I live alone in an overpopulated part of the suburbs. There are skyscrapers growing all around my house to accomodate all the men coming to work in the new factory. Yet at the end of my driveway there is an empty space. Enough room for a twin house, but all there stands is a mailbox. In the dead center of the property with grass all around.
I never see anybody walk there and neither do the neighbours. The kids don't play there. The place doesn't even have a house number.
Out of sheer curiosity I put a piece of paper saying »Why is there no house?« in that very mailbox.
Sure enough the next morning the red flag was up. I jumped with excitement when I walked past it, but decided to wait if the actual owner showed up.
Two weeks, flag up, no people around. The desire to go check that mailbox was driving me insane. I sneaked to it in the middle of the night and there was a letter inside. No stamps.
My heart raced as I opened it to find very bad hand writing. It was written using the old pen and ink technique with a big black ink stain on it.
»I prefer sleeping under the stars.«
I got so excited I got a reply I immediately took a new piece of paper and wrote upon it the classic questions. Who are you, why is there nothing built here, yadda yadda yadda.
...
I grew fond of this Mark named ghost. I could say he became my pen pal. In fact, we had a lot in common. Father left at a young age, problems with bullies at school, use of drugs in puberty, the love for camping...
As we got closer to each other and started to discuss more intimate matters, he revealed he had killed before. And will again. My face grew white in horror as I read the last line.
»Write with pen and ink.«
I remembered my father used to own a quill pen so I decided to look for it in the attic. I found the box of my father's possessions and there it was alongside with some ink and paper. Afraid of the wraith I took the paper and immediately started writing.
I looked up for a second to try and clear my thoughts only to see the box of my father's belongings was not dusty like everything else.
Then I looked back down at the paper.
It had an ink stain.
And Mark's handwriting.
Hey Steemians! I enjoy writing short stories with a brutal twist.
If you liked this short story, feel free to provide some ideas for future writing.
If you spot any mistakes, be it grammar or plot, please notify me to help me improve.
The more constructive criticism you provide, the more polished content I can create!