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The Postman whistles as he sorts through the letters and packages stuffed neatly into his mailbag, the cheery melody effectively smothering the ceaseless wails of the Ghost Road. Bloated faces underfoot and the regretful howls filling the empty, smoky void never bothered him much. Messengers of lower caliber jumped for the convenience of mirror travel, slobbering over the convenience of tuning the location like a radio and simply stepping through to wherever they needed.
The Postman believed in integrity, of putting in the effort when delivering his precious parcels. Traversing the winding paths of damned souls meant time to meticulously check addresses and double-check all mail was accounted for before reaching his destination. An honest postman never takes shortcuts, whether that be in regards to physical travel or attention to his work.
Today’s workload is light. He’s already delivered to his usual clients: the magic shops and curio cabinets and the odd ghost who found themselves unable to part with a beloved magazine subscription. What’s left are odds and ends of things: bundles of notices for the Lost and Found Department, an unassuming package headed for one of his oldest clients (he knows better than to be curious about that one), and sweet-smelling letters from his more discreet patrons intended for mortal paramours.
From his bag, The Postman retrieves the small bundle of mail for his next stop. London deliveries are his favorite, simply because he enjoys reliving his old paper routes even if the streets are long gone. Adjusting his glasses, he checks the names and addresses again.
It isn’t everyday he gets mail for ghosts he doesn't recognize and the resulting excitement in his chest is, quite frankly, embarrassing for a ghost his age. In his hand, he holds an envelope bearing the seal of Lady Moroe, an infamously unpleasant dealer of supernatural curiosities, addressed to an Edwin Payne. There’s a small, suspiciously heavy package for Charles Rowland, and the last item in the bunch is a green envelope with “To the Dead Boy Detectives” scrawled out in red crayon on the front.
“Detectives, eh?” The Postman chuckles to himself.
Ghosts running businesses isn’t unheard of. Most tend to open little shops selling wares only ghosts can, usually junk and trinkets scavenged from the Neitherlands. Others sold spell components, potions, antiques, and occasionally dabbled in supernatural pets. Detectives, though. Ghost boys playing detectives was certainly new.
“Detectives…” He repeats, tickled by the idea. The image of two little scamps running around with an oversized magnifying glass amuses him as he approaches the bright panel of light marking his exit.
Clutching his cargo securely to his chest, The Postman steps through and out through an old mirror leaning on the side of a brownstone. Broken bottles littering the ground crunch under his polished shoes. He wrinkles his nose at the heaps of rubbish and turns toward the empty lot on the other side of the street. Growing from the wild stalks of grass and weeds is an enormous beech tree. Held precariously within its rotting limbs is a decrepit treehouse.
The Postman crosses the street and approaches the treehouse. He eyes the planks nailed to the tree’s thick trunk disdainfully and the ramshackle porch looming high above him. He sighs, dropping the mail back into his bag, and resigns himself to the climb.
After some time, he squeezes himself through the narrow opening and crawls onto the porch. The utter humiliation weighs heavily on his shoulders as he hastily gets to his feet, brushing off his trousers with a huff.
Voices carry from inside the treehouse.
“Charles, I am merely suggesting our energy might be better spent advertising our services elsewhere.” The boy speaking sounds like silver, polished to perfection and wickedly sharp. “Museum ghosts are older, their mysteries and payment far more interesting than a guttersnipe’s.”
Someone else, presumably Charles, laughs. “Lighten up, Edwin.” His voice lilts and rolls, waves persistently working to smooth over the rough edges of his partner. “The boys down at the Possum’s Belly may be rough and kinda scruffy, but they’re good lads. Besides, plenty of ghosts worth helping didn’t get put in some stuffy museum.”
Edwin sighs, relenting.
The conversation continues.
Eavesdropping isn’t professional or polite, and neither is spying, but the Postman’s curiosity draws him to one of the windows and he peers inside. Towers of boxes line the walls, some reaching the ceiling. Books and loose paper and knick-knacks are strewn over the threadbare rug laid across the splintered floor.
Standing around a scuffed wooden desk are who he presumes to be the Dead Boy Detectives.
One is turned from the window, pale hands clasped tightly behind his back as he studies several brochures and cards pinned to a cork board. Looking too long at him makes the Postman wary. There’s something off, something dark hiding in the folds of his gray coat, haunting the stiff line of his shoulders and around his neck.
The other leans casually on the desk with an open, easy smile. He has light brown skin and a mop of dark curls cut short on the sides. An earring swings as he tilts his head, the four-pointed star charm glittering. He fiddles with a multi-colored cube, rearranging the faces faster than The Postman can track.
What he can catch is the faint blue haze clinging to the boy’s outline. A pang of sympathy time’s never been able to rub out pierces The Postman’s heart. Judging by the hue, he’d place his death within the last year or two. He’s seen plenty of ghost children running amuck, some even younger than this boy, and yet.
The Postman shakes his head of the cruel parts of life and death he cannot change. He doesn’t have the time to spare, nor the energy.
Retrieving the mail once again, the Postman steps through the door and, as any respectable mail carrier does, announces himself with a resounding "MAIL CALL!"
Over the years, The Postman has experienced a wide range of reactions to his arrival. The most common being either to laugh off the sudden shock or try and knock his teeth out. People seldom appreciated the ritual of receiving mail and it seemed these boys were no exception.
Behind the desk, the boy in the gray coat flinches and simply vanishes into thin air. The Postman unfortunately has scared several ghosts to the point of disappearing so he doesn’t offer any comment.
The remaining Dead Boy Detective yelps, his uncompleted cube crashing to the floor and skittering somewhere in the shadows. He’s on his feet faster than The Postman can blink. The shock of the moment passes almost instantly and his expression quickly turns curious. “Sorry, did you say ‘mail call’?” He asks.
“Indeed,” replies The Postman at normal decibel. He shows the mail in his hand. “Mail for the Dead Boy Detective Agency. I am The Postman.”
“Just ‘The Postman’? No other name?"
“None that matters more than my title,” says The Postman pridefully, puffing out his chest. “I take my work very seriously. Now, do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Rowland or Mr. Payne?”
“Rowland.”
Charles Rowland relaxes slightly when The Postman greets him properly. An easy smile flits across his lips, albeit strained at the corners. He’s studying the envelopes and the package with the same fascination he gave the cube. “That really for us?” He smiles wider. “I didn’t know ghosts could get mail.”
“Not many do,” The Postman agrees. He’s certain he’s falling behind schedule, but he can always spare the time to talk about his work. “Most run businesses like yourself and Mr. Payne. Others hear about our institution through word of mouth or have such strong attachment to a publication that it gets transferred to our care.”
“That’s brills!” Charles exclaims, delighted. His eyes are wide and he shakes his head like he (understandably) can’t handle the sheer beauty that is the Afterlife Postal Service. “A ghost postman and ghost mail…Edwin, did you know about this?” He tosses a look over his shoulder to the empty air where Edwin once stood.
Edwin, who hasn’t yet reappeared.
“Edwin?” Charles calls, trying to play cool. He turns around, like he didn’t see his friend the first time and the new angle will bring him back into the light and they’ll have a laugh about it. “Mate?”
Although he’s facing away, The Postman can hear the nice, easygoing smile drop from his lips. Can see it, too. Charles’ shoulders tense, his knuckles going white around the desk.
That makes The Postman frown, because it takes an awful amount of intent to make ghost flesh react to pressure.
Ah, perhaps he’s misunderstood exactly how much the boy knows about the logistics of ghostly emotion. Charles is young and newly dead. It takes time to acclimate to existing this way. The Postman sighs. He must correct this. It is, after all, his duty to provide good service. Causing obvious distress would tarnish his reputation and revoke the “Postman of the Year” title he’s held for nearly two decades.
Slowly, he sets the mail down in a neat pile atop the stack of board games piled beside the doorway. He clears his throat. Charles whirls around, and if the Postman didn’t see the way he was shaking, he’d think the boy was about to lunge and sock him across the face.
“Oh, dear.” The Postman places his hand over his heart apologetically. “I must apologize. I –”
“What did you do?” Anger blazes to life in Charles’ wide eyes. He steps away from the desk, fingers curled into trembling fists. “Where is he?” He snarls, intimidation slightly undermined by the way his voice cracks.
“I’ve merely given him a fright is all,” The Postman finishes patiently. Charles growls, face screwing up as he takes another threatening step forward. The Postman isn’t convinced. He holds up his hands placatingly. “Forgive me. Ghosts are volatile entities; our forms on this plane are temperamental at best. Intense emotions like fear and sensations such as pain can cause quite the shock to bodies no longer equipped to handle them. It causes ghosts to temporarily lose corporeality. Edwin's response to being scared is perfectly natural, I assure you.”
Charles swallows, searching for the lie. Like he expects The Postman will pull Edwin out from his mail bag and start taunting him. Finally, he gives up. “Another ghost rule,” he mutters. The fight keeping him coiled tight gives out and his shoulders slump. “Where’s he gone, then?” He demands, suddenly sounding very young.
The Postman hesitates. While maintaining good relations is paramount, he must also keep boundaries in mind. “Nowhere,” he assures Charles. “He’s not gone anywhere. If you allow me in, I may be able to help.”
“No tricks,” Charles says after a moment, eying the Postman warily.
“On my honor as a postal worker.”
Charles nods sharply and gestures for The Postman to enter the office properly.
Thanking him, The Postman steps carefully over the hazards littering the floor and approaches the desk. Charles watches him from the wall, arms crossed and tracking his movements the way a stray dog might observe an overly curious passerby. The Postman pays him no mind as he circles around to where Edwin was standing earlier.
"Ah, here we are.” The Postman crouches and retrieves what he’d assumed might be hiding amidst the dust bunnies and crumpled balls of paper.
In his hands is an orb roughly the size of a cricket ball. Blue light swirls inside the clear shell, lurching and struggling against the confines of an unfamiliar body. The orb turns an irritated shade of red where The Postman touches.
An odd, choked noise makes the orb that should be Edwin Payne flare bright and almost hot enough for the Postman to actually feel it. He turns and finds Charles staring helplessly at the orb, fingers digging into the meat of his arms hard enough to bruise. The Postman holds the orb out to him but Charles doesn’t move.
“Hold out your hands, son.” The Postman instructs gently.
Charles flinches and does as he’s told.
Gently, The Postman deposits the orb into trembling palms. Where Edwin had shown his unconscious displeasure being handled by a stranger, the softening of colors illustrates the security offered within Charles’ hands.
Charles sucks in a breath, bringing the orb closer to his chest. “That really you, Edwin?” He whispers.
The orb shivers. The dark navy blue lightens into a soft robin’s egg. Blots of gold claw their way to the surface before receding back into the undulating mass.
It’s enough to coax an unsteady smile out of Charles and he laughs wetly. “Bloody hell,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought –” He cuts himself off once he remembers The Postman is still hovering beside the desk. He fixes him with a glare. “You said this is temporary, yeah?”
The Postman has never been the paternal type, but he’s struck with the sudden urge to squeeze Charles’ shoulder comfortingly. Professionalism keeps him grounded. “A good postman never lies to those who depend on him,” he asserts. “Let him rest for an hour or two and he should be right as rain. Now, I really must be going. I apologize again for the trouble. Good day, Mr. Rowland.”
With a tip of his hat, The Postman glides past Charles and makes for the door.
“Oi!” Charles shouts at him. The Postman stops, one foot on the porch. He doesn’t turn around. “Next time, keep your voice down. If you scare Edwin like that again, I’ll beat the piss out of you.”
The Postman snorts. “If you boys would like to continue receiving mail, I do suggest refraining from doing so. Might I suggest investing in a convenient mirror or two? That way Mr. Payne can anticipate my arrival next we meet and prevent any further misunderstandings.”
“Prick,” Charles mutters, and The Postman smiles to himself before continuing on his way.