Self-explanatory title; I'm an amateur horror writer, and I'm looking to get some advice regarding locating editors.
Specifically, I'd like to know where I can contact an editor to edit my VERY short (~1000 words) story, 'Bedridden'. Any advice on this front would be greatly appreciated 🫶
*Tick. Tick. Tick.*
​
The small red alarm clock which sat on the bedside table of eleven-year-old Roger McLorri filled his silent, dark room with a regular, grounding heartbeat. Red. *The clock was red.* Roger told himself, repeatedly, his eyes never daring to scan the empty space in which the table sat, for what was waiting there, watching him stir, told him he mustn’t.
​
*Can’t look. Can’t look.* Roger reiterated. He knew the consequences. It told him in the night. If he looked, bad things would happen to him and his family. Very, very bad things indeed. A wave of cold air would glide up his neck and into his ear every time it took a breath, a gentle, spectral sound beneath the regular ticking of the red clock. It was red. It is still red. He opened his eyes, still facing the foot of his bed. The curtains which covered his windows, yet failed to keep the monsters at bay, were still the same ugly dark turquoise. He hated that colour. He always had. He still does. Nothing else has changed.
​
A sharp, cold sensation dragged across his arm, like a fork scratching a plate. It hurt him for a moment, but he didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t dare kick up a fuss. Just as quickly as his skin had been unseamed, it closed again, and the pain disappeared and the cold air on his neck disappeared and the sound of the breathing disappeared and the curtains were still that ugly turquoise and his clock was still red and the room was still dark. Suddenly, a wriggling; a subtle writhe beneath the surface of his skin, his arm shook ever-so-slightly and his head swayed. His arm was gone. He pulled his bedcovers up over his head with his right hand to check. His left arm, which had bled and been oh-so-cold moments ago was gone; not physically, but sensationally. It was no longer his.
​
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
​
Roger’s alienated arm rapped a chilling rhythm against his hardwood bedframe, perfectly regular, it mimicked his little red alarm clock with uncanny closeness, and yet it was entirely wrong in every way. His curtains flapped in the wind. Those ugly, turquoise curtains. His mother insisted they were blue, his favourite colour, but he knew better. It didn’t matter now, though. An ugly, blue protrusion emerged from his arm, sitting snugly beside his elbow, as though it was an exact replica that had been there all his life. He didn’t feel it. He only noticed it once it lifted itself into his line of sight; the sight of those curtains, from which he dared not lift his gaze.
​
Ashley stirred. “Rog?”, she asked, but Roger was concentrating, staring at their curtains, a homely burgundy Ashley had always appreciated, much unlike her brother. She wondered why he was looking at them so intently if he hated them so much? Her pink alarm clock ticked away, filling their room with comforting regularity. She didn’t like the colour pink all that much, she much preferred the sky-blue of her brother’s clock, which sat to his left, though obscured in the dark, but it didn’t bother her greatly. *A clock is a clock*, she thought, *it just needs to tell me the time and when to wake up.*
​
The whispering clouded Roger’s head now, a tornado of threats and promises in the event he disobeyed tossing his mind to and fro. He took deep breaths, and he was cold, and his breath was cold, and the voice told him not to face the mirror, which sat beside Ash’s bed, but that wasn’t fair. He was already facing his sister. She was asleep. He was already facing the mirror. This game wasn’t fair, and he wanted to get up and call it off and claim the voice was cheating but he couldn’t. Another cold sensation glided up his arm, on the right side this time. He hurt for a moment and then there was nothing, as if both arms, now, had disappeared, but they hadn’t. *One more chance, Roger. Keep your eyes open, and you win. Blink, and you lose.*
​
Roger didn’t like losing, but he never was good at staring contests. The voice probably knew that, though. The voice was probably just cheating again. He kept his eyes firmly glued to his resting sister, who hadn’t once stirred tonight. The room was dark, so for about three minutes, Roger had no problems, but his resolve decayed quickly. His eyes stung, they watered, and then they stung some more, watered some more, and then they hurt. They hurt like they had been stung by a thousand wasps and were on the brink of bursting into flame. The voice wouldn’t know if he blinked just once, surely. If he closed his eyes ever-so-slightly for just long enough to look as though he were just squinting, he could revitalise himself.
​
When Roger opened his eyes again, he was out of bed and standing beside his still-sleeping sister. A tapestry of different shades of blue and black coated the wallpaper and bedside table like a modern art piece, or a mural depicting the ocean and its inhabitants, and his white shirt had turned blue, and there was a small statue in his hand which his sister had won the year prior, once gold, now blue all around the base, and his sister’s bed was blue too, and his face had a blue rain scarpered across it, and his footprints were partial and blue, and his sister was blue, and she was resting, and she didn’t stir once that evening, and she wouldn’t stir the next.
​
*Tick. Tick. Tick.*
The small red alarm clock which sat on the bedside table of eleven-year-old Roger McLorri filled his silent, dark room with a regular, grounding heartbeat. Red. The clock was red. Roger told himself, repeatedly, his eyes never daring to scan the empty space in which the table sat, for what was waiting there, watching him stir, told him he mustn’t.
*Can’t look. Can’t look.* Roger reiterated. He knew the consequences. It told him in the night. If he looked, bad things would happen to him and his family. Very, very bad things indeed. A wave of cold air would glide up his neck and into his ear every time it took a breath, a gentle, spectral sound beneath the regular ticking of the red clock. It was red. It is still red. He opened his eyes, still facing the foot of his bed. The curtains which covered his windows, yet failed to keep the monsters at bay, were still the same ugly dark turquoise. He hated that colour. He always had. He still does. Nothing else has changed.
A sharp, cold sensation dragged across his arm, like a fork scratching a plate. It hurt him for a moment, but he didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t dare kick up a fuss. Just as quickly as his skin had been unseamed, it closed again, and the pain disappeared and the cold air on his neck disappeared and the sound of the breathing disappeared and the curtains were still that ugly turquoise and his clock was still red and the room was still dark. Suddenly, a wriggling; a subtle writhe beneath the surface of his skin, his arm shook ever-so-slightly and his head swayed. His arm was gone. He pulled his bedcovers up over his head with his right hand to check. His left arm, which had bled and been oh-so-cold moments ago was gone; not physically, but sensationally. It was no longer his.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Roger’s alienated arm rapped a chilling rhythm against his hardwood bedframe, perfectly regular, it mimicked his little red alarm clock with uncanny closeness, and yet it was entirely wrong in every way. His curtains flapped in the wind. Those ugly, turquoise curtains. His mother insisted they were blue, his favourite colour, but he knew better. It didn’t matter now, though. An ugly, reddish-pink protrusion emerged from his arm, sitting snugly beside his elbow, as though it was an exact replica that had been there all his life. He didn’t feel it. He only noticed it once it lifted itself into his line of sight; the sight of those curtains, from which he dared not lift his gaze.
Ashley stirred. “Rog?”, she asked, but Roger was concentrating, staring at their curtains, a homely burgundy Ashley had always appreciated, much unlike her brother. She wondered why he was looking at them so intently if he hated them so much? Her pink alarm clock ticked away, filling their room with comforting regularity. She didn’t like the colour pink all that much, she much preferred the sky-blue of her brother’s clock, which sat to his left, though obscured in the dark, but it didn’t bother her greatly. *A clock is a clock*, she thought, *it just needs to tell me the time and when to wake up.*
The whispering clouded Roger’s head now, a tornado of threats and promises in the event he disobeyed tossing his mind to and fro. He took deep breaths, and he was cold, and his breath was cold, and the voice told him not to face the mirror, which sat beside Ash’s bed, but that wasn’t fair. He was already facing his sister. She was asleep. He was already facing the mirror. This game wasn’t fair, and he wanted to get up and call it off and claim the voice was cheating but he couldn’t. Another cold sensation glided up his arm, on the right side this time. He hurt for a moment and then there was nothing, as if both arms, now, had disappeared, but they hadn’t. *One more chance, Roger. Keep your eyes open, and you win. Blink, and you lose.*
Roger didn’t like losing, but he never was good at staring contests. The voice probably knew that, though. The voice was probably just cheating again. He kept his eyes firmly glued to his resting sister, who hadn’t once stirred tonight. The room was dark, so for about three minutes, Roger had no problems, but his resolve decayed quickly. His eyes stung, they watered, and then they stung some more, watered some more, and then they hurt. They hurt like they had been stung by a thousand wasps and were on the brink of bursting into flame. The voice wouldn’t know if he blinked just once, surely. If he closed his eyes ever-so-slightly for just long enough to look as though he were just squinting, he could revitalise himself.
When Roger opened his eyes again, he was out of bed and standing beside his still-sleeping sister. A tapestry of different shades of blue and black coated the wallpaper and bedside table like a modern art piece, or a mural depicting the ocean and its inhabitants, and his white shirt had turned blue, and there was a small statue in his hand which his sister had won the year prior, once gold, now blue all around the base, and his sister’s bed was blue too, and his face had a blue rain scarpered across it, and his footprints were partial and blue, and his sister was blue, and she was resting, and she didn’t stir once that evening, and she wouldn’t stir the next.
​
*Tick. Tick. Tick.*
The small red alarm clock which sat on the bedside table of eleven-year-old Roger McLorri filled his silent, dark room with a regular, grounding heartbeat. Red. The clock was red, Roger told himself, repeatedly, his eyes never daring to scan the empty space in which the table sat, for what was waiting there, watching him stir, told him he mustn’t.
*Can’t look. Can’t look.* Roger reiterated. He knew the consequences. It told him in the night. If he looked, bad things would happen to him and his family. Very, very bad things indeed. A wave of cold air would glide up his neck and into his ear every time it took a breath, a gentle, spectral sound beneath the regular ticking of the red clock. It was red. It is still red. He opened his eyes, still facing the foot of his bed. The curtains which covered his windows, yet failed to keep the monsters at bay, were still the same ugly dark turquoise. He hated that colour. He always had. He still does. Nothing else has changed.
A sharp, cold sensation dragged across his arm, like a fork scratching a plate. It hurt him for a moment, but he didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t dare kick up a fuss. Just as quickly as his skin had been unseamed, it closed again, and the pain disappeared and the cold air on his neck disappeared and the sound of the breathing disappeared and the curtains were still that ugly turquoise and his clock was still red and the room was still dark. Suddenly, a wriggling; a subtle writhe beneath the surface of his skin, his arm shook ever-so-slightly and his head swayed. His arm was gone. He pulled his bedcovers up over his head with his right hand to check. His left arm, which had bled and been oh-so-cold moments ago was gone; not physically, but sensationally. It was no longer his.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Roger’s alienated arm rapped a chilling rhythm against his hardwood bedframe, perfectly regular, it mimicked his little red alarm clock with uncanny closeness, and yet it was entirely wrong in every way. His curtains flapped in the wind. Those ugly, turquoise curtains. His mother insisted they were blue, his favourite colour, but he knew better. It didn’t matter now, though. An ugly, reddish-pink protrusion emerged from his arm, sitting snugly beside his elbow, as though it was an exact replica that had been there all his life. He didn’t feel it. He only noticed it once it lifted itself into his line of sight; the sight of those curtains, from which he dared not lift his gaze.
Ashley stirred. “Rog?”, she asked, but Roger was concentrating, staring at their curtains, a homely burgundy Ashley had always appreciated, much unlike her brother. She wondered why he was looking at them so intently if he hated them so much? Her pink alarm clock ticked away, filling their room with comforting regularity. She didn’t like the colour pink all that much, she much preferred the sky-blue of her brother’s clock, which sat to his left, though obscured in the dark, but it didn’t bother her greatly. *A clock is a clock*, she thought, *it just needs to tell me the time and when to wake up.*
The whispering clouded Roger’s head now, a tornado of threats and promises in the event he disobeyed tossing his mind to and fro. He took deep breaths, and he was cold, and his breath was cold, and the voice told him not to face the mirror, which sat beside Ash’s bed, but that wasn’t fair. He was already facing his sister. She was asleep. He was already facing the mirror. This game wasn’t fair, and he wanted to get up and call it off and claim the voice was cheating but he couldn’t. Another cold sensation glided up his arm, on the right side this time. He hurt for a moment and then there was nothing, as if both arms, now, had disappeared, but they hadn’t. *One more chance, Roger. Keep your eyes open, and you win. Blink, and you lose.*
Roger didn’t like losing, but he never was good at staring contests. The voice probably knew that, though. The voice was probably just cheating again. He kept his eyes firmly glued to his resting sister, who hadn’t once stirred tonight. The room was dark, so for about three minutes, Roger had no problems, but his resolve decayed quickly. His eyes stung, they watered, and then they stung some more, watered some more, and then they hurt. They hurt like they had been stung by a thousand wasps and were on the brink of bursting into flame. The voice wouldn’t know if he blinked just once, surely. If he closed his eyes ever-so-slightly for just long enough to look as though he were just squinting, he could revitalise himself.
When Roger opened his eyes again, he was out of bed and standing beside his still-sleeping sister. A tapestry of different shades of blue and black coated the wallpaper and bedside table like a modern art piece, or a mural depicting the ocean and its inhabitants, and his white shirt had turned blue, and there was a small statue in his hand which his sister had won the year prior, once gold, now blue all around the base, and his sister’s bed was blue too, and his face had a blue rain scarpered across it, and his footprints were partial and blue, and his sister was blue, and she was resting, and she didn’t stir once that evening, and she wouldn’t stir the next.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The small red alarm clock which sat on the bedside table of eleven-year-old Roger McLorri filled his silent, dark room with a regular, grounding heartbeat. Red. The clock was red. Roger told himself, repeatedly, his eyes never daring to scan the empty space in which the table sat, for what was waiting there, watching him stir, told him he mustn’t.
Can’t look. Can’t look. Roger reiterated. He knew the consequences. It told him in the night. If he looked, bad things would happen to him and his family. Very, very bad things indeed. A wave of cold air would glide up his neck and into his ear every time it took a breath, a gentle, spectral sound beneath the regular ticking of the red clock. It was red. It is still red. He opened his eyes, still facing the foot of his bed. The curtains which covered his windows, yet failed to keep the monsters at bay, were still the same ugly dark turquoise. He hated that colour. He always had. He still does. Nothing else has changed.
A sharp, cold sensation dragged across his arm, like a fork scratching a plate. It hurt him for a moment, but he didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t dare kick up a fuss. Just as quickly as his skin had been unseamed, it closed again, and the pain disappeared and the cold air on his neck disappeared and the sound of the breathing disappeared and the curtains were still that ugly turquoise and his clock was still red and the room was still dark. Suddenly, a wriggling; a subtle writhe beneath the surface of his skin, his arm shook ever-so-slightly and his head swayed. His arm was gone. He pulled his bedcovers up over his head with his right hand to check. His left arm, which had bled and been oh-so-cold moments ago was gone; not physically, but sensationally. It was no longer his.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Roger’s alienated arm rapped a chilling rhythm against his hardwood bedframe, perfectly regular, it mimicked his little red alarm clock with uncanny closeness, and yet it was entirely wrong in every way. His curtains flapped in the wind. Those ugly, turquoise curtains. His mother insisted they were blue, his favourite colour, but he knew better. It didn’t matter now, though. An ugly, reddish-pink protrusion emerged from his arm, sitting snugly beside his elbow, as though it was an exact replica that had been there all his life. He didn’t feel it. He only noticed it once it lifted itself into his line of sight; the sight of those curtains, from which he dared not lift his gaze.
Ashley stirred. “Rog?”, she asked, but Roger was concentrating, staring at their curtains, a homely burgundy Ashley had always appreciated, much unlike her brother. She wondered why he was looking at them so intently if he hated them so much? Her pink alarm clock ticked away, filling their room with comforting regularity. She didn’t like the colour pink all that much, she much preferred the sky-blue of her brother’s clock, which sat to his left, though obscured in the dark, but it didn’t bother her greatly. A clock is a clock, she thought, it just needs to tell me the time and when to wake up.
The whispering clouded Roger’s head now, a tornado of threats and promises in the event he disobeyed tossing his mind to and fro. He took deep breaths, and he was cold, and his breath was cold, and the voice told him not to face the mirror, which sat beside Ash’s bed, but that wasn’t fair. He was already facing his sister. She was asleep. He was already facing the mirror. This game wasn’t fair, and he wanted to get up and call it off and claim the voice was cheating but he couldn’t. Another cold sensation glided up his arm, on the right side this time. He hurt for a moment and then there was nothing, as if both arms, now, had disappeared, but they hadn’t. One more chance, Roger. Keep your eyes open, and you win. Blink, and you lose.
Roger didn’t like losing, but he never was good at staring contests. The voice probably knew that, though. The voice was probably just cheating again. He kept his eyes firmly glued to his resting sister, who hadn’t once stirred tonight. The room was dark, so for about three minutes, Roger had no problems, but his resolve decayed quickly. His eyes stung, they watered, and then they stung some more, watered some more, and then they hurt. They hurt like they had been stung by a thousand wasps and were on the brink of bursting into flame. The voice wouldn’t know if he blinked just once, surely. If he closed his eyes ever-so-slightly for just long enough to look as though he were just squinting, he could revitalise himself.
When Roger opened his eyes again, he was out of bed and standing beside his still-sleeping sister. A tapestry of different shades of blue and black coated the wallpaper and bedside table like a modern art piece, or a mural depicting the ocean and its inhabitants, and his white shirt had turned blue, and there was a small statue in his hand which his sister had won the year prior, once gold, now blue all around the base, and his sister’s bed was blue too, and his face had a blue rain scarpered across it, and his footprints were partial and blue, and his sister was blue, and she was resting, and she didn’t stir once that evening, and she wouldn’t stir the next.
I'd like to start this account off with some much-needed context.
My name is Edgar; I live in a single-story cabin in the Maine wilderness. For a while, I shared the home with my wife, Rebecca, and our son, Malcolm. Rebecca and I first met when we were both studying botany in college; we'd flirted back and forth rather quickly after meeting, much to the chagrin of her then-boyfriend, whose name escapes me now. After we graduated, she ghosted him, (not a move I approved of from her, and I certainly let her know it), and we moved in together.
Fast forward a few years later, we're expecting our first child, and we couldn't be happier. A child is all either of us have ever wanted, so when Malcolm arrived, it felt as though we'd never been closer.
As a means of providing for the three of us I picked up a gardening job for a particularly wealthy client and, after a few months of saving, I bought the home I live in today.
Around Malcolm's sixth birthday, my Becca was diagnosed with Leukaemia, her condition caught far too late to effectively combat. After a few rigorous, expensive, difficult months of back-to-back-to-back treatments, my wife disappeared into the long sleep, her hand held in mine.
The loss weighed heavy on me. I could sustain myself and Malcolm just fine financially, but without my other half, my tether, I struggled to focus on just about anything.
His mother's death, however, impacted Malcolm much more than it did me. He'd always been a mama's boy. In the months following Becca's death, Malcolm, who had earlier been a social, energetic, and popular kid, became quiet. Reserved. He stopped bringing his school friends over, stopped wanting sleepovers, and didn't speak much to even me.
Once he turned nine, I began to let Malcolm explore the woodland surrounding the cabin during the day, with a strict curfew and stricter distance parameters. Having two botanists for parents meant he knew to look out for dangerous stuff; poison ivy and the like.
This brings us to recent history.
Four months ago, Malcolm went out into the woods, as he had been doing for a couple of months by that point. I'd shifted his curfew from seven o'clock to nine. On this day, I was sitting in the front room, having watched Malcolm excitedly rush out into the wilderness, - the only thing now that seemed to bring him so much joy - reading a book. After getting particularly engrossed in this book, I lost track of time, and when I checked my watch, it was quarter past nine, and Malcolm wasn't home yet.
This wasn't strange; I'd often have to go out a few yards into the woodland and call for him to come back in.
Bookmarking my page, I rose from my chair and walked outside, out to the edge of the woods, and hollered.
Nothing.
Again, I called for Malcolm.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
After the fifth or sixth shout, I grew worried. In the months he'd been exploring - almost every day without exception - he'd always come running back out of the brush, always with a scrape or two, a twig in his bushy black hair, or some other indicator he'd scrambled clumsily to get home.
I marched a brisk march back inside, retrieving a flashlight from a shelf by the front door, and stepped back out into the cold evening air. Clipping the flashlight onto my belt, I chambered about three feet up a small dirt cliff on the other side of the road, where Malcolm had run into, and caught my breath against a tree at the top. I'd been too inactive at the time to keep even a short jog, let alone climb a sheer face.
Looking around my immediate field of view, I squinted and cupped an ear, an ineffective attempt to uncover Malcolm's location.
It was almost ten now, and it was getting dark out. Flicking my flashlight on, I began to move through the woods, calling out for Malcolm, scanning various small clearings and groves within the dense forest. Ten minutes passed, and nothing. Fifteen passed, nothing. Twenty, nothing, twenty-five, thirty. Nothing.
Eventually I decided I would have more luck cutting my losses and returning to the house and calling the local authorities. With any luck, Malcolm would be waiting on the doorstep or in the front room.
It was completely dark when I got back home.
Eleven o'clock at night. I slid down the sheer cliff face onto the road and approached the cabin. He wasn't on the doorstep, nor the front room, nor his bedroom, or the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the back yard. I hurried back to the front room and snagged my phone from a small coffee table which sat beside the couch.
Dialling nine-one-one, I tapped my foot and breathed heavily.
"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"
"My son, he's gone missing in the woods, he was supposed to be home two hours ago and he's out there alone, and it's all dark, and-"
"Sir, please slow down. Where are you right now?"
"Um, sorry. I live at one-ninety-seven, Bank Street, Patten."
"Alright sir."
There was a pause.
"Officers are on their way over now. They'll be there in about twenty minutes."
One of the downsides of living so far from civilisation.
I finished explaining my situation to the operator and sat in the front room. The minutes felt like hours.
After around twenty-five minutes, two patrol cars arrived outside my cabin. I stepped outside to greet the officers.
"You reported a missing kid?"
The officer's tone was direct but soft.
"Yeah, that's right."
I shuffled awkwardly as two more officers climbed out of their vehicles.
"Can you describe the child for us?"
"Oh, uh, yes. Yeah. Of course. He has black hair, about medium length, unkempt. He's nine years old, about..."
I put my hand to the side of my torso, just above my waist.
"About yea height. He was wearing, um... I'm sorry. It escapes me. His name's Malcolm. He went into the woods across the road about five hours ago. He was meant to come back in two hours ago."
The main officer's stern expression softened slightly as I described Malcolm. One of the other two officers, a lanky man with a pale complexion, muttered something into his radio.
The main officer looked up at me.
"We'll have a search party down here soon."
I nodded.
"Thanks."
The coming days and nights were sleepless ones for me. I sat by my phone all morning and all afternoon and well into the night, expecting, hoping, praying for a call, and the sound of a by-the-books officer telling me very matter-of-factly that "we've found your son, he's waiting for you here at the station. He's safe", but no such luck. Days turned to weeks and I'd heard very little from the authorities, aside from how grim Malcolm's chances looked.
During a light-night search, a group of rangers stumbled onto a freshly discarded campsite about a mile north of my cabin. Whoever was there had left in a hurry; tents were half-pitched, drooping as though aware and saddened of their own sorry state, a small firepit sat damp, the smouldering remains of what looked to be a T-shirt and socks in the middle.
The ranger who briefed me on this find told me about the expedition like it was something from a storybook. Wonder filled his voice and eyes, and I could tell he truly loved his job. He didn't realise that it might be in somewhat bad taste to recount this strange find in such an enthusiastic way, but it didn't bother me any. Every word, I hung on to.
One detail in particular, though, rattled me.
While radioing in the find, one of the rangers in the search party had found a spatter of blood on the side of a tree barely a foot from the camp. The leaves at the base of the tree were displaced, shuffled around, as though, as he put it, "Some bastard done run up from the camp, tripped on som'n over on the ground 'ere, an' bashed he's head on this tree."
I'd heard enough.
For a couple of months following Malcolm's disappearance I sat alone in grieving. It only got worse as the weeks waded on.
That brings us up to now.
About three days ago, I groggily pulled myself out of bed and slumped down the hall and into the front room. As I often did in mornings, I picked up a book, sat in a small, soft chair by the main window, and watched the forest breathe.
It was entirely ordinary. Not at all worth mentioning, save for one detail.
Sat at the end of the drive, as though it had been there as long as the house itself, sat a single, solitary mailbox. Why is this unordinary? Well, this cabin didn't have a mailbox. Any packages I had delivered were either placed neatly - usually - by the front door, or I had to drive down into Patten to pick up from a drop-off point. Any mail was allotted comfortably into the letter slot on the front door.
But now, at the foot of my path, sat a rusty, greyish-blue mailbox. Exactly the shape you'd see in movies too.
Rubbing my eyes, unsure if I was seeing things right, (perhaps the sleepless nights were getting to me), I stood up and started toward the front door. I unlocked it and stepped out into the cold morning air. The mailbox was still there. Approaching it cautiously, I squinted as I got a closer look. God, it looked old. Rust lined every edge and joint of the thing, like it had been living at the bottom of the ocean for twenty years, and someone had just dragged it up and stuck it firmly in the dirt outside of my house.
Drawing near, I tried the latch on the side of the box, and the door fell open with little argument. I leant down cautiously and took a peek inside. I squinted again, confused. It seemed to be larger on the inside than the outside. Not by much, only an inch or two, but still enough to be noticeable.
Resting snugly in this slightly-too-large interior was a single letter. Reaching my hand in slowly and with trepidation, I snagged the letter, tugged it out of the box and slammed the squeaky metal door shut.
I examined each side of the letter; it seemed to be unaddressed and unstamped.
I headed inside and shut the door behind me, pacing quickly into the kitchen and pulling out a pair of scissors from a small cupboard below the stove.
I cut the letter open and cautiously slid the paper out from inside.
My eyes darted from left to right as I read what I could only imagine - at the time - was a sick joke.
Dear Daddy
I hope you arnt to sad about me going away. I met some nice men in the woods and they said they were your frends. They tuck me in there car and we drove away.
From Malcolm
The letter made me furious. I was sure Malcolm was dead. Dead and gone. I was sure they’d never find him and that he was gone forever.
Someone - some sick fuck - had written a letter pretending to be my lost son, stuck some rickety old post-box at the foot of my lawn while I slept, and ran off into the night.
I slammed a closed fist onto the kitchen island, my arm dissenting the choice immediately, a sharp pain shooting from my hand to my elbow.
I slunk down the main hall of the cabin and turned to my room, but hesitated. One room down was Malcolm's. I continued past my own door and opened Malcolm's, scanning the bedroom I noted the state in which it sat; everything remained untouched since Malcolm disappeared. Dust had begun to collect on the crowns and laps of various teddy bears. Picking up a small, stuffed elephant, I lowered myself onto Malcolm's bed, buried my face in the soft belly of the small creature, and wept.
Returning home from work that day I found myself unable to concentrate on reading or watching TV, or any of my usual distractions from everyday life. The letter shook me, hard. It was evident in my appearance, too, apparently. My employer, the same wealthy man with the otherwise untended garden I had been working under since I first bought the cabin, asked me if I'd gotten enough sleep the night before, that my eyes were red, and that I looked distant. It took me hours to sleep that night, which was bizarre, as, while the letter had certainly shaken me, it didn’t upset me all that much.
The next morning, I forced myself out of bed groggily, once again, and sat upright for a while, taking in the dawn chorus of birds, insects and all manner of other forest creatures I couldn’t discern due to my four hours of sleep. After a while, I half-consciously decided to get ready for the day ahead. It was a Saturday, so I had the day to myself, though I didn’t realise that until I was halfway done packing my gardening equipment. Typical. Slowly making my way into the kitchen, my brain on autopilot and clearing needing coffee to recharge, I started the brewing process and meandered into the front room, my tired eyes pulling themselves toward the window like an ocular magnet. I pulled the curtains open, and it was still there, still mocking me, still without any explanation as to who or what put it there or why they were pretending to be my son or when they found the time to plant it into the dirt. I don’t know why I expected to have disappeared, maybe it made sense at the time. It showed up without announcement in the night, so was it a stretch to assume it would disappear the same way?
The inside.
The inside was larger than the outside, I remembered. Not by much. My brain slapped itself out of autopilot and I walked back to the hall, opened my bag of gardening supplies, and took out a tape measure. I marched briskly back outside, still half-dressed for work, (though that didn’t matter; my closest neighbour was miles away,) and pulled on the sharp metal tab as though it were the lever on a chainsaw. It gave with no resistance, and I measured the outside of the box.
22 inches.
I yanked the latch open and-
There was another letter inside. How? How had someone come all the way up to my remote cabin in the wilderness and planted another letter without my noticing? And why? I took the letter out of the box and opened it.
Dear Daddy
I am dead. Dead and gone. They will never ever find me again. The men took me and I am gone forever.
From Malcolm
My stomach churned. I crunched the paper envelope in which the letter was delivered in my hand and threw it to the side and let out a guttural noise somewhere between a yell and a grunt. I rested for a moment against the box, my eyes scanning the letter over and over and over and over again. It was his handwriting. I didn’t notice it last time. The shock of the whole ordeal blinded me to the most obvious detail. It was my son’s handwriting. I pocketed the letter and shook myself from my furious stupor, measuring the inside of the letterbox.
25 inches.
I thought so.
I walked back into the cabin, dejected and confused and angry and sad and guilty. I slept for the rest of the day, and only woke up in the late night, striding into the kitchen with the careful footwork of a child trying not to wake his parents. I made myself a bowl of cereal and looked out past the front room and into the driveway. The porch light shone across my car and faded just as it hit the box. It teased me. I went back to bed.
That brings us to my writing this post. I think something strange has happened to my son, and I don’t just mean kidnapper strange. If any of you know anything about Malcolm Rockwell or have any idea as to who put the mailbox in my drive and why, I’d really appreciate the advice. I will continue to post as the situation unfolds, though only with necessary updates. Thank you all for your patience.