying, but I didn’t hear nothin other than the little parts inside whirring about.
I popped the batteries out and put the hairy thing in the closet, thinking that would settle it. But wouldn't you know it, next day my wife swore she found it on the windowsill, looking out the window at the poor dog. My youngest says it sneaks out sometimes, says it sways back and forth sings to him in that made-up language. Older one told me it sat on top of him in his sleep and wouldn’t let him move for hours. Said it stared him in the eye and whispered things only god should know.
Well, sir, whether I believe all that or not my kids had certainly had enough so I took it to K-mart, they said they won’t take it back as long as it works and I don’t got the receipt. So here it is. I’m not fishing for a refund, not fishing for a lawsuit or nothing, I just want it gone. Send it to the dump, send it to the FBI--hell, send it straight to hell for all I care, I just want it to stop scarin’ my sons.
CONWAY: The letter was found stuffed in an old PO box years after its postmark, and was subsequently sent to the nearest of the three remaining Dead Letters Offices, which would be ours The accompanying package could not be found. Per the ORC, the Dead Letters Office has verified this mail, DL-08602, as unfit for delivery and the letter will be securely stored in our vault.
For the Dead Letters Office of ***** Ohio, this is Conway, signing off.
