Young Writers Society

A Makeshift Calamity

By: Jacob C.

Sometime within the ninety sixth year of the nineteenth century, a cold breeze stumbled gracelessly into the English suburb. Whosoever found this cold day enjoyable could have rightfully been placed in the valley's sanatorium. The dark brick houses seemed like bomb shelters, bearing miserably through the hardships of the bitter, stinging wind. The sun was balancing on the horizon, giving a very relaxed and dark appearance to the other half of the town.

Fortunately for the house marked 7673 at the utmost extent of the Gorgyle suburb, a cheerful and audacious little crowd of about fifteen men and women sat comfortable around a marble fireplace.

"Francis you fool...I told you my wife was married to my father's son! You dimwit, that's me! She is married to me!"

The group exploded into an uproarious laughter and took long gulps from their champaign glasses.

"What's even funnier, is that I don't even have a brother!"

A few guests sprayed their drinks onto the floor in a fit of giggles and laughs.

Dan T. realized the dry and unintelligible humor that the guests he had invited over were accustomed with. He sat casually back in his rocking chair and smiled while he stared lazily into the inferno within the fireplace. It occurred to Dan that these "friends" hardly shared his same thirst for knowledge that he did. Dan did not care who did what on whatever day, he didn't care about some rugby team winning the championship, he didn't care about anything these people were speaking of. He wasn't afraid to admit it: he was a pompous jerk, only forced to invite idiots over because of his managership at the office that required him to have monthly outings.

Dan's smiled faded like pavement chalk to a water hose throughout the night; but his guest's smiles only grew.

"Oh, Dan, you will not believe the game of golf I played yesterday..."

"Dan," interrupted Henry Waswurth "don't listen to this cheat and his rigged scorecards-"

"Scorecards! I think I got you scorecards for your birthday, Dan," blurted Humphrey ,"What happened to that game we were gonna' play..."

"Ha ha, I think Dan owes us all a good game of golf..."

Dan sat rigid in his chair, not risking the breath to reply to one of his coworkers. He was tired of smalltalk, of chit chat and little quarrels. He needed to discuss revolutionary ideas, great tales, and the madness of politics.

From the suppressed anger emerged a question to match all other comments being hurtled at him:

"What do you think of death." he asked with dignified authority and a slight scowl on his face.

One by one, every man and woman ceased their ramblings and sat in awe.

The first man to comment was a lean, yet gruff gentleman who remarked solemnly "Dan, why would you want to speak of death?"

Dan rocked awkwardly back and forth in his chair with pursed lips. "You understand," said Dan "That there must be something beyond life...death. You must think of death, don't you?"

"Frankly," added Henry "I don't. Why think of death when there is so much life to live."

"Life is just the beginning of a long journey." said Dan, still awkwardly.

No one responded. They all merely sat with eyes wide open.

Dan stood up on the creaking wooden floor and maneuvered himself into the kitchen, returning with the desert: a chocolate lava cake. The rest of the night persisted in a slightly dampened mood; no one bothered to speak directly to Dan, and eventually, by way of looking at their watches and making excuses, the party met it's conclusion and all people abandoned the festivities.

By this time, the sun had fallen beneath the horizon, leaving the dark to handle the night watch. Trees shimmered in the breeze and in the insufficient warmth of the street lamps, the leaves billowed.

Dan, who was resting upon his fabric sofa, grasped the hair hanging down his face and pulled it nearly out of it's scalp. His frustration was soon heightened with the fact that, in his pitiful state, he had forgotten to retrieve the mail from the community mail box. He leaped from the couch and smashed his foot into the coffee table. It angered him even more that he was so angry at such a little thing, and, of coarse, that he had severely bruised his foot.

Grabbing his coat, Dan took out into the sadistic wind, trying his best to block it with his long jacket collar. Huddled over, like the Grim Reaper, he strode elegantly across the street and around the corner. He peered sharply into the cruel night, daring to go forth, attempting no fear.

The community mailbox was nailed next to a brick wall, with bushes placed evenly along it's two sides. Dan's sweaty palms shook with a hint of anxiety while he fumbled with his keys to open his small mailbox slot. After scratching the mailbox several times, Dan jammed the key into the keyhole.

His hand bustled within the box and he grabbed out a thin envelope with which he jammed into his coat. Like a gun was fired, Dan sped off back to his home, failing to have the strength to glare behind him to check that nothing was following him.

Collapsing down to his couch, Dan removed his coat and closed his eyes. He was not quite sure why the mailbox gave him adrenaline. Something about what COULD happen was just too much of a fear that he couldn't handle.

He glanced at the envelope and realized the address it was sent to:

2343 W. 32nd lane, Minnesota.

On the front, it was written:

Mr. Walter O'dell McCrublin, phd.

"Hum" he said with the least amount of curiosity and he tossed the letter on his coffee table, cluttered with dirty dishes from the party. Indeed Dan was not the slightest bit inquisitive, if anything, he was annoyed. He realized that this letter, to somebody else across the Atlantic Ocean, would mean his requiring to go down to the post office, return the letter, and get his normal mailing system checked.

Dan didn't think his night could get any better, so he set off to bed and prepared for sleep.

Upon the dawn of the next morning, the paper boy arrived late to the Gorgyle neighborhood. Because of Dan's crave for current events, he ran out onto the lawn and caught the paper precisely when it was thrown to him.

"Good Morning, sir!" Yelled the child on his bike while he passed Dan.

"Mmmm" mumbled Dan, mesmerized in the cover page of the paper.

His finger passed carefully of the contents of the news:

-Missing Portuguese tourist(pg.3a)

-Penrose to a local Chinese man(pg.7c)

-Chandler Rivals(pg.12a)

- Famous US Businessman, O'dell McCrublin, Dies from Brain

Hemorrhage(pg. 19d)

-Hikers find missing gold shaft(pg.13e)

-Book franchise files bankruptcy(pg.19c)

Dan stopped, looked up. Something happened, something difficult to realize.

He glanced back down to the paper and his eyes bulged like suns in an autumn afternoon.

O'dell McCrublin...

He tossed the papers into the wind and darted toward the house.

He recklessly ran around the living room, nocking every plate and cup onto the floor in search of-

The letter.

With his hands shaking in a spasm, Dan's eyes read dreadfully over the letter with the name Mr. Walter O'dell McCrublin, phd. inscribed on the cover.

"Wait...this can't be the same person who died today..." stuttered Dan, then, crumbling the letter in his hand he ran onto the lawn and toppled on the grass, trying to find the state of which the man lived in the newspaper. But it was too late, the wind had already consumed it, and his neighbors had already taken their newspapers into their houses.

"O'dell" muttered Dan.

He walked back into the house.

Dan decided not to return the letter to the post office, or to report the incident to them. Dan thought it best to open the letter.

He certainly was disappointed. After hours of contemplating the morals of intruding the privacy of others, the only thing he found inside the envelope was a bill from the chiropractor.

Once again, later that evening, Dan's curiosity led him to the mailbox. Like a gray casket, resting upright to be opened, the mailbox loomed before Dan's pale face. Key shaking in hand, the box was opened and four letters, all of the same shape, were removed and their faces were immediately read:

-To Gregory Spindle

-To Maurice Seever

-To Percius Fragedent

-To Tyler Behl

"Oh, great heavens..." cried Dan, leaning back to the wall.

***

He returned slowly to his house, tearing open each letter, all of which were checks or bills. He had not the slightest clue of what to do with this information. This information to know of some people who were going to die the next day. Or were they going to die the next day? Was this merely a coincidence?

The next day, Dan found out if it was a coincidence.

In the crisp newspaper of the monday morning, with the dampness of the dew still lingering on its back, Dan skipped all the way to the obituary section and not one of the names in the letters appeared in the local area. But when Dan looked to the back and saw FAMOUS RECENT DEATHS, his heart tumbled down a rocky pit. Out of seven names, Dan recognized four: Gregory Spindle, Maurice Seever, Percius Fragedent, and Tyler Behl. Automatically he read the cause of their deaths. All four were separate bank owners, and all four were killed in the same boating accident on the American Lake Havasu.

Dan nearly broke into tears, he dropped the paper on the green grass and ran straight across the neighborhood.

***

Markus Yun, a Chinese man, stared awkwardly at Dan T., who was shivering in a robe at his doorstep.

"Uhh, hey there, boss." Markus said in a questionable tone.

"Markus, may I come in." said Dan briefly.

Markus stepped back to let his boss enter the house.

"Mark. I, uh...I am having a problem." Dan said, sitting in a stool at the counter.

Dan was oblivious to Mark's family eating breakfast at the dining table near to the counter.

"OK. Um, what's wrong." Markus said in monotone while he looked at his wife and kids who stared back at him questionably.

Dan was slumped over the counter like a landslide and told Mark "I haven't been getting my mail lately, I've been getting others mail..."

"Well, that isn't anything to get upset about-"

"No, Mark....They all die."

"Who?"

"The people the letters are sent to, the next day, they die."

Markus stood awkwardly for a few seconds and Dan turned around to look at him, expecting a comment, when he saw Mark's family at the table.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry Mark, I'll leave, I don't want to disturb your family-"

"No, it's OK. We'll talk outside..." He looked darkly at his family and led Dan outside to speak.

"What do you mean, Dan." Said Markus with crossed arms, leaning against the doorway.

"The night of the party," said Dan in a paranoid tone "I retrieved the mail. It was addressed to someone else. The next day I find in the newspaper that this man died early in the morning."

"Well that could easily be coincidental."

"I know. But that same day I got four new letters each addressed to different people. The next day, I find out they all die in the same boating accident."

"So you mean to say, that you are given the power to see who will die the next day?"

"Yes!" cried out Dan like a lunatic.

"No, It must not work like that. Millions of people die each day, you don't get all of them." said Markus, trying to refute the hypothesis he had just given Dan.

"Yes, but so far the people of the letters who have died were all significantly important people, or maybe they all died in an important way."

A voice chimed from in the house "Honey, your breakfast is getting cold."

"Listen, Dan, I've got to go, but I wouldn't worry about this too much. There must be a logical explanation. Just go down to the post office and get this sorted out."

Dan gazed disappointedly to the ground.

"By the way," said Markus turning around before he closed the door, "I will be on vacation tomorrow and the rest of the week in in Washington DC. I'm afraid I won't be here if you need anything. Sorry. But don't worry about this. It'll all be fine."

He closed the door.

Inside the house, Markus's wife was flipping pancakes and asked him "What was your boss doing here, didn't you say he wasn't friendly?"

"Yah," he replied, "This is just one of his selfish problems. Looks like he's finally going crazy. Serves him right."

Dan slumped back to his house in a lonely state, but stopped exactly at the mailbox and decided to wait for the mailman to arrive. He sat against the wall and fell to sleep in his morning robe.

When he awoke, the sun was already far to the west and thick clouds were forming in the north. Figuring the mail had already arrived, he took the key from his robe pocket (for he now always had it on him) and opened up the mailbox. Once again, one letter, addressed to someone else, was found inside Dan's hand. The address read:

4559 S. 6th Street, Ireland

The front said:

Ms. Hellen Finnegan

Just by looking at the name, Dan had become attached with this random person. He knew she would die soon; and he had the power to stop it.

"Yes, directory, please." said Dan politely on his new telephone.

"4559 S. 6th Street, Ireland" He replied to a question.

"Thank you." He said once more.

"Hello?" Dan heard through the static of the telephone.

"Um, yes, hello. Is this Ms. Finnegan?"

"Yes." she replied inquisitively.

"I just...I..." Dan stopped, he couldn't get the words into his mouth.

"Hello?" She asked to see if he was still on the line.

"Ma'am, I need to...tell you, that...I have reason to believe you will die early tomorrow morning."

No response.

"Ma'am?" asked Dan.

There was sobbing on the other line.

"How could you say that...practical jokes have met their limit. You call me one more time and I am contacting the police!"

The phone went dead.

The next morning, Hellen Finnegan was found dead in the wreckage caused by a small tornado in Ireland.

Dan only found this in the newspaper because Hellen Finnegan was one of the only woman ranch owners in Ireland.

I could have saved her, thought Dan.

He fell to the wet grass of his lawn and cried himself to sleep.

Dan looked a wreck. His hair was scraggly, his robe was stained, he had a slight stubble on his face. He was nothing like the proper Englishman he once was.

After an hour on the grass, he decidedly picked himself up and fell to a painless sleep on his tough bed.

It was noon of the next day. Dan rose to his feet, dressed himself, and loaded his belly with fresh coffee. As of his custom, Dan strode upon the lawn, picked up the newspaper, and glanced down with a foreboding glance.

Dan read:

TSUNAMI IN JAPAN KILLS THOUSANDS

Dan's jaw tightened as he remembered: I never picked up the mail yesterday.

His feet couldn't carry him as fast as his brain was carrying his thoughts as he blasted through the wind, straight to the dark, domineering mailbox that seemed to be larger and more full of shadows than ever before. The keys shot straight into the key slot, but, as if Dan's fears were only imagination, nothing was in the box...except-

Except a small, warm, bronze key.

He knew what this key went to; it was the key to the much larger, square box at the bottom of the rows of individual mailbox slots. This box was for packages that couldn't fit in the conventional slots.

Dan opened the large box and felt the mountain of letters topple onto his feet and rumble to the pavement. It seemed as if it was an interminable flow of checks and bills and notes, all embracing the life of Dan T.

Dan screamed and screamed and yelled and cried. Death was scattered beneath his knees like the basket of heads before the next victim to the guillotine. He fell to the pile, feeling his tears soak the thin paper; the paper that all had the names of Japanese men and women scrolled upon the covers.

***

The days rose and fell like the endless Penrose steps. The letters came, and the lives went. It was a process, so routine to Dan. He tried to contact some of the poor "inevitables", or so he called them, but it was in vain. No one would challenge his warnings with reality.

He rarely attended work; he lost all motivation. Nothing seemed to matter. He couldn't help anyone; it was a maddening curse with no cure.

The september sun splattered itself across the sky during it's prolonged death, and Dan, like a pig slaughterer, reluctantly embraced the mail, even though he so despised doing so.

The key turned, with a life of the dead; the slot opened with the grace of the lost, and Dan's hand groped for the letter with the dullness of a gravestone. Upon the letter was inscribed:

Mr. Dan T.

Into his mind entered the bountiful flow of cradled thoughts, hidden from reality, truth, and despair. Those thoughts danced with joy at the possible return of normality; the end of the foreshadowing letters telling who is to die.

Then the other thoughts emerged, the thoughts that realized...he could be the next one. The next one to die.

Dan stepped back slowly, and suddenly realized that darkness that now surrounded him. The darkness that was always there.

A freezing mist billowed into his coat collar and wrapped like a python around his neck. With sudden haste, his legs threw in front of him step by step. Eventually this walk evolved to a run. Something was following him.

He contained too much fear to ask himself what it was. Dan knew that what ever it might have been, it didn't mean good.

A warm, humid fog soaked into Dan's dry skin. Soon, the fog had so encompassed the street, that he could hardly tell how to return to his home. Panic tighten its hold on his throat, extracting his ability to yell for help. Every way he looked was a dead end, every hope he had was a lost cause, every fear he created was a fear to be true. Painful tears seared down Dan's nose.

Running became more than an escape, it was his only way to survive. There was no way to know which way he was running. A hole in the fog beckoned him forth to a muddy patch of the cobble sidewalk. On that ground, Dan found, and picked up a bronze doorknob, withered away by the harsh weather.

His face transformed from a look of terror to a sharp scowl. Bearing down upon the sullen, broken off, pitiful doorknob, Dan saw only one thing. And this was what he truly feared.

Dan unfurled his pocket watch and collapsed to the road. It was 12:00, when only five minutes ago, the sun had set. The last sunset Dan would ever see.

***

The morning bore through the fog. Just one man stepped onto his lawn early enough to take the first sight of Dan T. sprawled onto the road, clutching a pocket watch and a doorknob in his hands. The man ran out to the lifeless, restless body and tried to find a nonexistent pulse. He then pulled out the doorknob from the loose grip of Dan's hand, only to be horrified at the subtle imprint of a hideous face, as if it were drawn onto the bronze with a dull blade.

It was the hideous reflection of Dan T.