SMR 3

I darted through the neighbourhood of Moonriver Lane and was greatly relieved when the road sign was far behind me. The mystic aura of the gigantic mansion, however, still lingered on like the endless summer rain. I stopped, composed myself for a second and turned around. Now a silhouette shrouded in a greying mist of dampness, its once looming presence seemed to be overtaken by an unspeakable air of melancholic calmess . Suddenly I heard someone calling out my name. The voice, distant and surreal, unmistakingly whispered a dreamy spell. 'Never answer the devil's call. They eat your heart away.' Grandma's story rushed to my head. As if seized by madness, I frantically pushed down the peddle and never ever looked back.


Chapter 2
The howling wind rudely shook the windows, their serpentine tongues slurping away at man's vulnerability, hissing at every possible hole, or a careless crevice.

'S - I - R - E ...'

The man slotted in the last letter and turned his head towards the sound.

It was just the wind.

He scowled, his stern face now a worrying look of age. He became very sensitive recently. Even the slightest sound, a bird's flapping wings, or a disturbed ripple in the pond, struck his nerves and threatened to echo in the haunted house of dead memories. A sudden chill escaped from the North wall. He tightened his collar and remembered her warm breath around his neck, tickling and damp.

There was no letter for him today.

He glanced at the amber coloured wooden mailbox, the only unnumbered one among a mirage of fanciful collections. He reserved it for himself. The golden warm colour reminded him of certain things, things he once loved. There was the copper-lidded squarish case with Roman number 'VIII' on it, and another funny-shaped box handmade with vine. Who did it belong to? Was it the old man with the trademark slanted mouth? He always had a pipe dangling between his yellowing teeth, which made his face all the more dispicably annoying.

He didn't know their names, just faces he could tag with a number, the mailbox number.

'Bonsoir, Mr. King. How's your day?' No. 17 came last night to retrieve a thick stack of letters which had accumulated for a month and as a result, almost went stale from the damp weather. They greeted politely and exchanged very few words. For them, he was Mr. King, no more a real person than a name spelt out in monotone. K, I, N, G. And them, imaginary numbers with faces he couldn't tell the real from the fake.

He almost forgot when or why he started this strange business. None of them asked and the reason soon hid itself in the coffin, together with other forgotten secrets. With hands stuck in the pocket, he strolled towards the door. The routine mail sorting was over. It was time to leave.

There he hesitated, moved four steps forward, only to retrieve ten steps back which brought him right in front of number 6. It had been months since the owner last cleared out the letters. Mr. King stared at the pile of papers which threatened to burst out of their confinement. Soon he'd have to move it to a bigger mailbox but what was the use? Mr. no. 6 never came. Yet another letter arrived this morning.

Mr. King kept it his golden rule never to invade his customers' privacy. It was clearly stated in the agreement never to open others' letters unless granted with special permission.

Still, this letter intrigued him.

Through the palm-sized translucent envelop, it didn't take too much effort to make out a tiny strip of paper. So it wasn't a written letter but a strip of paper? Probably a telegram or pure mischief. Or what could it be?


ps. I was depending on you for the title. You sure you want 'strange mail room'? It sounds funny to me though.

pps. Just now I went back to your continuation and checked again if the flow was natural, and there was paragraph two! Wasn't there this morning when I looked. Good one though. the postoffice boy of course played an important role. Now I think about it, just scrap that first paragraph I wrote since it clashed. Hope the parallel happenings at King's side wasn't too abrupt. I didn't bring out the dark nature in him though coz I'm not sure how to. There was a bit of shading on his past about a woman. I'll leave it to you to decide her possible role. Add in something if you will, coz the sudden lightening of tone sort of went a bit offtrack with the foreshadowing about his mysterious look and dark clothing.