Dead Letters Department

Dorothea—Dotty to her friends—sat hunched over a scarred desk, a relic from when the Grand Duchy of Bathiva still had a monarch, when a slow, icy breeze rippled across her skin. She straightened with a groan from her swivel chair. The chair wasn’t the only thing groaning; the forgotten letters, parcels, and cards lining the walls of the Dead Letter Department stirred and sighed as if in sympathy. All had died or hatched prematurely before delivery. Dead, perhaps—but the words inside them still gave them a restless sort of power.

There was never a breeze down here. The air in the department was as stagnant as the letters—and as stagnant as her chances of ever becoming Mail Courier Second Class. She wasn’t even Third Class anymore, not after she let that second letter hatch in front of the Grand Duke.

“Blackthorn,” she muttered to the satchel hanging like deadweight from her chair, “do you feel anything?”

The sun-faded satchel creaked open one of his cataractic eyes and fixed her with a milky glare. “That’s Mr. Blackthorn to you, Dorothea. And the only thing I feel is the crushing disappointment of being paired with you ever since you took the Oath of Delivery.”

Dotty scowled. “No, I mean actually feel something. Like the wind.” Her eyes traveled down the long hallway. Nothing moved, except SideFold—an old, wrinkled letter with a deep crease—crawling stubbornly along the cobblestones, refusing to stay dead.

“Hmmm.” Blackthorn twitched his flap to test the air, then sighed. “Just a bit of wind. The romance letters probably opened a window again. They do get quite hot, you know.”

“Mr. Blackthorn!” Dotty’s cheeks went red with the very idea. She quickly changed the subject. “Anyways, we need to shut that window, else things could get truly ghastly down here.” She slung Blackthorn across her chest, hiding the threads where her Third Class rank used to be, and strode off down the hall.

Even after a month, some of the dead letters still snickered at her as she passed, their paper-thin voices echoing with each click of her heels.

“Dotty…” SideFold groaned as he dragged himself toward her. “There…has… been… a…”

“Been a what?” She squatted down to better hear his papery rasp.

“Been… a… murder…”

Dotty shot upright. “A murder? Someone was killed?” She clutched Blackthorn, eyes darting around. Behind her, a parcel chuckled darkly.

“No… not… a… person…” SideFold croaked. “…one… of… the… letters.”

The other envelopes rustled nervously.

“Best come with me, SideFold.” She bent to scoop him up.

“You’re not putting that in me!” Blackthorn snapped. “I’ve carried Declarations of War and—”

“—Peace treaties, royal betrothals, I know,” Dotty cut him off, shoving SideFold inside. “You remind me every day.”

SideFold wriggled to the satchel’s edge, flap flapping like lips. “Sorting… Room… A-23… east wing…”

Dotty smirked. “Then let’s SORT this out.”

Her companions stared.

“Hmph.” She fixed the hem of her knee-length skirt and marched down the winding halls.

Ten minutes later—and only having to check the directory twice—she arrived at the door to Sorting Room A-23. She could feel the icy breeze leaking from under the door, where letters had gnawed at the bottom to escape. She grabbed the wrought iron handle and pulled. Nothing. She braced, heaved, and with a final wrench the door flew open, sending her sprawling back against Sorting Room F-23’s door with a thud.

Inside, the mountains of undeliverables scrambled away from the center.

“That’s lettercide!” exclaimed Blackthorn, his cataractic eye fixed on the pile of shredded paper.

“I… told… you… it’s… murder…” SideFold groaned, dragging himself upright.

“That’s not murder! That’s—sheer barbarism, I tell you,” Blackthorn sputtered, his clasps clicking with rage.

“It can’t be that bad.” Dotty brushed back a strand of hair that had slipped from her bun and tucked it beneath her postal cap. Then her eyes landed on the scraps. Her voice faltered. “Oh my god…”

She knelt, arranging the torn fragments. The ink was already fading into the ether, but she managed to piece together the words: please… come… home… your… father… is… ill.

The message pulsed once, then crumbled. Another set of letters scrawled across the floorboards in ash-gray script: FNR.

“FNR?” Dotty frowned. “Final non-receivable?”

“No… initials…” SideFold rasped.

“FNR?!” Blackthorn’s voice sharpened. “Fabian Nigel Rothchild. Bad business, Dotty. Best we leave before it’s too late.”

Dotty waved him off. “Never heard of him.”

Blackthorn’s voice softened. “Sweet child… the Moor Street Slasher. The Midnight Ripper. The… letter murderer.”

SideFold wailed. “We… are… in… danger…”

Dotty laughed, nervous. “So he cut up letters, big deal. If we find one of his, we’ll toss it in the incinerator.”

Nearby envelopes rustled in horror at the thought of the True Dead.

“Dorothea,” Blackthorn whispered, voice tight with memory. “Fabian used blood magic.”

Her hands clenched the satchel strap. White-knuckled.

“Not… blood… magic…” SideFold wailed, other letters joining in. “He… is… unliving…”

Dotty quickened her pace, trying not to hear the echo of her own heels.

She scooped up a few fallen cards—120-pound stock, sharp as knives. One squirmed in her grip, slicing her palm. A bead of blood dropped onto the cobblestones.

The letters around her shuddered.

“Legends,” she muttered, pressing the cut to her skirt. “Just stories to scare children.”

But then came the sound: a crinkling shuffle, followed by a thud.

“Inspector Gareth?” she called out hopefully.

Only silence.

“Hello?” she tried again.

Another shuffle. Another thud.

Her throat tightened. “Who’s there?”

The breeze returned, this time curling up her leg, sliding under her skirt. She stepped back.

A whisper wormed into her ear. “I have a letter for you.”

Even the usual murmurs of the dead letters fell silent.

Dotty’s eyes flicked sideways. Out of the corner of her vision, scraps began to stir—magazine cuttings, envelopes, postcards, receipts. They clung together, forming the outline of a man. No flesh. No bone. Just a patchwork revenant, silently screaming.

He extended a hand. A letter of heavy Bristol Board—140-pound stock—waited between his fingers.

Her courier’s training betrayed her. She reached. Her blood seeped into the paper as she shoved it into Blackthorn.

The satchel convulsed. “Run!”

She ran. One arm pumping, the other white-knuckling Blackthorn. Behind her, the paper-man’s laughter echoed, followed by the tearing screams of letters joining his patchwork form.

“He… is… here… and… now… I… am… marked…” SideFold whimpered, barely audible.

“The incinerator!” Dotty skidded, turning down another corridor. The sound of rustling pursuit followed, always a step behind.

She burst into the Undeliverables Room. A wall of dry heat slammed into her.

“I don’t have to read it,” she gasped. “I can just burn it.”

A leg of paper stepped into the doorway. “You’ll never run fast enough. You’ll only grow tired.”

Dotty yanked out her blue-ink courier’s pen, scrawling across the envelope: Undeliverable. For destruction.

The revenant’s scraps twisted, grinning.

She hurled the letter into the flames.

The patchwork man lurched forward. His leg gave way first, then his arm. Scraps peeled loose, scattering like ash.

Dotty straightened her uniform. “Nothing to worry about.” She bobbed her head in self-congratulation. “Just need to file Postal Form T-1907 in triplicate, and we’ll be done.”

Blackthorn and SideFold said nothing.

Back at her desk, she filled out the forms, stamped and signed them, and slumped into her chair with a satisfied sigh.

“There,” she said. “All tidy.”

She stood, smoothing her skirt.

Then goosebumps prickled her legs.

An icy breeze drifted across the room.