Chapter Text
It was a beautiful day, filled with all the accordingly beautiful sights and sounds: birds singing, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the distant aroma of baking. Spamton took a deep breath, smiled, and adjusted his shoulder bag. It was Good. That kind of «good» when everything is in its place and things can only get better. Some time ago, he had moved to a tiny town near a large forest, far from the hustle and bustle. It seemed to be one of the best decisions he had ever made, the residents welcomed him with open arms. He quickly found a job as a postman and a house on the outskirts of town. The owner left a sign on the door that said, "Vacant. Live here if you want to," and Spam jumped at the chance.
"Ha-ah!.."
Everything was going perfectly! But the brightness of the summer morning seemed to have gone to his head—letters don't deliver themselves! The familiar routine of half-hearted smiles and good morning greetings alongside a colorful pile of bills, newspapers, and magazines began again. Suddenly, however, the bright sun disappeared behind a gray cloud, and the warm, almost gentle breeze turned cool and unpleasant. Spamton realized he had stopped at his neighbor's house across the street.
The house itself wasn't particularly remarkable, with its light gray walls and noble blue roof tiles. Classic! However, there were some scary rumors about the owner of this intentionally ordinary-looking house. People said that the host of the evening show was connected to the mafia. They said terrible screams had once been heard coming from the house, and blood stained the walls and well-groomed lawn. They said that Mr. Tenna's smiles were fake and that his words had double meanings and hidden threats.
"!"
Spamton had never been afraid of anything as mundane as a mailbox before. It wasn't going to bite his finger off, was it? Yet an unknown force prevented him from reaching out and putting the stack of letters inside. It was a mix of cowardice, fear, and self-preservation. Spamton had been burned too badly in the past by ignoring his intuition. Swallowing hard, Spamton knelt down to take a closer look at the object that had frightened him. The door was fine, and there was nothing on the side either. But deep inside, he could make out the outline of something mushy and wet.
"Huh?!" Spam recoiled, lost his balance, and fell flat on his back. "Ow—ow—ow!"
He heard the click-clack of heeled boots. Soon, the owner of the overly ordinary house loomed over him. He was tall and wore a classic blue suit over which he had casually thrown a housecoat. Spamton stared blankly at the man's face, trying to read his emotions.
“Good morning, Mr. Tenna. Ow,” he said, rubbing his bruised lower back. “I brought your mail.”
"I see. What stopped you from putting the letters in the mailbox?"
Although the question sounded neutral, Spamton didn't like it.
“There was something there. Inside."
“Hmm?”
"Something's already there. And I’ve got a lot of letters for you.”
"Heaven forbid it's more advertising or coupons!" His sharp fangs flashed.
“No, sir,” Spamton said as he began sorting through the letters. "Strange. This one has no sender. But there's a wax seal! I haven't seen one of those in a long time!"
A broad palm appeared in front of his nose. Spam swallowed and placed the neat stack of mail there. An audible sigh could be heard.
"I wanted to help you up."
"Ah!" he responded, jumping to his feet and smiling politely. "No need. I'm fine."
"It's not very noticeable."
"Oh, I..." I..." Spam adjusted his glasses. How awkward. "Everything's fine, really."
Mr. Tenna looked at him silently, showing no emotion. He looked at Spam as if he were a strange animal or a bug on the floor of his perfectly white kitchen. Spam could feel a strange coldness and heaviness on his skin. In the soul.
Spamton did not like it at all.
“As for the letters, this format isn’t quite according to the rules. I could probably help you find the sender, though.”
“The person who wrote this?” Mr. Tenna waved the stack of letters he was holding. With his size, it looked like a deck of cards. “Don't worry about it. Consider it a cute quirk."
Tenna smiled, and Spamton realized he was completely confused.
"Cute."
"Excuse me?"
“I—I mean, nice. I mean—" Damn! "Sorry! These must all be fan letters!"
"Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
Maybe this day should be marked on the calendar as special. Not only did Mr. Tenna smile at Spamton, he also laughed with his low, slightly growling laugh for the first time since Spamton had been in town.
"Of course. Absolutely right. Ahem,” Tenna said, looking pointedly at his watch. "Time."
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I'm leaving now," he said. He shook himself, grabbed his bag, and glanced cautiously at his neighbor. "Be careful with that box. There might be a dead rat in there. Or one that's not quite dead."
"Then we'll play a little game," Tenna chuckled again. Sharp claws appeared at the tips of his snow-white gloves. "I haven't sharpened them in a while. Very convenient. "
"Be careful anyway. People love you. It would be a shame if...well, you know."
His neighbor slammed the mailbox shut, indicating that the conversation was over.
"Have a nice..."
(…Day,) he began, but didn't finish. Mr. Tenna turned his back and walked toward his house. If Spamton had been crazier or less cautious, he would have waited until Mr. Tenna was out of sight to solve the mystery of the mailbox. After all, Spamton understood how secrets worked (and had paid dearly for it once) and this mailbox reeked of mystery. It smelled more like a dead animal, fresh blood, and, for some reason, tears. Maybe he should call the police. Was Mr. Tenna in danger? Or was Spamton himself in danger?
"What am I thinking?"
He sighed and took a step, then another, until the mysterious object and the ominous house were far behind him. Probably for the best. Sometimes, it's better for secrets to remain secrets.