Who would ever be afraid of postcards? After all, it’s just paper; it’s not like they can hurt you.
If you’d asked me a month or two ago, I would’ve laughed, but that was before all this began.
It started in April. I’d just returned from the grocery store and checked my mail, something I rarely bother with. All I ever find are fliers, ads, and the occasional bill. That day, though, I found something different. Amongst a handful of fliers and ads, there was a postcard.
After crumpling up the ads, I checked it out. The front showed a pair of cute kittens playing with a ball of yarn. When I turned it around, wondering who it was from, I noticed something odd. The postal stamp was there, as were my address and name, neatly printed in fine block letters, but no message. Instead, I found a crooked smiley face surrounded by ink smudges, as if whoever had drawn it was in a rush.
I stared at the card, more than a bit amused. Who would send me this? Without thinking, I pocketed it and went inside. After putting the groceries away, I pinned it up on the small bulletin board in my hallway, where I’d collected all the postcards I’d received over the years.
I would have forgotten about it, had not another postcard arrived a week later. This time, the motif was of a sprawling forest; the sun rising in the distance. When I turned it around, I saw the same thing. A stamp, my address and name, and again, the same off-kilter smiley face.
“What the hell, another one?” I laughed, shaking my head.
It didn’t end there. A few days later, two more arrived. One showed balloons flying through the air, the other a picture of what I assumed to be a popular sightseeing attraction. Both were just like the others: no message, no sender, and only featuring the same smiley face.
By now, I couldn’t help but frown. At first, it was amusing, but the lack of any message, and that weird smile face; it was starting to creep me out. This time, I didn’t bother putting them up. Instead, I threw them in the trash without a moment’s hesitation. I wondered what was up with this. Why’d anyone send those stupid cards?
When I found another batch a few days later, I wasn’t puzzled anymore. No, I was angry. I tore them apart and crumpled up their remains. I stopped and look around. Was this some kind of elaborate joke? Someone’s idea of a prank? I shook my head. It wasn’t worth getting paranoid over a bunch of postcards. They had a postal stamp, which meant they came through the mail.
Still, the next day, I found myself in front of the mailbox again. Even though I’d told myself not to let it go to my head, I checked it. Wouldn’t you know it, I found another one. The same was true for the day after.
Who the hell was doing this? How’d they gotten my address? Also, the cards, the shipping, it all cost money, didn’t it? I went through an imaginary list of names. It was short. I didn’t have many friends left, and I surely hadn’t shared my new address with them. The only nasty break-up I could think about happened almost ten years ago. As much as I racked my brain, no one came to mind. So why’d I become a target?
I went online and posted about it on Reddit, hoping someone would have a clue. The replies I got were almost entirely useless. One person suggested a marketing campaign, another a social experiment. Great, that didn’t help one bit. So much for the information age.
One afternoon, on my way back from the grocery store, I ran into the mailman. He’d just started his around on our block.
“Hello! Excuse me,” I called out. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
The man turned to me, surprised, but nodded.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Well, for the past weeks, I’ve been getting these weird postcards. Do you know what’s up with that? Maybe other people are getting them, too? Is it some sort of marketing campaign?”
He stared at me for a second before he shook his head.
“Haven’t heard anything like that, sorry.”
I sighed.
“Yeah, but the cards keep on coming. By now it’s three a day. They are like landscapes, animals, greeting cards, that type of thing.”
“All right,” he said, his voice a tad bit suspicious. “Do you live here?”
“Oh yeah, down the street, number sixty-eight.”
“Tell you what, I haven’t heard of any weird campaigns or postcards, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I could tell how uncomfortable he was about the entire conversation.
He probably didn’t believe a word I’d just said. I watched him leave in frustration.
The next morning, while I put on some coffee, the same curiosity overcame me again. I put on my shoes and made my way outside. This time, I tore the postcards up right there and threw their remains down in front of the mailboxes. Once done, I noticed a neighbor, an older woman, staring at me in confusion. Great, I thought, I’m going to be known as the local crazy guy.
As I stepped back inside, another idea came to my mind. I should’ve just told the mailman to throw the damn things away. Yesterday, I’d met him during his route at about one in the afternoon. I tried my best to distract myself with my work, but I soon couldn’t concentrate anymore. Instead, I sat at the kitchen window, watching the street. For an hour, I busied myself on my phone, when I saw his bright-yellow delivery car. I jumped up and dashed outside.
I found the mailman sorting through his letters in the back of the car before he made his way toward the mailboxes. When he noticed me, he gave me an awkward smile. Shit, I told myself, now I’m not only the local crazy guy but also the guy who stalks the mailman. He tried his best to ignore me, but every so often, his eyes wandered back to me.
“Sorry,” I said, awkwardly stepping up to him. “You might think I’m a nutcase, but-“
“Is this about the postcards?” he cut me off, holding a stack of letters.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I thought you’d be delivering more of them.”
“Well,” he said, shrugging, “there aren’t any today. Same as yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yeah, after you asked me. See?”
With that, he showed me the envelopes in his hand. There were no postcards among them.
“Motherfucker,” I cursed, catching his concerned look.
Shit, now he definitely thought I was crazy.
“Sorry, not you,” I added, shaking my head. “It’s just… I found another batch this morning.”
He said nothing. Instead, he gave me a curt nod and hurried back to his car.
All right, so not the postal service. With that, the biggest question on my mind changed from why to who, and especially when. As I stood there, staring after the mailman, something gnawed at me. A strange sense of doubt washed over me. Had he really not delivered them? What if he was messing with me? In an instant, I tore open my mailbox, but it was empty.
Back inside, I hatched a plan. If the postcards were there in the morning, but the mailman hadn’t delivered them, someone else had to be behind it. I mean, they couldn’t just appear out of thin air. If I just waited at my kitchen window and kept an eye on the mailbox, I was sure to catch the perpetrator. A moment later, I found myself an interesting podcast, and began my watch. I sat there all afternoon, but all I saw were neighbors checking their mail. None of them touched mine. When the sun set, I prepared myself a can of coffee, but my eyes never strayed from the mailboxes.
When night fell, I was about to turn on the light, but then stopped. What if someone was watching me? A shiver ran down my spine. I hadn’t thought about that until now, but it was so obvious. The moment they saw me at the window, they’d sit today out. No, what if they’d already seen me? Dammit.
Still, I’d told myself I’d catch the one responsible, and I’d watch the damn mailbox. For the past weeks, the postcards had shown up every day, so I was sure whoever was doing it wanted to keep it up. Hour after hour passed, but nothing happened. Midnight crept into morning, each minute stretching on endlessly. By three, I nearly fell asleep. I slapped myself across the face, cranked up the podcast, and downed another disgustingly strong cup of coffee.
When morning came, I was tired, exhausted, but most of all, discouraged. No one had shown up. I could only laugh. What the hell was I even doing? Sitting here all night because of a bunch of stupid postcards? And yet, I stayed. Another hour. Then another. I couldn’t bring myself to stop. A voice in the back of my head told me, the moment I would step away, someone would rush to the mailbox, slip the cards in, and vanish before I could catch them. Then I started to think. What if they were waiting for exactly that? What if someone had seen me by the window, and now waited for me to give up, to falter? My apartment was on the ground floor. I’d be out there in moments. If I was fast enough, I might even catch them red-handed.
For a moment, I scanned the street, the sidewalk, and even the bushes. Just to be sure I wouldn’t miss a thing, I placed my phone next to the window, where it couldn’t be spotted, making sure it was pointed at the mailboxes and recording. Once I was sure everything was working, I stepped away, put on my shoes and hurried outside. My eyes darted around, searching for the perpetrator, for someone hurrying away. Suddenly, I noticed something nearby. My eyes grew wide, my heart was pounding in my chest, and I was ready to throw myself at whoever was messing with me. Then I noticed it was just a stray cat. It watched me for a few seconds before darting away. I sighed, and after a few more moments, I walked up to my mailbox. My fingers were sweaty as I slid the key into the lock, and my hand trembled as I turned it. Another noise behind me made me flinch, but it was only the trees gently swaying in the wind.
It had to be empty. It had to be! The lock clicked, the door swung open, and my stomach dropped. There they were. Three postcards. Cute kittens and puppies stared back at me, mocking me for my useless night-long watch. I flipped them over with still-shaking hands. The same postal stamp, the same printed address and name, and, of course, the same damned smiley face. As I stared at them, I wondered if someone actually slid them in and got away just now.
Well, I thought, as I made my way back inside, if they had, I’d have it all on record. Filled with a strange sense of glee, I picked up the phone, brought it as close to my face as possible, and pressed play. The recording began, showing only the lonely mailboxes.
“Now, where are you, asshole?” I wondered out loud, watching intently.
When I saw a figure, I thought I’d caught the culprit, but realized it was only me walking up to my mailbox. I watched as my eyes scanned the area. Suddenly, another thought struck me. What if I’d somehow been doing all this to myself? A shiver ran down my spine. My mind conjured an image, my face, but not my face, grinning at the camera before slipping the postcards inside. What I saw instead was me taking out my keys, opening the mailbox, and finding the postcards.
Relief flooded over me before it was replaced by frustration. I slammed the phone onto the kitchen table and laughed. Jesus, what the hell was wrong with me? Even though… how the hell had someone managed to slide them inside? I’d seen no one all night! Then I wondered if someone had dropped them in before I’d started watching the window. There’d been a few minutes after my talk with the mailman. Hell, what if the mailman was behind it after all? Then I shook my head, calling myself stupid.
The more I thought about it, however, the more it made sense. He could’ve pretended to be clueless, and the moment I left, he could’ve stopped his car, ran back, and slid the damned cards inside. Or what if it was my neighbors? Maybe this was some sort of conspiracy to drive me out? I’d never been a big part of the neighborhood community and never talked to anyone. Hell, what if I’d gone nuts and imagined the whole thing? I’d read about similar cases… In an onset of panic, I dashed to the bulletin board, but the first two postcards were still there.
“All right, stop,” I told myself. “You’re losing it.”
This was getting ridiculous. I sounded crazy, and I was definitely acting like it. This entire ‘let’s watch the mailbox all night long’ thing was weird enough, but all those scenarios were too much. I rubbed my temples and shook my head. Shit, I was exhausted, out of it, and it had all been for nothing.
After that day, I made it a conscious effort to ignore it. Whoever was behind this clearly wanted a reaction out of me. Maybe they’d seen me tear up the cards and confront the mailman. Was that what they wanted? To watch me spiral? Well, tough luck. If I stopped caring, they’d most likely get bored and move on. At least, that’s what I hoped. Deep down, however, a quiet, almost inaudible voice whispered: What if they don’t? What if this was only the beginning?
I’d told myself not to care, but whenever I was in the kitchen, my eyes wandered toward the mailbox. Just for a moment, before I moved on. As much as I wanted to rush outside and check it, I restrained myself. I only looked after an evening walk or during trips to the grocery store. Each time, I found postcards inside. They arrived in droves by now. One day, I pulled out almost three dozen.
It was the most bizarre, dumbfounding thing ever, but I showed no reaction. I just took out the cards, took them inside, and threw them straight into the trash.
A week later, my doorbell rang.
“I guess these are yours?” one of my neighbors asked, holding a stack of postcards.
I stared at him, then at the cards, and almost cringed back.
“No, those aren’t-“
“They all have your name on it. Every single one,” he interrupted me.
“Yes, but-“
“Then they’re yours,” he said and held them out for me.
“I… dammit, all right.”
With that, I took the stack from his hands.
“Wouldn’t hurt you to be a little friendlier, young man,” he muttered as he turned to leave.
I was about to retort something, but I told myself to calm down. He was just trying to help and be a good neighbor. He probably thought the mailman mixed things up.
“Sorry,” I called after him. “It’s just… there’s something odd about these cards.”
He paused, not understanding.
“Odd how?”
“Someone’s been dumping them in my mailbox for weeks, probably a month by now. Every day, there’s more of them. There’s no message, just stupid smiley faces. See?”
He frowned.
“Maybe it’s someone’s idea of a prank?”
“I don’t know.”
Then I got an idea.
“Hold on, let’s check the mailboxes.”
He was about to say something, but then reluctantly followed me outside. When I opened my mailbox, a flood of postcards descended upon me. The last few were crumpled up from having been jammed inside.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.
“That’s what I’ve been dealing with,” I said. “I bet the rest ended up in your mailbox.”
He scratched his head, baffled.
“That sure is something, but why’d anyone do that?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.”
The old man noticed my frustration and gave my shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Like I said, probably just a prank. Don’t let it get to you.”
With that, he walked off, leaving me alone with the scattered postcards. As I stared, I couldn’t help but shake my head. No, this wasn’t a prank, this was insane.
Over the course of the next week, things didn’t get better. More and more of my neighbors showed up at my door. The nice old lady from the third floor, a student from the sixth, and a mother from down the hall. Every one of them brought me stacks of postcards. As calmly as possible, I explained to them that someone was playing a trick on me, and told them to just throw the cards away. Most were sympathetic about my situation, but I noticed their expressions changing. First to confusion, then doubt, and finally annoyance. By now, the entire building must’ve been talking about this thing. That, and my involvement in it.
A week later, the mailman confronted me.
“This is becoming a problem, you know,” he said, pointing at the mailboxes.
“What do you-?”
I stopped mid-sentence. Half the mailboxes were overflowing with postcards. I gave a short nervous laugh, which landed me an angry glance from the man.
“I can’t deliver the mail like this,” he said sharply. “What are you going to do about it?”
“What am I…? What do you mean?”
“Well, they are clearly addressed to you.”
By now, another neighbor had arrived.
“Not again,” she muttered.
A moment later, more people arrived, all more than annoyed about the state of the mailboxes. Most of them just stared me down, but one of them came up to me and threw a stack of postcards down in front of me.
“This is getting out of hand!” he snapped at me.
Soon, more accusations were hurled my way.
“You think this is some sort of joke?”
“You’ve got to do something about it!”
“If it’s not you, then who?”
I tried to explain, but the shouting drowned me out. Eventually, I stormed back inside, slamming the door.
Back in my apartment, I pulled out my phone and called the police. My report was vague, and I told them someone was stalking me, and damaging the mailboxes. When they arrived, I explained the full situation. They listened, but I could see how they looked at me. Finally, I led them outside, and showed them the chaos. For a moment, both of them were quiet.
“And how long has this been going on?” one of them asked, while his colleague stepped up to the mailboxes.
“About a month and a half. First, it was only one, but now…”
The two officers handled the situation professionally, but I could see how perplexed they were. They asked if I had any enemies, but I told them no. I’d tried to figure this out for weeks, but I had no clue. I even told them about my night-long watch. One of them handed me his card and promised they’d station someone in the area. They also took some postcards as evidence. With the police taking action, I was sure this would finally stop.
The next morning, however, I heard the neighbor’s curses before I even looked outside. Peeking out via my kitchen window, I saw the mailboxes were overflowing again. When one of them caught my eye, I ducked away.
Over the following weeks, the deliveries continued, and I slowly became the sole target of the neighbors’ anger. Whenever I left my apartment, I found myself under accusing stares and subjected to endless questions.
Soon enough, it wasn’t only me who was in contact with the police. My neighbors made it no secret they thought I was responsible. Eventually, one officer confronted me.
“All right, Mr. Jackson, we need to have a talk,” he started, his voice serious. “We’re getting complaints from half the building, and everyone thinks you’ve got something to do with this.”
“Hold on, are you-?”
“I’m not saying you are, but we had a look at those postcards. No fingerprints, no known postal stamp, and no manufacturer we can trace.”
“You’re trying to say they… shouldn’t exist?”
“That, or they’re self-made. Someone could print them at home, and use a fake postal stamp. We’d still be able to catch the perpetrator, but if they, say, lived in the same building, they’d have a much easier time doing all this without being seen. They’d just have to step outside and-“
“Wait, are you suspecting me?!”
“Of course not. But if there’s something you’re not telling us, now’s the time. It will come out sooner or later.”
I opened my mouth to retort something, but then, in anger and frustration, I just hung up. Why was everyone against me? Why would they think I’d do this? How could I even… there were hundreds, thousands of those damned postcards! It makes no sense! I pounded my fist on my desk, but there was nothing I could do, absolutely nothing.
Over time, I got more complaints, and before long, people dumped the cards right in front of my apartment. Occasionally, I’d hear muffled curses and found notes taped to my door. At one point, a neighbor even slid the cards under my door. I could only watch as stupid smiley faces popped out, one after another. A giggle escaped my mouth before I screamed at them to leave me alone and tore the cards to pieces.
I even got a call from the renting company. I assured them I had nothing to do with it, and was a target as well. They listened, quietly. I’d thought this was it, and they’d terminate my lease, but they had a different idea. A few days later, a maintenance team arrived, took down the mailboxes, and reinstalled them in the building’s entry hallway.
When I woke up the next morning, I rushed outside. A group of neighbors had already gathered. Some confronted me, daring me to do it again, but others were simply staring at the mailboxes. I pushed myself through the crowd, ignoring complaints and threats.
I couldn’t believe it; there were no postcards. I laughed, then sighed with relief. God, it was finally over!
Smiling and ignoring the stares I got, I went back inside. I hadn’t even had my morning coffee yet. Quick steps led me to the kitchen. For the first time in months, the world felt normal again, and all I wanted right no was a nice, hot cup of coffee.
The moment I opened the door, relief was replaced by sheer terror. My eyes grew wide, and my heart began pounding in my chest when I saw the impossible mess in front of me. Postcards had been crammed in every nook and cranny, an uncountable number. The kitchen table sagged under their weight, the floor was blanketed with them, and all the cupboards, drawers, and shelves were overflowing. Even my tiny coffee cup had a single, folded postcard inside of it.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to make myself heard. For a second, I was about to hurl the cup through the kitchen, but then, with a shaking hand, I pulled out the card to have a look at it. On it was a postal stamp, my name and address neatly printed in fine block letters, alongside the same smiley face.
I stared at it for hours, scanning it for a hint, for meaning… something. My fingers moved to the smile face, carefully brushing over it. As I did, I felt my lips twisting into a grin of my own, a mad and erratic one.
And then I laughed. It was a shrill, endless laugh. I laughed so hard, my chest hurt and I couldn’t breathe, so hard, my legs buckled, and I collapsed admits the postcards. I laughed. Because really, what else could I do?
