The Blood-Stained Letter — Part Two

Nobody in Shalbon slept peacefully after the night Aziz Master received the envelope. By sunrise, the story had already spread across the village. People gathered outside his house in frightened silence while Aziz Master sat on the floor clutching the blood-stained letter with trembling hands. He had not slept all night. His eyes looked hollow. As if something inside him had broken. “What was written in the letter?” one villager finally asked. Aziz Master slowly looked up. His lips trembled before he whispered, “It knows my name…” A cold wave of fear passed through the crowd. Nobody asked another question. That evening, the village imam advised everyone to stay indoors after dark. Shops closed before sunset. Even the tea stalls near the market became empty long before nightfall. The entire village felt cursed. But fear alone could not stop curiosity. Aziz Master was not a superstitious man. He had spent his whole life teaching children science and logic. Ghost stories were foolish tales meant to scare weak minds. At least that was what he used to believe. Now, every time the wind touched his window, his chest tightened with fear. Still, something about Rahim’s death disturbed him deeply. It did not feel natural. That night, Aziz Master lit a lantern and walked toward the old post office near the edge of the village. The building had remained locked since Rahim’s death. Dust covered the windows. Spider webs hung from the ceiling. Inside, the smell of damp paper and mold filled the air. Aziz Master searched through piles of old records until he found Rahim’s final delivery log. Most of the pages were ruined by rainwater. Except one. One name remained clearly visible. “Receiver: Hasan Ali.” Below it was an address near the eastern bamboo forest. Aziz Master frowned. Hasan Ali had died almost ten years ago. So why was Rahim delivering a letter to a dead man? A sudden sound echoed outside the post office. Ring… Ring… Aziz Master froze instantly. The bicycle bell. Close. Very close. His heartbeat began pounding violently. Then came the sound of slow footsteps outside the building. Wet footsteps. Dragging across mud. Aziz Master blew out the lantern and hid behind a wooden shelf. The footsteps stopped directly outside the door. Silence. Then— Knock… Knock… Knock… The old wooden door shook softly. A familiar whisper floated through the darkness. “Letter delivery…” Aziz Master covered his mouth to stop himself from screaming. Under the narrow gap beneath the door, muddy water slowly began sliding inside. Along with something else. A red envelope. Fresh blood dripped from its corners. Aziz Master stared at it with wide terrified eyes. Then suddenly— The knocking stopped. The footsteps moved away. And once again— Ring… Ring… The sound faded slowly into the night. Aziz Master remained frozen for nearly an hour before finally gathering enough courage to touch the envelope. His fingers shook violently. On the front, written in dark red ink, were three words: “Do not follow him.” Inside the envelope was something even stranger. An old black-and-white photograph. The picture showed Rahim standing beside his bicycle many years ago. But he was not alone. Beside him stood a tall man wearing a long dark coat. The man’s face had been scratched out completely. At the bottom of the photograph, faded handwriting read: “The dead also receive letters.” The next morning, Aziz Master visited the oldest man in the village. Anwar Chacha. People said he knew stories older than the village itself. When Aziz Master showed him the photograph, the old man’s face turned pale instantly. “You should burn this,” Anwar whispered. “Who is that man?” Aziz Master asked. Anwar looked toward the empty road outside before answering quietly. “Many years ago, before Rahim became the village postman, another man carried letters here.” “The villagers called him The Messenger.” Aziz Master felt cold sweat forming on his neck. “They say he delivered letters meant for the dead,” Anwar continued. “Whenever someone received his final letter… death followed soon after.” “But what happened to him?” Aziz Master asked. Anwar’s hands trembled. “No one knows. One night he disappeared near the bamboo forest. But after that… strange things started happening in the village.” Before Aziz Master could ask more questions— A bicycle bell rang outside the house. Ring… Ring… Both men went silent instantly. The sound came from directly outside the window. Slowly… Aziz Master turned his head toward the curtain. At first, he saw only fog. Then a figure emerged. A man standing beside a black bicycle. Rainwater dripped from his clothes. His face hidden beneath darkness. And in his pale dead hand— Another envelope. The figure slowly raised one arm and pointed directly at Aziz Master. Then the whisper came again. “Your final delivery…” The lantern inside the room suddenly went out. Darkness swallowed everything. And outside— The bicycle bell rang one last time. Ring…