Every third Sunday in April, there is always a small envelope that falls through the mail slot in my door. Usually one of the corners crinkle and squish from hitting the ground first, disfiguring the parcel in a different, yet predictable way each time. The envelopes are always yellow. There is no return address, nor is there a recipient address. It doesn’t even have my name on it anywhere. The only thing reminiscent of something that traveled through the United States Postal Service is the stamp in the top right corner. It’s always torn in half vertically right down the center and I only ever receive one of the two halves. It seems that whoever leaves these letters at my door keeps the scarred stamps because I’ll eventually receive the full stamp in the form of either half being sent year after year. It is always the left half first… then the right half the following April.
The paper of the envelopes are old. They have the particular scent of a kempt library or book store that’s been around for quite some time. The fragrance of paperback books with yellowy-brown pages and slightly curled covers… some of the parchment creased ever so slightly in an irreparable way after repeated dog-earring to hold one’s place. I haven’t been to a library in over a decade, but that smell has cemented itself in my mind among many other core memories of my youth. I take great care to ensure the books in my home are held in pristine condition even whilst in the act of reading them. They do not smell like these envelopes do.
It was the 16th of April… the day that I first received one of these letters. I was confounded at the very disposition of the envelope. It’s lacking near any identifiable markings only puzzled me further. That morning, I had not intended to check for any mail that had tumbled its way onto the floor of my entryway. Everyone knows that mail does not get delivered on Sunday. It had been nearly one hundred and thirty years since that practice was abolished and I scant believed it would be brought back for any reason. And yet I found myself groggy eyed and weary from a poor night’s rest simply walking to my kitchen to brew a pot of coffee as I do so enjoy doing. However as I lazily strode across the living room I heard a soft thud come from the front door. Obviously I had to divert course and investigate, even if the synapses in my brain cried out for caffeine. It was likely that in this pre-caffeinated state I only grew more confused and inquisitive.
Upon retrieving the first envelope of what I would now know to be many, I stabbed the corner with my letter opener. It was fashioned to look like a small ornate sword, something of Spanish design probably. It was dull of course. As I dragged the blade through the edge of the envelope, I first noticed the scent of the paper. I had to pause for a moment to recall what it reminded me of. After making the connection though, I continued on and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
That parchment, just like all that would follow, was coffee stained and lightly damaged. The edges had been roughed up, giving way to miniature cuts and creases, disheveling the paper. In clear inked typeface, the full unfurled parchment had but two sentences written upon it. They sat in the center of the page, left justified, proper capitalization and punctuation. No contractions. Seven words total.
Do not go outside today.
Thank you.
Quite frankly I was baffled. Initially I believed this to be some sort of prank, but I didn’t understand what on earth it could mean. After concluding my interaction with the strange mail piece, my gaze drifted to the window across the kitchen.
The sky was a deep gray, monotone in contrast, but ever so slightly swirling. The clouds were roiled up something vaguely fierce. One wouldn’t be able to distinguish between each cloud if it weren’t for the general sensation of motion they evoked. They did not appear to be moving when viewed, they simply were. And I knew it. Belaying that sun cover was a torrent of rain, each drop slamming hard upon the unwilling surface below. It was near impossible to differentiate between the drops from the speed at which they descended. It was not entirely impossible, however. Every drop that hit a surface created a small pop of liquid that forged the appearance of a shield to protect the impending recipients of rain. Thought that was only the appearance of a shield. The commotion in the air brought with it a thick fog, caressing everything beyond a few dozen feet in a blanket of pale heather. All things combined, it looked to be quite the dreary day. Almost in spite of the letter I had thought to myself, This is a poor morning to go outside anyway.
The season so far had been cool, and knowing I wasn’t to leave my home, I lit the fireplace and cozied in nicely upon a plush chair with my coffee and a book I had not yet completed. I used the ominous envelope and its contents as kindling to kickstart my accompanying little flame.
That was twenty years ago. As of this morning… once again April the 16th… I have received twenty more letters. I needn’t open today’s letter. I am well aware that it contains the exact string of text as was the first April and every April after that. I had started holding onto each letter after the seventh. They are kept in a small box beside the fireplace. I worry that one day I will need to get a new box to place them all in. If I hadn’t disposed of letters one through six then I might’ve already required an upgraded structure to house them. I don’t like looking at them. I gingerly had placed today’s letter — one with the left half of a new stamp — atop the other letters in their confinement before sealing it up tight for another three hundred sixty-five days.
The weather today was gorgeous. Rays of delicate warming sunlight broke through the puffy clouds that had become traipsed across the baby blue sky. The temperature was ever so warmer than usual as it had been getting as the years flew by. The foliage was bright and abundant, flowers blooming around each outcropping of grass. A nice breeze tickled the window sill in the kitchen. I would not open that window or any others. I was to follow the instructions and remain indoors for the duration of the day. There was no need to venture out, it was a Sunday after all. Work would resume the following day without any issue. But today was a day to stay inside.
Eight years ago I started marking the third Sunday of April on my calendar as a reminder to NEVER make plans for this day. I had always lied since then to any friends, family, or coworkers that asked to spend time together. A doctor’s appointment. A dentist appointment. A surgery. A veterinarian visit. I own no pets. A dog would need to be let outside. 364 days of the year it would be fine, but for this day… it would not be right. No pets. For the past few years I always did a little extra grocery shopping to ensure I would have enough food and essentials to make it through today. I began purchasing books and puzzles to occupy my time and make the day go by faster. For as much as I dread it, the third Sunday of April sort of became a miniature holiday for me and me alone. A day to look forward to and a day to never look back upon if I could help it. But sometimes I cannot help it.
Thirteen years ago was the first and only time I defied the letter. Every year before that had either had poor weather or I had no reason to leave my home. Thirteen years ago was a day much like today. Lovely weather that was just begging to be enjoyed. As had quickly become my ritual, I opened the annual letter over some breakfast coffee. It had the left half of a stamp on it. I read it aloud mockingly then tossed the instructional thing to the side of my dining table. After dressing myself to enjoy the day, I took a final look out the kitchen window at the pleasant view. Calmly, I strode toward the front door and swung it open, eager to be confronted by the warmth of the sun and a gentle breeze.
Instead, I was not greeted.
Beyond my door was… there was no beyond.
I stood just before the doorway staring out at the purest, emptiest, hollowest nothing I had ever attempted to comprehend. I had felt as though reality itself was playing a trick on me. Closing and reopening the door changed nothing but the state of how ajar the block of wood had been. I sprinted back to the kitchen, leaving the door wide open. The window still displayed the majestic day I was promised that morning. I again turned toward the front door. Empty.
The window.
Springtime.
The door.
Hollow.
The window.
Sunny days.
The door.
Nothing.
I haphazardly unlatched the window and thrust it open. That was my greatest mistake yet.
Null.
And so on the twenty-first anniversary of the third Sunday of April, I sit upon the carpeted floor or my living room with a puzzle, its pieces spread out across a thin wooden board. I do hope I can complete it before returning to work tomorrow.