Man Riddled with Arrows

Today, unceremoniously slumped over your mailbox, is a dead man riddled with arrows. You feel vaguely perturbed, but frankly given the strange happenings around town of late, you cannot seem to bring yourself to feel genuine surprise.

Instead, you resign yourself to donning a pair of kitchen gloves and your least favourite apron, and gingerly heaving the dead man off your mailbox. You cannot help but note the odd choice of weaponry, especially since many of them prod against your ribs as you lay the man face down on the concrete.

Supposing you ought to notify the Sheriff’s Secret Police, you say out loud, “Well, damn, looks like there’s a dead man riddled with arrows next to my mailbox!” and head back inside.

You attempt to busy yourself with the household chores (you have a gremlin infestation that has been getting on your nerves), but peek out of your window every few minutes to see if the dead man has been moved. He hadn't.

By midday, you start to wonder if the Sheriff's Secret Police had missed your verbal memo after all. So, just in case, you open your window and yell, "DEAD MAN. MY MAILBOX. ARROWS.". You also add your address for good measure. You feel slightly bad for disturbing the quiet outside, so you shout an apology for that before closing your window and returning to your chores.

At three fifty in the afternoon, the dead man is where you left him, and the sun begins to set. It sets early, with a loud and slow screech. It sets you on edge, unsettles you, but you suppose you can live with it. It acts as a good alarm, anyway. You make a cup of tea, unsweetened, and leave it on your porch. Then, you make a cup of coffee for yourself, and settle down on the window seat.

The man in a tan jacket is standing at your door. You can see him through the curtains. He is wearing his red tie, and carrying his deer skin case.

You sip your coffee. You feel like you know the man very well, and recently, you have begun to believe the man knows you very well too. Still, he does not drink the cup of tea you left out for him.

He stands on your porch. Does not move.

It is as though nothing has changed since the day he left his deerskin case behind, and that makes you feel a little sad.

That train of thought derails as the man moves. He puts his deerskin case on your parquet porch, opens it a crack and extracts a small, red envelope. He slots it through the dog flap you do not have, picks up the cup of unsweetened tea and his deerskin case, and is no longer on your porch.

You lift the curtains slightly, to check if the man had left anything behind, and are slightly disappointed as you note the porch is empty. With a sigh, you also note that the Sheriff's Secret Police seem to have classified the dead man on next to your mailbox as none-of-our-business.

As though a gremlin infestation was not trouble enough.

Finishing your cup of coffee, you pick up the envelope sitting on your carpet. It is empty.

Deciding you could handle no more disappointment that day, you go to bed.

It is seven past ten when you sit up, having just realised the empty envelope might have been a reminder for the contents of the first envelope.

"IMMORTAL MAN." Said the memo in the first red envelope.

You look out the window at the dead man riddled with arrows lying next to your mailbox.

He looks slightly like a porcupine in the streetlights. You like porcupines.

You sigh as you slip out of bed.

[A/N: Written some time ago based off a prompt I chanced upon on reddit. "Today, unceremoniously slumped over your mailbox, there is a dead man riddled with arrows." At some point this became a continuation of Man in a Tan Jacket, and also became more or less a full fledged Nightvale fic of some sort. I don't know how it happened, I didn't mean for either to happen when I took on the prompt. But Nightvale is awesome, 11/10 recommend.]