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Receiving a Threatening Letter

by Twyla about a month ago in Short Story
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The page I’m staring at is blank. Turning it over, I found it read:

Receiving a Threatening Letter
Photo by Dim Hou on Unsplash

Living alone isn’t always ideal. Some nights on edge. Paranoid over all the little creaks, I hear. I chalk it up to where I live—a small town by a big city, where all the low lives go to buy drugs, find prostitutes, and whatever else they want to get their hands on. This place is full of lies and secrets from the families in the big city.

I can’t afford much. So here I am, stuck with the shadiest people who travel from the big city. I live in a small two-story apartment complex that houses fifty tenants. My apartment is bright white walls, grey cabinets, and flooring. When you walk into the kitchen, the living and dining rooms are plain, with nothing on the walls. The two doors off to the right; one is my room and then, of course, the restroom. There’s a liquor store downstairs and to the left of the building, where I currently work. I always wanted to be a writer, but my fears have taken over. I gave up before I ever started.

I looked down at my old flip phone just as my alarm went off, telling me it was time for work, grabbing my worn-out coat as I head out to the elevator. I round the corner, bumping into a man wearing a long black trench coat. Shoot, I’m so clumsy.

“Sorry!”

The man looks at me and continues to walk. Guess it’s not that big of a deal. I shrug it off and continue to work.

The liquor store is slow tonight, so my partner left early, leaving me alone. I hate being alone; I always feel like something is bound to happen. Or maybe it’s just my paranoia. I need to get a hold of myself. I stock the shelves and order inventory for the rest of the night. No one came in tonight, but I got paid. Easy money. I’ll take it. As the time hit eleven p.m. I clock out, locking up the store.

The street lights are on, and the roads are empty. I love when it’s late out. The quiet makes me feel like I’m anywhere else other than here. The homeless are sleeping on the streets, causing the smell of pee and trash. I always picture myself somewhere on my short walks home.

As I returned to my apartment, a white envelope was sitting on my welcome mat. I picked it up as I headed inside, hanging up my coat, and locking my door behind me. I sit on my couch, kicking off my work shoes, and throwing up my feet. Tonight was slow at work, but I am exhausted.

The envelope is blank, with no handwriting or addressed to anyone specific. Should I even open it? I shrugged my shoulders to myself and thought, Eh, why not? I tore open the corner, pulling out a note. It looks as if someone crumpled it up, tried to uncrumple it, wrote the letter, and shoved it back inside.

The page I’m staring at is blank. Turning it over, I found it read:

“When the clock strikes three, he’ll be looking for thee. “Who?” You ask. Well, the man in the black mask."

My anxiety shot through the roof. Was this some sick joke? Should I report it? I don’t think it’s serious, right? I went to my bathroom, opened my medicine cabinet, taking some of my anxiety meds. I need to relax. This has to be a joke. No one does something like this, only in horror movies.

I threw my clothes onto the floor, throwing on an oversized white t-shirt. It’s been a long day, and I’m ready to lie down my head. After tossing and turning for an hour, a bang sounded from inside my apartment; squinting my eyes; my alarm read three a.m.

Short Story

About the author

Twyla

Blogger | Creative Writer | Currently writing two novels | Single mom of one handsome son | Full time employee | Full time college student | Love writing horror and fantasy | I write for myself and share with you guys! Hope you enjoy. 🖤

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