The Blood-Stained Letter

There was a village so forgotten by time that even the modern world seemed afraid to touch it.

No electric streetlights.

No internet towers.

No noise except the whisper of the wind passing through bamboo trees.

The villagers of Shalbon still waited for letters instead of phone calls.

And every afternoon, an old postman named Rahim rode through the muddy village roads on his rusted black bicycle.

Ring… Ring…

The sound of his bicycle bell echoed through the quiet village like a familiar song.

Children ran after him laughing.

Old men waved from tea stalls.

Women waited near their doors, hoping for letters from sons working far away in the city.

Rahim never missed a house.

Even during storms.

Even during floods.

People used to say the old man cared more about delivering letters than his own life.

Then one night, the storm came.

The sky growled with thunder.

Rain hammered the earth like stones.

The village roads disappeared beneath thick mud.

But Rahim still left the post office after sunset.

“There’s one last letter,” he told the shopkeeper nearby.

“It must reach tonight.”

That was the last time anyone saw him alive.

The next morning, villagers found his body beside the old banyan tree near the eastern road.

His bicycle lay twisted in the mud.

His leather bag was torn open.

Letters soaked in rainwater were scattered everywhere like dead birds.

But something felt wrong.

Rahim’s eyes were wide open.

Frozen in terror.

As if he had seen something horrifying moments before his death.

After the funeral, strange things began happening in Shalbon.

At first, it was only rumors.

People claimed they heard a bicycle bell late at night.

Ring… Ring…

Slow.

Distant.

Coming from the empty roads outside their homes.

Most villagers ignored it.

Until the knocking started.

Every night, exactly at midnight—

Knock… Knock… Knock…

Someone would knock on a random door.

Not loudly.

Just three slow knocks.

Then a voice would whisper from outside:

“Letter delivery…”

The first person who opened the door was an old widow named Hamida.

The next morning, neighbors found her dead beside the doorway.

Her face was pale.

Her eyes frozen wide in terror.

And beside her body lay an old envelope covered in fresh blood.

No one knew where it came from.

On the front of the envelope, written in shaking red ink, were four words:

“Recipient already belongs to death.”

Fear spread through the village like disease.

After sunset, roads became empty.

Tea stalls closed early.

No one answered doors at night anymore.

But the bell kept ringing.

Ring… Ring…

Sometimes near the bamboo forest.

Sometimes beside the river.

Sometimes directly outside people’s windows.

Then, three nights later…

Someone saw him.

Karim, the village butcher, was returning home late when he noticed a figure standing at the far end of the foggy road.

A man beside a bicycle.

Motionless.

Rainwater dripped from his body.

Karim called out nervously,

“Who’s there?”

The figure slowly lifted its head.

Karim dropped his lantern instantly.

Because the man had no face.

Only darkness beneath the old postman’s cap.

And inside that darkness—

Two glowing white eyes.

The bicycle bell rang once.

Ring…

Then the figure began moving toward him.

Slowly.

Dragging the bicycle through the mud.

Karim ran without looking back.

The next morning, villagers found deep bicycle tire marks outside Karim’s house.

And hanging from his door—

A blood-stained envelope with his name written on it.

That same night, schoolteacher Aziz Master locked every door and window in his house.

He told himself ghost stories were nonsense.

But deep inside…

He was terrified.

Around midnight, the village became unnaturally silent.

No crickets.

No dogs.

No wind.

Then suddenly—

Ring… Ring…

The sound came from outside his house.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Aziz Master slowly walked toward the window.

And through the thick white fog—

He saw a man standing beside a black bicycle under the dead mango tree.

Waiting.

Then—

Knock… Knock… Knock…

A voice whispered from outside the door:

“Letter delivery…”

Aziz Master stopped breathing.

And beneath the door…

A blood-soaked envelope slowly slid into the room.

End of Part One

To be continued…