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The calm bustle of the post office was suddenly interrupted by the loud slam of a door, and the yelling of the town’s usually temperate mayor.
Damien’s face was a deep shade of red, and scrunched in such a manner that none of the townspeople had seen before. “Which one of you is responsible for this?” The man shrieked, a subtle crack in his voice slipping between syllables. With clenched teeth and eyes full of tears, he glanced around the small room and read the startled expressions on the faces around him. But he didn’t care. He needed answers — and his public image was by far the last thing on his mind right now.
The paper in his hand was beginning to crumple from the amount of unconscious tension he held in his fist. The rage filled his body to such a deep extent that he felt it would drip out of him, staining the letter and diminishing any evidence that he wasn’t crazy. He hated looking at the horrible words in that all-too-familiar handwriting, and his eyes seemed to be doing anything to avoid even looking in its general direction.
He wasn’t going to deny that he’d heard of supernatural happenings like this before, especially around the area his best friend used to live — the dead sending signs to people from the other side, flickering candles and gentle whispers to remind their loved ones that they would always be with them. But he had never in his life heard of an entire letter, no, multiple letters, being sent from a house filled with nothing but dust and the old breath of the dead.
Mark was declared dead only a month ago. He’d been presumed dead by the public long before that, but a lack of sufficient evidence made it incredibly difficult to close Mark’s case definitively. Missing for around a year, he’d left behind nothing but a gorey mess at his home, a little note, and guilt that would eat Damien alive for the rest of his life. The timeline the police formed went as such: after an intense argument between himself and the mayor, Mark put himself through a series of different forms of self-mutilation before deciding to go completely off the grid, writing a little note and then disappearing for what was likely forever.
The phrases ‘It wasn’t your fault’ and ‘Don’t blame yourself’ were hammered into him constantly, their meaning being squeezed out like water in a sponge with each time they were said to him. Damien knew it was his fault. There was not a therapist or news reporter or friend in the world that could convince him otherwise. The belief latched onto his soul, draining all the joy and pleasure out of his body. Even when he slept, even when the entire world was fading away in his bedroom, he would hear Mark’s voice crying in the back of his head.
“It was your fault.” Mark would whisper in his nightmares, over and over until the words slurred together and the sound of a deathly gurgle would overtake them. “Your fault, your fault, your fault.”
The nightmares only got worse when, just a few days after Mark was pronounced dead, a letter showed up at Damien’s door, in an envelope with an address on its back that he immediately recognized.
The house was empty. Damien knew the postal system inside and out, and, above that, he knew the rules of life and death. There was nobody living in that house, the countless groups of investigators made sure of that. So how could there be a letter sent from that address, in handwriting absolutely indistinguishable from his friend’s?
And the contents of this letter were the final nail in the coffin, the most disturbing and surreal messages, illegible or otherwise utter nonsense. It was somehow more terrifying than receiving coherent words, and each scribbled sentence made Damien’s heart race faster, leading to him cradling himself and trembling as he held the letter in his clenched fist.
But it must be a prank, right? That’s the only logical conclusion he could’ve come to, that some sick, sadistic monster was somehow sending letters from Mark’s address in his exact handwriting just to toy with him. It felt like giving in to their games to report what, in hindsight, was probably just a way to get some attention from the media. No matter how much the dreaded piece of paper stuck in Damien’s head like a stubborn sticky note, no matter how much the tears in his eyes would burn every night at the irrational fear that maybe this was Mark, maybe he was alive, maybe this was him pleading for Damien’s help, and maybe this was Damien ignoring him just like he did when he was here. He couldn’t give in. He couldn’t let whoever was causing this get a reaction out of him.
But oh, how his mindset changed this morning.
Another envelope, addressed from Markiplier Manor, sat in his mailbox. It was a sunny and peaceful day, the breeze like gentle blows from mother Earth, and the envelope was a stark contrast to the environment. It was like it held a distinct cloud of dread around it, making Damien’s heart sink deep into his stomach the moment he opened up his mailbox. It mocked him as Damien took a deep breath and picked it up, planning how he would hide it away in a drawer and pretend it didn’t exist.
Then something caught his eye.
A little speckle of what looked like blood, right on the edge of the envelope. It was almost unnoticeable, but it almost seemed as if it was getting darker the longer Damien stared at it.
Already fueled by morbid curiosity and grief, he tore open the seal on the envelope and carefully pulled out the letter inside.
Immediate regret swarmed his mind as his eyes attempted to process what he was seeing.
The first thing he noticed was that the blood that was on the envelope was definitely not a figment of his imagination, because the letter itself was absolutely coated with the stuff. It looked as if it had been smeared over the entire paper like a toddler’s finger painting, and Damien’s hands instinctively let go of the paper and covered his mouth in appallment.
And he couldn’t even bring himself to read what was written (not like he even could, with the way his eyes were blurring) before his fear turned to horror, and horror turned to rage. Soon enough he was in his car, fighting back tears as he speeded to the post office.
Which is how he found himself now, being approached by a terrified looking employee as his eyes twitched in blinding rage.
The young man spoke in almost a whisper, trying to subconsciously calm Damien’s nerves.“Sir, what’s the—“
“I’ll tell you what the problem is!” He responded in a growl, his breathing shaky. Damien shook the crumpled paper in the employee’s face, attempting to look as far away from it as he could. “This.”
The man’s nervous hand reached out to grab the letter, his eyes quickly scanning the bloody smears and incoherent writing. The look of confusion on his face turned to horror as his eyes widened, and Damien felt a twinge of relief at the fact that he wasn’t the only one who could see it.
“I… I’m not quite sure I understand. What is this?”
“This is a letter sent from Mark Iplier’s house. Do you recognize that name?” Damien spat out, and realisation contorted the man’s face as his attention averted back to the paper, reading it over with fresh eyes. “Missing for nearly a God damn year, declared— dead… for a month, and this morning I get this from his address!”
The young employee’s face whitened, and the horror in his eyes grew more evident. The paper started to tremble with his hands. Damien glared down at him impatiently.
“Oh my God…” he muttered, his voice barely audible. His eyes were locked on the paper. “Let me get my manager.”
Pinching the gorey paper between his index and thumb, the man quickly walked away behind the counter he was originally standing in. Damien felt the air in the room get heavier with every passing second. He scratched anxiously at the collar of his shirt, realising that he was still in the clothes he’d worn to bed. Whatever, he thought to himself. His image was already beyond tarnished at this point. Lord knows what the papers are going to say about this little tantrum of his.
But rage still trickled down Damien’s ribs, burning his heart and soul and making it harder to breathe every second. And the burning glare of everyone’s eyes on him certainly wasn’t helping, either.
“Oh, take a picture, why don’t you?” Damien yelled out to no one in particular, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up threateningly. “It’ll last longer…”
Some people pretended to look away, others refused to even pretend. Part of him couldn’t help but think how ridiculous Mark would’ve found this all — Damien, who usually hated unnecessary attention, making a spectacle out of himself, all because he was in grief. His eyes started to prick with tears right as the manager, a much older looking gentleman, began to walk towards him.
“Mr. Mayor,” The man extended his hand, giving an exaggerated corporate smile. Damien didn’t return it. He barely managed to return the handshake, putting his hand in the man’s and loosely swaying it up and down. “It’s good to meet you. How can I help?”
Damien raised an eyebrow. The man’s calm demeanour somehow both soothed him and angered him even further. “I want you to tell me how in the world I got this letter. I want to know which one of your employees was responsible for this little prank.” His words left his mouth like he was spitting venom, and his eye twitched.
The manager glanced around, a defensive look in his hooded eyes. “Sir, I can assure you that this has absolutely nothing to do with us.”
Damien let out a chuckle, pursing his lips and putting his hands on his waist. His breathing sounded heavier. “Well, I need you to tell me how it happened. And I need you to tell me that whoever did this will pay.”
“Hm.” The gentleman glanced down, biting his lip and doing everything to avoid making eye contact with Damien. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, the most we can do is give this letter to the police. Then, we can try and find out if this was an actual letter sent from that house or some prankster sneaking fake letters into your mailbox. But beyond that…”
The manager looked into Damien’s eyes cautiously, attempting to form a friendly smile. “I mean, I don’t know.” He continued. “Whadd’ya want me to say? There’s not much we can do—“
“Not much you can do?” Damien echoed through gritted teeth. “Ha. Haha! I drove here at seven in the fucking morning, because I got a letter from my deceased best friend, and there’s not much you can do for me?” He shouted, the aggression and volume of his voice steadily increasing with each passing syllable. He clenched his fists next to him.
“Sir, please don’t yell.” The manager’s look of sympathy turned to judgement, and he backed away with his hands in front of him. Like Damien was crazy. Like he was the one who didn’t understand. “I understand your frustration, believe me, I do, but—“
“You don’t understand!” Damien’s voice echoed in the tiny interior of the post office, and any quiet chatter among the visitors was reduced to deafening silence now. Silence that rang through Damien’s ears and brought the chokes and tears back.
Before he knew it, tears were streaming down Damien’s cheeks, and he was reduced to nothing more than a sniffling, pathetic mess. Breathing seemed like a Herculean task as he choked out vague sounds, words that hid behind layers and layers of indescribable sadness.
“You— don’t understand…” He coughed. “Mark’s dead. He’s gone. You don’t know how it feels. And to have this show up at my door, covered in blood that for all I know could be his. I’m— I don’t—“ Damien gestured incoherently, perhaps trying to complete the sentences he’d started before giving up, covering his wet face with his hands. He still felt the eyes and cameras on him.
The manager looked to his employee, who stared at the floor. “Please escort him back to his car.”
And the young man complied, carefully placing his timid hand on Damien’s shoulder and walking him out the door, to the driver’s seat of his car.
Damien unlocked the car and sat inside, giving a nod of approval to the young man before shutting the door.
Again he was alone. Alone as the day Mark left.
And as he looked to the passenger’s seat where his best friend used to sit, Damien couldn’t help but imagine Mark sat there, smiling at him and waiting for him to drive them home.