Pretty in Purple.

Most people try to stay clear of trouble. I am not most people. I should have been. It would have led me down a much easier path, but here we are. Before I get too far ahead of myself, let me set the scene for you. 

August, hot and blistering, was here and I was in the thick of it. I had just moved to the sprawling three acre plot of what I hoped would one day be a farm, on a day thick with humidity. The heat was bad enough, and humidity was new to me, so when the mail arrived, I did not retrieve it immediately. I could see a vague shape of a massive, dark purple something poking out of the rusted, gray, and terribly basic mailbox, and though my curiosity intrigued me, I did nothing but sit directly in front of the air conditioner. 

As time passed, my curiosity began to eat at me, worming about in my brain like a finger desperate for touch. I shouldn’t have fed into the beast my curiosity can become, but I had yet to give anyone my new address. I looked about the house at the stack of seven measly boxes by the front door. The front door didn't close all the way without force, and it certainly needed more effort than I thought fair to reopen. The front door that lead to the yard. The front door that lead to the mailbox. 

“Fine!” I had yelped to myself in amused indignation, “I’ll go get the mystery letter or whatever it is.”

So out I went, into that cloying blanket of wet, hot air. By the time I had reached the end of the driveway, I was soaked head to toe in both general moistness and my own sweat. Sweat that did not dry. Rather it hung on the skin, waiting for the worst opportune moment to make a beeline into your eyes. 

I stood panting a little at the hike it had felt it was to get to the mailbox, not wanting to touch its scalding surface. I looked around, finding a goodly sized and hefty stick near the fence line of my yard. I used it to pry open the box, which the mail carrier had apparently seen fit to shove the letter, or whatever this deep purple envelope was, into the box and wedge the door closed. 

I grabbed the letter and heaved, expecting more resistance than I had needed to. I went flying back a few steps, stumbling on each one and trying with some avail to catch my balance. My hand firmly grasped the envelope, mangling it further. I quickly smoothed it out, forgetting about my bout of clumsiness. 

In the most gorgeous handwriting I had ever seen in my short thirty year existence, cursive letters spelled out only a name ‘Stephen Harvey’. Stephen Harvey had died. In that very house I just bought. As far as I was aware, he had no next of kin. How odd that I would get a letter from someone who didn’t know about his death. There had been a funeral and everything. 

I laughed, I didn’t get a letter, Stephen did. I took it back to the house, soaking myself further in sweat and air. I did not open it then. I left it on the warped kitchen counter by the stove, but I had set it upside down and noticed a small tear in the envelope. Dark blue shown through and the smallest hint of smokey lavender. 

I shrugged and texted my realtor to ensure there was no one I could send it to. There had been some heft to the envelope, perhaps it would cost more than a few stamps to send. I noticed there were no stamps on the front as I turned it over. So someone had gotten this delivered without postage, even more bizarre. 

I ran my forefinger over the tear and sighed. Perhaps I would never know why this was here, or perhaps..

My phone chimed the tone I had set for texts. It was my realtor confirming no next of kin or friends to speak of. Stephen Harvey had been 97 when he passed with no children. I told her about the letter with no postage and she stated that means it isn’t mail, so I could open it or toss it for all she cared. 

I set down my phone and went about my work in unpacking what little I had. After that took far less time than anticipated, I set my cot up in a room with my laptop and watched ghost shows until I passed out. Sleeping through the heat seemed like the best course of action after all. I dreamt of the letter. 

When I awoke, it was dusk, almost twilight. I felt disorientated with my location and surroundings until it clicked that, yes, this is now my residence. I got up from the stiff and unyielding cot and made my way back to the kitchen to get water. 

The envelope sat next to the stove where I had left it. ‘Open it, toss it, I don’t care’. The realtor's text rang in my head. I picked up the envelope again and noticed the faintest smell of patchouli and sandalwood seeping from the tear. Was it his will, a letter from a long lost relative, was he a secret agent maybe? I had to know. 

I attempted to open it properly but the glue stuck fast and was unyielding. I gave up on that avenue quickly and stuck my finger in the tear. The heavy paper was hard to tear through but I was able to get it open after some finagling. The incense-like smell grew stronger and a picture fell face down onto the stained linoleum. I ignored it for the time being and turned the letter over, heat racing in anticipation. 

That same handwriting was splashed across the light periwinkle color of the paper. The lavender was on the back of the photo and the dark blue was the color of the envelope, so that explained what I had seen earlier upon inspection. It took some time to decipher the handwriting and as I did my heart seemed to slow but each beat was a strong, loud sound in my ears. 

‘Sharon will have moved in by today. It is time.’ 

I am Sharon. 

I picked up the picture with a trembling hand and turned it over. 

It was a black and white photo of me, sitting in front of the air conditioner. 

A chill of terror ran down my spine. This had to have been taken just before I noticed the letter. 

“That isn’t yours,” a labored breath followed the strangled sounding words. 

I whipped around and froze in place, the letter and the picture crumpling in my hands as I made eye contact with Stephen Harvey who was very much dead and very much looking at me. I parted my lips to scream and Stephen Harvey lunged forth. 

And now that you are done reading this, I suppose it’s my turn to get you. You shouldn’t open other people's mail, don’t you know.