The Guilty Letters

It was the third Friday of the month when she received not a letter, but a note in the post. It wasn’t all fluttering from the slit in the door and it wasn’t in any kind of envelope. It was just a folded piece of paper that lay gently upon a pile of bills. It wasn’t addressed to anyone and so, living alone, she assumed it was for her and unfolded it. It read one, simple line: I know what you did. There was no sender, no ‘from’ and certainly no ‘yours truly’. She had no idea what this note meant or where it had come from, but she did know that she was already late for her shift at the bank that morning due to staring intently at the note in her hand for almost twenty minutes.

She had lived alone in that house for about a year without any issues. The electricity worked almost all the time and the only water problem was when the boiler went out and needed emergency servicing. Otherwise, life was normal and by normal, that meant quiet. There were no pets, no men, no friends over (though she had a few close ones in her social circle, she’d never invite them home). Her house was her sanctuary for things she liked to do. On a Sunday, she would check on her mother and then rearrange the furniture in her living room again, like she had done the week before and the week before that and every week ever since…

But this week was different. This week she didn’t check on her mother and nor did she rearrange the furniture in her living room. Instead, on the third Sunday of the month, she received yet another note. She found it under a pile of letters she had from the day before. She must have missed it as she again, was running late. It read simply this: I know what you have done. She stared and stared, but she could not find anything worth noting about the identity of the individual who may have written this. The handwriting was a cursive almost romantic style and the pen was a thick black fountain ink, similar to the one she would use at the bank when getting people to sign contracts or papers of the sort. Her face tightened and scrunched slightly in a look of disgust and confusion at the same time. She had no idea what this person was talking about and, according to her anyway, she had not done anything at all.

Monday came around and there was another note at the door by the time she had dressed for work. This time though, there were no letters. It was just the note. It was neatly folded and left at the bottom of the door just like its predecessors. This time, the note simply read: When will you admit to it? She felt a chill come over her as if someone had only recently been outside her door. She swung it open so it banged against the wall and ran out on to the porch. Turning up and down the street filled with houses, cars pulling out with people on the way to work, housewives tending to front gardens and children running up the road to catch the morning bus to school - there was no sign of any unfamiliarity. She walked back over to the door and closed it. With a deep sigh, wearing the same look of confusion, she made her way to work.

She thought she could have dealt with this by herself if the notes did not follow her to the bank. On the Tuesday that followed, she found a folded up sheet of parchment on her desk at work and took a deep inhale of breath before sitting down to open it. Admit it - you will feel better. She rubbed her eyes and stretched her hands over her face in such a tired way that another teller came to ask her if she was alright. She nodded and stated that she was exhausted from work and, the moment 5pm came around, she made sure she was already on her way out and back home. No notes had come whilst she had been out. She let out a sigh of relief followed by a strange feeling that whoever was sending the notes now knew where she was and when she was out of her house. A slightly unsettling feeling, she thought she would get up earlier in order to catch whoever was leaving these things at her door the next morning. Frightened - she slept on her sofa with her living room door firmly locked.

She woke on the Wednesday morning an hour before she normally did with the want to catch the note-ghost. She thought it was an impossible task as she made her way to the door and the note was already there. This can’t be possible, she thought. It normally comes with the mail, doesn’t it? She ran towards the front door and grabbed the note from the ‘welcome’ mat. I know where it is. Where what is? She thought to herself as she read the newest ominous note. She had not a clue what any of this meant, but she had kept all of the notes and was now about to go to the police with them. She called in sick to work that day and drove up to the station with a feeling of deep terror swelling inside of her. If there was anyone who could do something about this then it would have to be the local police.

They told her they could do a stake-out outside her house during the night to see if there were any unwanted visitors approaching her house or leaving her mail. She stated that she did not know why she had never heard the mail slit opening and closing as was custom when the letters were dropped from the postman - the only explanation being that she would have been asleep at the time. The police agreed that the stake-out was the best possible option and that they would do it in an unmarked car, in plain clothes and would be spread out on her street and the street afterwards. Some had even agreed to park outside of the bank just in case the perpetrator turned up there.

That night, she went to bed less worried and agreed to herself that her bedroom was the best place to sleep. The notes were handed over to the police and there was nothing more she could do. She put down her notepad after writing down all the things she needed to remember for work the next day and put her pencil case back into her handbag. After a cup of tea and making sure the front door was locked, she slipped a small razor blade into her mail slot so that whoever was dropping the notes was sure to get a nasty surprise. She knew she could get it out before the postman arrived, but the police were going to stop and check him anyway. She turned in for what she thought was going to be a safe sleep.

She received a phone call the next morning from the police who were sat outside her house. As she brushed her hair, she listened to what they had to say over the phone. The phrase ‘nobody’ sprung up many times. “There was simply nobody here.” Every single officer had video evidence relating to the fact that not a single person came to her door or put anything in her mail slot. She went to remove the razor blade from the door when she fell pale. A note, sitting on the floor on that very same parchment and in that very same pen, was folded neatly on the ‘welcome’ mat. She slid the razor blade out from the door and picked up the note. It’s almost the end of the week. She ran outside to the police officers who were still parked outside her house and waved the note around stating that they must have been mistaken. The officers looked at each other and then back at her. “No mistake, madam.” One said. “There was definitely nobody here and we have videos to prove it.”

They left with the newest note saying that they would look into it further to see if anyone had broken into her house and was possibly squatting inside. They would send official detectives to investigate the space in her attic, known for its moisture and crookedness - it made the perfect hiding spot for any villain looking to play tricks and scare a woman senseless.

By Friday it was all over. The detectives had been and gone and scoured the house for any sign of anyone else who had been there or was still there. There was nobody to be seen. There was no evidence that there had ever been anyone else there apart from her. On the Friday morning though, there was yet another note. Are you seeing your mother on Sunday? Yes, on Sunday, she went to see her mother and then rearranged the furniture in her living room. Just like she had done in previous weeks.

One of the detectives phoned her about taking photographs of her house so that if there was anyone around, they could use the photographs as a reference point. She agreed and handed the detective the note she had received that morning along with providing access to each room in her home. The detective took the note, the photographs and then fingerprinted the woman, all as reference points he told her, all as reference points. She didn’t know what ‘reference points’ meant but she was sure he knew what he was doing.

Then Sunday came.

It was the afternoon when the police arrived at her front door. She was shocked to say the least, but even worse so, when they went into the living room, the furniture had been rearranged and looked nothing like the photographs. “I thought you were going to see your mother…” said the detective showing her the note he had collected. Apparently, the fact this person knew what she was doing on Sunday had scared her so much that she demanded answers. Her living room sat next to a screen door which overlooked her beautiful garden. Compost had been recently tossed and flowers smelt divine. Meanwhile, the police officers indoors asked to look through her handbag - the one she would take to work every other day of the week. Inside this handbag was an old parchment notepad and a bank-style fountain pen.

The police went back towards the living room and asked her why the rearranging of the furniture was an important weekly ritual. She stated that it made her living space seem new and inviting each time though there was no actual new furniture in it. “Your mother apparently lives two towns over, it would take you a while to get there and back. How are you already back?” It was only 3pm and she had no answer. She shrugged and said nothing. “I’ll do you one even better.” The same officer spoke, smiling a weird smile that meant he already knew the answers to the questions he was asking so there was no point in lying to him. “Your mother has been dead for just over a year. Who are you seeing every Sunday?” The whole thing was about to come crashing down when she let out a sigh and told them they must have her confused with someone else.

That would have been a great deceit, if it were not for the fingerprints.

The officer held up the fingerprints he had the detective take along with the note. He continued with the same snarky smile on his face which meant not only did he know the answers to the questions he asked, but he had known for a long, long while.

“They were on the notes. You were sending them to yourself…” But this wasn't a question. He just stated a fact he knew to be perfectly true.

It was already over long before it had begun. She wondered about how long anyone had known about this. She walked over to the screen door and unlocked it calmly, knowing that admitting it would actually bring her some sort of relief. She handed the officer her newest and shiniest shovel, pointed to her back garden and told him to dig up the freshly tossed compost.