September 8th, 2016
I’ve always lived my life alone. I'm not sure why, but I've always hated verbal contact with anyone and everyone. My entire life is cooped up in my one bedroom apartment with my dog named Drake. 26 years old with a fast food job and no one in my life besides Drake and my mom. But I hadn’t talked to her in many years. There are many reasons why that is. None of which I want to relieve. Anyway, I’m lonely. I don’t socialize and try to keep my head down as best as I can. So text messages, phone calls, emails, and letters don’t come often. Which means when I got home from my job and saw a blue envelope in my mailbox, I was pretty confused. I set the envelope on the kitchen counter, grabbed a butter knife from my kitchen drawer, and opened the letter. Here’s what it said:
Dear Chris Davidson,
Hello? We haven’t spoken in 22 years so I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t remember me. But I would still be mad, nonetheless. How is your life going, Chris? Are you still happy and smiling like you were when you were young? Smiling despite watching your life collapse?Well, you didn’t know your life had collapsed. So I guess you had an excuse. Oh well. I just wish you listened when I said to put the gun down. That is all. I’ll keep in touch. I expect you to do the same.
I set the letter down extremely confused. I don’t know any people named Maxy. And what did he mean by like I did when I was young? 22 years? How did he know my name? Or my address? And the biggest question yet; A gun? I was just a tiny bit spooked at this point. I set my mind to the letter being some prank set up by some random kid who lives in the same building as me. So I tossed the paper into the trash can and just ignored it. Of course, it was still in the back of my head, but I just ignored my curiosity.
February 5th, 2017
I’ve forgotten about that letter at this point. It’s been many months since I threw it in the trash. I got so busy with work and I wasn’t home much anymore. My dog, Drake, was still with me but he seemed like he was sick. And of course, I was still a major introvert. But as soon as I saw the blue envelope in my mailbox, I got goosebumps. I opened it up and immediately recognized the hand writing. It read this:
Dear Chris Davidson,
Hello? Why did you ignore me? I just wanted to talk is all. I’m worried. It's odd how you think you can escape me. You can’t. You think this is a joke but it’s real. It’s life. And it’s your fault. Answer me Chris. I won’t ask again.
Well now I was scared. I was seriously debating on throwing this one away again, but I decided I needed some answers. So I played his game. Bad idea. Here's what I wrote:
Hi. I believe you have the wrong address. I don't know anyone named Maxy. And in all honesty, you’re kind of scaring me. So I ask you, please stop sending me mail. I hope you find who you are looking for. And I hope you sort out the problems between you two as well.
I sent the letter to Maxy’s address and then got a bit curious. I googled the address. It was a small town home in Oregon. Then it hit me. Like a bullet to the chest. This was the home I grew up in. How the hell do these people know me? Now I was truly in shock. This house was the house my mom kicked me out of. Set me up for adoption. At 5 years old. A year before that, my dad died. How was I receiving letters from this place? My mom moved away from it three years after she kicked me out. I have no relatives in the area. There was no possible way I could get mail from my childhood home. But alas, I was. I shuddered then closed my computer. I had to get to work. So I set off and ignored my fear for the next couple months. On the fourth month, I heard back from him.
June 23rd, 2017
This time, I didn’t forget his name. Every day I got home I checked for a blue envelope. Every morning I woke up I did the same. Turned out Drake was indeed very sick. He had passed away a week before and I was sent straight into depression. My only companion gone, When i got home and saw the envelope, I burst into tears. I was scared for months and so focused on whoever Maxy was, that I had neglected my only friend. It was my fault he died. No. It was Maxy’s fault. Teary eyed and scared, I opened the letter. Praying it would be an apology or anything. Nope it was not. Here is what it said:
Dear Chris Davidson,
Hello? You know damn well who I am. Think. All of the clues are there. And I know you have seen some of them already. The address. Your quaint little childhood home. The name. Or I guess, nickname. The name you gave me when you learned to speak. God. I still remember that day like it was yesterday. I begged you to put that damn gun down. You were young though. You thought it was a toy. And you laughed as you pulled the trigger. You laughed as I fell onto the driveway. But, after realizing what you did, you weren’t laughing anymore. Your mother was crying so you knew you did wrong. But you were four. Why would anyone think you shot your own damn father? Remember, Chris. For your sake.
Max Peter Davidson
P.S. I'm sorry for your loss. Drake was a good dog.
I quickly dropped the letter. I was now hysterical. Tears were streaming down my shocked face. I fell to my knees and just remembered. All of it. My father. Max Peter Davidson. I called him Maxy. We were in the car driving home. When we got home, he got out of the car and walked to the back to grab groceries. I curiously looked inside of the center console because I was just bored. I saw something similar to one of my toys inside of it. Only now I know what it was. A small black handgun. I smiled. A new toy to play with. He must’ve been surprising me, I innocently thought. Well now it was my turn to surprise him. He came around to my side and opened the door. “Hands up!” I playfully said. He begged me to put the toy down. He said that it was dangerous. Then I shot. And he fell onto the driveway. I laughed because I figured he was doing what he always did when we played with my toy guns. Then red liquid started to flow from his chest. His hands fell from his wound as he went still. I sat there staring in shock at his wound. Tears streamed down my face. I dropped the gun onto the floor of the car. Then my mother ran outside to the scene of the crime. She screamed to the sky then looked at me, only to see the gun beside me in the car. She angrily took the gun, slammed the car door, and locked me inside of it. I watched her from the window. She called the police and they arrived quickly. They took my dad away in a big flashing truck. My mom was talking to police officers. She kept pointing at me aggressively and they kept looking at me very confused. I know now that she was trying to tell them I had done it. But they didn’t believe her. I was four years old. Eventually they let me out of the car. Questioned me for awhile but I kept silent because I didn’t want my mom mad at me. But the damage was done. My father was dead. I was dead to my mom. The cops left very confused. And 22 years later, I was kneeling down on my cold apartment floor, crying and scared. The deepest memory I had came back after I learned to forget it. For about an hour I layed on the ground. Eventually I got up and went to my bed to sleep. I needed sleep for whatever I was going to do about all of this. The scariest part about that letter was two things. It was written by my dad who died 22 years ago. And he knew where I was and even what had happened just a week ago.
I didn’t know what to do. But I fell asleep anyway.
June 24th, 2017
The next day I woke up and grabbed my lighter from my nightstand. I walked back into the kitchen, grabbed that letter, and burned it to ashes. Threw the ashes in the trash can, then got ready for work and left. I wasn’t dealing with this no longer. I couldn't handle any more pain. I tried my best to have a semi normal day. My boss was surprisingly kind today and one of my co-workers invited my for dinner over the weekend. At the end of the day, I arrived home fairly calm. Then I saw a flash of blue in my mailbox. Another blue envelope was inside. This one was the worst one yet.
Hello? My name is Max Peter Davidson. I am your dad. 22 years ago you shot and killed me. And ever since then I pledged my vengeance on you. You killed me, your own father, and now I'm going to return the favor. Tonight you may run. You may hide. You may call the police. Or stay in a hotel. But I warn you. Don’t. Let this happen. It will one way or another. I’ll make it quick. I promise.
“Oh no,” I thought to myself as I dropped the letter. “Oh no,” I thought to myself as I ran into my bedroom, locked the door, grabbed my phone, and called the police. They came to my building fairly quickly and talked to me while a search party looked around the building. They found nothing suspicious anywhere. They settled on keeping a police vehicle posted outside all night just incase. I had showed them the letter as well. And after reading it, read the address. Oddly enough, it didn’t have one. I didn’t sleep that night. Every tiny little noise shocked me up and caused tears. In the morning I went to work early. I needed to be near someone. Anyone. Despite my social anxiety. I needed to be safe once again.
August 7th, 2019.
It’s been a very long while since the last letter. Last anything from my deceased father. I became a lot more social since then as I had developed a fear of being alone. I was in a relationship with that co-worker now. But I quit that job and started working as a car salesman. I got a new dog named Naomi. My girlfriend, Jackie, was expecting in just a few months. I moved out of that stupid apartment building into a nice house with Jackie and Naomi. Life was good. Great, even. The best it had been in years now. I was happy. And I had forgotten about those letters now. But all good things must end terribly. I came home one late night to a blue envelope and all those fears and memories came back. I called for Jackie but she must've been asleep already. I called for Naomi but no response. Which was weird for both of them. I opened the letter cautiously and a small pocket mirror fell onto the kitchen counter. I ignored it then read the letter.
Dear My Son,
Confused and shaken, I picked the mirror up. It was about the size of a phone with a white border surrounding the glass. Nothing too special. I held it up to my face and looked at myself. Then I shifted it to look behind me, and immediately dropped it. The glass shattered as I shot around. My girlfriend was standing, no, hovering above the ground. Her once gorgeous eyes were now black holes. Literally. Her eyes were clawed out and her neck had a deep cut strung across. Three cuts actually. They were claws, not knifes. Blood covered her naked body. From her eyes to her feet. I stared in shock. Then she was tossed to the side like a doll and in a flash, there was a strong black hand choking me. The hand was lumpy and not human. It’s fingernails, no, claws, were carving into my neck. Blood dripped down onto my chest from my neck. Then I saw the beasts face. There wasn’t anything except a smile. No eyes. No ears. No nose. Or hair. Just a smile that looked carved onto the black lumpy face. The scariest part about him was how I thought it looked exactly like my dad. I felt its other hand start clawing into my chest. I screamed as blood, my blood, splattered onto my dad’s face. He tore a massive chunk of me off and threw it at the wall. Then he reached in deeper and grabbed onto my heart. He went silent then ripped out my heart violently. My screams were deafening even to me. The blood covered me and my dad and the floor. He lifted my heart into my line of sight. His smile didn’t break as he squeezed and it popped. Then his hand grabbed onto my face. He squeezed and I felt his claws going deep into my skin. Into my pores and my eyes. Yet I could still see him. Infact, I felt him staring at me. Though he still had no eyes. I felt him staring deep into me. My eyes. My memories. My pain and suffering. My soul. And for a split second, I was calm. I was happy. I felt like my father had been with me my whole life and I lived a happy life with him and my mom. I felt at peace. Then everything turned black as my eyes rolled back into my head. Slowly, I drifted away. The claws in my neck now a distant feeling. And just like that, I was now in the realm of the dead. I was in the prison I built for my own father. He had returned the favor. And in my last second alive, I saw my father's lifeless eyes staring back at me. He was free.