Dead Letter Office, Parish Mail #1

Chapter 4

Parish Mail is written like a TV series–there are over-arching mystery and romantic story arcs that extend between the episodes, while each episode has a smaller case that is presented and solved. Along the way,  the reader will get the opportunity to make several small decisions. These choices do not impact the overarching storyline, however certain combinations “unlock” clues to the series’ mystery, which are embedded in the text. 

At the end of the certain chapters, readers will get the chance to vote on one of two choices. The path that gets the most votes will get posted on Wattpad.  New chapters will be posted every Thursday. 

Chapter 4 

My legs are aching by the time I unlock the front door of the blue townhouse. Mom’s dozed off in the living room, and she stretches awake as I come in.

“So. How was it?” She smiles at me, sleepy.

“Fun. I guess. A little weird.” Understatement of the year. But my mind is racing from everything that happened, and I’m tired, so tired.

Mom switches off the TV and looks at my costume. “You lost my bracelet?”

I’d almost forgotten about that. “Someone from school has it. I’ll get it from him tomorrow.”

“Him, you say?” Mom smiles teasingly.

“Goodnight, Mom.” I give her a hug and trudge upstairs. I’m still trying to make sense of the night. I’m not ready to tell her details. Not about Luc, or the insane natural disaster I met him during, and certainly not about the letter that’s tucked, unopened, in my pocket. Mom said it would be a night to remember, and she was right.

I fall into bed, turning the letter over and over in my hands. I run a finger across the seal of black wax. I don’t want to open it, not yet. What if it was meant for someone else, and I took it without realizing? But then again, there are those words on the envelope. “Help me, C.J.M.” It can’t possibly be for me. Can it? Even if it is, the letter might be an antique and I don’t want to damage what’s inside. I have a few ideas about where to go tomorrow to find some answers.

I’m asleep in seconds. I dream of the iron gate again, and in the dream my blood runs cold. The gate stands open, swung wide.

This is wrong, I think desperately in the dream. It’s supposed to be closed. Locked. Everything in there is supposed to be locked away, that’s where they belong…

I sense rather than see thousands of entities, presences, streaming out from the blackness beyond the gate. Escaping. They blow past me like invisible leaves, and I’m overwhelmed with sensations. Some of the presences feel human, and I can detect their emotions as they go. Some of the disembodied fugitives are frightened by their new freedom, while others are exhilarated.

Other presences don’t feel like people at all. They’re more like memories. I’m struck with flashes of images: soldiers strewn dead over a battlefield, a row of prisoners dropping from hangman’s nooses, a child falling into a pond and not coming back up. Occurrences, not people.

Some of the humanlike presences are kind, others angry. A few feel good and pure as they rush by, but others feel corrupt, so cruel and brutal that I’m chilled with fear. One of these–among the worst of them, I know somehow–starts to take shape, coalescing into a man. He’s rank with evil, his malice almost tangible as he builds a new body. I don’t want to see his face. Don’t let him see me, I sob silently, terrified, unable to move or hide, for fear that he will.

Don’t let him see me don’t let him see me please please God please don’t.

I wake gasping for breath. Mom calls up from downstairs. “Celia Jane, you’re going to be late for school!” It’s morning, and somehow I’m already in trouble. Mom only calls me Celia Jane when she’s angry. I get cleaned up and dress quickly, stuffing the letter in my backpack as I hurry downstairs. In the kitchen I find Mom sipping coffee, her mouth a tight line. She points at the TV, where the meteorologist is gesticulating at a map of the city. “There was a lightning storm where you were last night? Didn’t you think that was worth mentioning when you came home?”