On the dead-end stretch of Hemlock Circle, the lawns were manicured, the dogs were quiet, and the mailboxes were all sealed with holy water and zip ties.

Because of Harold. The mailman.

He came every day at 3:33 PM, sharp as a butcher’s knife. His shorts were ironed to a weaponized point. His satchel bulged with doom. The moment his squeaky postal truck turned the corner, blinds dropped.

Children were yanked inside. One time little Kenny Dobbins waved at Harold and hasn’t spoken a coherent sentence since—just whispers about “letters that breathe.”

No one really remembered when the fear started. Mrs. Cranberry said it was after the Thompsons received a mysterious envelope that only said, “Soon.” They moved to Portugal the next day. Left their dinner still hot on the table. Roast beef and mashed potatoes. Harold took it home in a Tupperware.

Sometimes the envelopes screamed. One Tuesday, the Jenkinses got a package that was still bleeding. No return address. Just a handwritten note that said, “Enjoy.”

Mr. Jenkins took up smoking again. Mrs. Jenkins took up taxidermy. Their cat disappeared and returned four days later with a bow tie and a vague air of menace.

Harold never spoke. He just nodded—once. Slowly. Like a guillotine in thought.

People tried everything. Salt circles. Ritual chants. But Harold always found a way. His footsteps left small burn marks on the concrete. His breath fogged windows even in July. The one time they asked the postal service to replace him, the phone line began bleeding static, and the complaint letter came back stapled to a dead crow.

Still, mail had to be delivered.

On Halloween, a brave soul left out candy for Harold. He paused. Took a mini Twix. Whispered, “You have three days.”

No one knew what that meant. But they moved. Everyone moved.

Except for Harold.

He still delivers.

Hemlock Circle is empty now. Every mailbox still rattles with letters no one will ever read.

And somewhere, under the streetlight, Harold smiles.

The End