Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28420405-20160518174633

I grew up in a small town. It was one of those towns where everyone knew each other. It was small enough where no one really used their car. Most folks would walk to their destination. People greeted each other with a smile. It really radiated that “small town” charm.

I grew up before emails and text messages. Instead, people would send handwritten letters to their friends. It was a quaint way to catch up with friends or send updates about your own life. I frequently received letters and postcards from friends and family. I received letters from grandparents (with the obligatory $5 check). I received postcards from friends who were away at camp during the summer. Checking the mailbox was a daily treat.

As I grew and moved out into my own home in town, I received different types of mail. Bills, coupons, paystubs, but I always looked forward to a handwritten note from someone in town. Friends would send invitations to weddings and holiday cards updating me on their family and asking me about mine. Whenever I saw my name printed out in pen on an envelope, I knew I’d be getting a nice note about my friends.

I stayed in my town after getting married and settling down. My parents had passed away shortly after my marriage, so I was receiving quite a bit of their mail while I was rectifying their estate. Their passing was hard on me. They had died in a tragic car accident. They were coming home from a church potluck when my father hit a patch of black ice and swerved off the road, crashing into a ditch and killing them both on impact.

There was speculation as to whether this was the true story. Rumor had it that my parents’ bodies were unscathed, not like those of car crash victims. People talked of a police cover-up, or a suicide pact. I tried to ignore it and let my parents rest in peace. I did my best to take care of their estate and sell their home in a timely manner.

Each evening after getting home from work, I would check the mail. I rifled through the usual junk mail, usually looking for something important pertaining to the estate. One evening, I pulled out the usual stack of mail. On top were bills, but nestled in between the usual mail was a peculiar envelope. It was small, but thick. My name was listed out in big block letters in black pen. A familiar surge of excitement coursed through me. I noted there was no return address on the envelope.

I brought the stack of mail inside. I set aside the regular mail and attended to the letter addressed to me. I figured it must have been a postcard from a friend who decided to send the card in an envelope to protect it from damage. I stared awhile at the front of the letter, trying to decipher whose handwriting was on the envelope. After deciding it was unrecognizable, I opened it up to find out who had sent the letter.

I pulled out a single sheet of construction paper. It was white, but very thick. I had thought that the letter was pages long based on the weight of the envelope, but there was only a single piece of paper enclosed. In the same blocky text, a message was written to me.

“IT WAS NO ACCIDENT. TIME WILL TELL.”

That was the single line of text in the letter. I guessed it was a local kid trying to scare me. Kids liked to send prank letters in the mail. The letters were usually to teachers to try and scare them out of giving homework. This was the first time I had received a note like this. The only logical thing I could think of was that someone wanted to scare me over the death of my parents. The sick joke went right into the trash.

The next day at work I told my coworker, Jane, about the strange note I received. Her face went pale as I told her about the blocky lettering and strange construction paper.

“Lots of people have been getting letters like that. Threatening letters with personal information.

I haven’t received one, but my brother has. He says lots of people in his congregation have been receiving scary letters in the mail.”

Jane’s brother was a pastor at my parent’s church. He was actually the one who set up the potluck that my parents drove home from when they crashed. Jane had always felt a bit guilty, as the potluck had been her idea, but I assured her that accidents happen. Yes, it was a tragedy, but no one was at fault. Or at least that’s what I had thought.

A week went by without another strange letter in my mailbox. However, rumors were swirling of the same types of letters appearing in the mailboxes of the church’s congregation. The letters often had personal information, or just had a single line of foreboding text. The pastors at the church tried to assure their flock that the letters were just a prank, and to have faith that the letters would stop.

The next Saturday, I drove up to the church to donate some of my parent’s remaining items that I did not find sentimental. Old clothes or books that no one was reading. Jane’s brother, the pastor, greeted me. He was wringing his hands in an anxious manner. As I turned off the car and popped the trunk, the pastor rushed over. I walked around to the back of my car to greet him.

As I handed him the box of items, he quickly took it from my arms. He thanked me and scurried back into the church, barely telling me goodbye as he shut the door. It was strange, but I assumed he was preparing his sermon and was probably rushing to finish for Sunday.

When I got home, I checked the mail. There were only two letters in the mailbox that day. One was a bill for the real estate agent who had assisted in the sale of my parent’s home. The other piece of mail was a small envelope. What jumped out at me was the blocked lettering and my name scrawled out in black ink. I cautiously opened the letter. Again, I pulled out a single thick sheet of white construction paper, with a single line of text.

“PETE AND CINDY KNEW. ASK THE PASTOR. YOU HAVE 3 DAYS.”

I realized I had been holding my breath as I was reading. I let out a heavy sigh. Pete and Cindy were my parent’s names. That wasn’t personal information, anyone in town knew could have sent me this letter. What worried me was the last line. What would happen in three days? I wasn’t so sure I wanted to find out, so I drove back out to the church with the envelope in its own plastic seal.

After I parked I walked up to the front of the church. I took a good look at the building. Though I had often drove there, I never paid much attention to the structure. The building was white, with a small steeple. It sat by itself on top of the hill, reminiscent of a one room school house from history. The church was the first building erected in the town, and it cost a lot to maintain the historical building. The church was reliant on donations from the congregation to keep its doors open. Many people in town would leave something to the church in their will in hopes their last good deed will cement their place in heaven. My parents were no different, they left much of their monetary wealth to the church.

I pulled on the door handle, and was surprised to find it locked. Most churches didn’t lock their doors, and this one was no different. I put my ear to the door, straining to hear who was behind the door. The thick wood doors kept out any sound, and I resigned myself to knocking. I pounded on the heavy door.

Jane’s brother answered the door. He looked even more anxious than before. His features were sunken in, as if he hadn’t eaten much lately. His eyes had large dark circles underneath, suggesting he hadn’t slept much either. His dark hair was frazzled. Behind him I saw the pews lined up neatly and his podium in the back. He tried to meet my gaze in an attempt to keep me from looking around.

“How can I help you? Do you have more items for donation?” His eyes were darting behind me, as if he thought I had brought someone with me.

“Actually, I received another one of those strange letters that people in town keep receiving. I honestly thought the first one was a prank, but this most recent letter had a much more threatening tone.” I was trying to watch his reaction as I explained why I had come back.

“Oh, those letters, everyone is quite afraid of them. I’ve heard some members mention they received something strange in the mail. All I can do is assure you that God works in mysterious ways and to have faith that he has a plan.” He turned away from me, as if the conversation was over.

“Well, you may be right, but this letter mentioned my parents.” I pulled out the sealed envelope from my purse. The pastor had turned back to me, and his expression was now clearly fearful. As I handed him the letter, his eyes grew wide.

“I honestly have no clue what this could be regarding. Your parents were very active members of the church, it’s only obvious that they would have some knowledge of how the church was being run.” He nervously handed me back the letter, his hands shaking.

“I guess I just thought you could help me figure this out. Thanks anyway”. I was unconvinced that this man didn’t know anything. What was it that he was so afraid of? What had my parents known?

The next morning I woke up early to do some gardening. As I opened the door, I noticed the flag on my mailbox was up. This was strange, as I had not put any mail in the box to ship. I walked over and opened up the box and was surprised to find another letter. The same blocked capital letters immediately indicated what this message was.

I opened the envelope and pulled out another piece of construction paper. This time there was a much more sinister sentence waiting for me. The single line of text was in large red letters.

“THE PASTOR LIED.”

The mail didn’t deliver on Sunday, and I had checked the mail after it was delivered the Saturday before. I couldn’t think of a single person who knew I went up to the church last night. I started to get the feeling I was getting watched. These letters were no longer a silly prank. Someone had followed me home and put this letter in the box sometime after my nighttime visit to the church.

This was the final straw. I went into the kitchen and called our local police station. I mentioned the letter and how someone had put it in my box the night before, and I stressed the frightening nature of the text. To my surprise, the police were already trying to find the source of the letters that were circling the town. All of the letters that were brought to the police mentioned the church or the pastor. The policeman on the phone asked that I bring all my letters down to the station and give a statement.

I drove down to the station with the three letters I had received, neatly placed into plastic bags with the envelopes with which they were shipped. All the letters, even the one that had been placed in the box, had a post mark from the next closest town, as if they had been processed by the postal service. That is why I had kept the envelopes; I had hoped they would identify the sender.

The police collected me letters and logged them in as evidence. They took a statement from me about the letters and their contents. They told me that they would look into everything and sent me on my way. On the way out, I saw a large stack of letters, each in individual bags marked “EVIDENCE” in bright orange. The blocky capital letters made me nervous.

Two weeks passed and I did not receive another letter. As my nerves eased, I continued my routine. I went to work, drove home, collected the mail, and responded to letters as was necessary. One night the phone rang, and I was surprised to hear from the police chief. He had gotten a lead and wanted me to come down to the station.

When I arrived the police chief took me into his office. He informed me that their investigation revealed some startling information. The church had been coercing people to donate money. My parents were the last couple they convinced to put the church in their will. My parents had grown nervous around the pastor of their church, as they frequently fell ill or had accidents after visiting the church. The police concluded that my parents confronted the pastor, Jane’s brother, and he flew into a rage and killed my parents. The pastor then set up the crash scene to cover up his crime. He still collected all the money from my parents that was left to the church in their will.

Jane, surprisingly, had a hand in this curious situation too. The police decided that Jane found out about the extortion and felt guilty about the death of my parents. She started writing anonymous letters to the congregation and to her brother to try and get someone to confess and come forward. The police booked Jane and her brother. Their trials were swift and the juries found them both guilty. Jane was found guilty of felony mail fraud, and her brother was fingered for the murder of my parents. They both went to jail and my small town breathed a sigh of relief.

A month passed since the siblings were jailed. The media frenzy had died down and our town was seemingly back to its charming self. I went to my mailbox one evening, and to my surprise, I found another envelope. My name was written in blocked letters. My hands shook as I carried the envelope back into the house. There was no indication that the letter came from a penitentiary. I knew that Jane and her brother were restricted from writing materials, making it nearly impossible to send any letters from jail.

I carefully opened the letter. The familiar texture of construction paper under my fingertips gave me a chill. I pulled out the letter. A single line of text greeted me once again.

“CASE CLOSED?” 