The letter could
not have arrived on a more innocuous day. Like clockwork, Philip lumbered
out of bed thirty seconds after his alarm went off, finished his breakfast at
exactly 6:22 am, enough time to brush his teeth and let his car warm up before
pulling out of the driveway at exactly 6:30 am.
The drive to work
was uneventful. It was another typical day in the office. Lunch was
boring and the drive home matched the drive there. So when Philip arrived
home to a handwritten letter in his mailbox, with a postal date of the
following week, he was more than slightly intrigued. He carefully broke the
glue seal.
A slight accent of
ozone touched the air as Philip pulled the single sheet of paper from the
envelope. A shiver climbed down his spine. Unfolding the finely
creased paper, Philip gazed upon the delicate, hand written letter.
"Who hand writes letters anymore?" Philip spoke to himself.
"Dear
sir," the letter began, "we have never met before, at least in your
time, but more on that later. You won't believe what I am about to tell
you. I know this is the case, but at this time, that won't really
matter. I am writing to you from one week in the future and I need your
help. Because I am inextricably bound to the stream of time, my actions in my
time are too little, too late. But you, being one week behind me, can
make all the difference in the world, literally. If you are willing to at
least hear me out, tear this letter in half and bury it to the immediate left
of your mailbox. Thank you, Carl."
Philip sat for a
moment, letter in hand, elbows on his knees, and thought. "It can't
hurt, I guess," he said out loud. With those words spoken, Philip
rose from his dining room table, unceremoniously tore the letter in half, the
long way, just to be creative, and left his front door, for the sidewalk.
A couple of scoops from the sandy soil that surrounded his mailbox and Philip
dropped in the letter, now in two pieces. He casually shoved the dirt
back into the hole, being careful not to tip dirt into his shoes, and lumbered
back into the house. He washed his hands and had just reached for the TV
remote when a knock sounded on his door. The sound jarred him, a little
more than usual. Glancing out the peephole, Philip saw Bob, his neighbor.
He opened the door.
"Hey
Phil," Bob blurted, "I found this on the sidewalk in front of my
place. It's got your name on it. The mailman must have dropped it, lazy
bastard. Those mailmen get paid way too much, if you ask me.
Anyway, like I said, it's a letter with your name on it. Talk to you
later." Bob spun on his heel and strolled back down the sidewalk
toward his own home before Philip could get a single word in. Philip
managed to drop a quick thank you and Bob responded with a thumb jab into the
air. Philip closed his front door.
Philip quickly sat
down on the couch, noticing the eerily familiar look to the second letter he
now held on his hands. The same kind of envelope, the same next week post
mark. Phillip's mouth was dry. He slid his finger though the pasted
opening and again smelling the same hint of ozone, removed another single
page. The letter read thus, "Philip, thank you so much for your leap
of faith. This will turn out to be the most interesting series of events
you will have ever encountered. I have the first of a few tasks to ask of
you, if you would like to continue. Please go to Abdul's Mini Mart, on
the corner of Walnut and First St. and purchase sixteen blueberry
slurpies. Please do so at exactly 7:27 pm tonight. When you
purchase them, say to the man behind the counter, "Allah who
ahoob". After you leave the store, you can do as you please with the
slurpies."
Philip slid out of
his car, upon his return from the mini-mart. A deep "brain
freeze" headache enveloped his brain. He believed it was the third
slurpie that did it. Approaching his front door, he spied another envelope,
stuck in-between the door and the door jamb. It too was faced with the
same printed address and next week post date. A sticky note was attached
to the front. "Hey Phil, looks like that mailman has an issue hanging onto
your mail. I found this one lying on the sidewalk, half way down the
block on my way home from your place. If I were you I would call the post
office and complain. Cheers, Bob." Philip sat down on his
front step and opened the third envelope.
It was at lunch
the next day that Philip followed the instructions of the third letter.
"Go to Slicky T's pizzeria and purchase three vegetarian pizzas.
Take them to the construction workers down on Walnut St. between 7th and
8th St. When you give them, as a gift, say the same message, "Allah who
ahoob."
The fourth letter
was waiting for him in his mailbox upon his return home, after another boring
day at the office. He made a point of not mentioning his latest
adventures to anyone. He didn't hardly believe it himself. All of
his "tasks" seemed completely harmless, really just acts of kindness.
So upon opening the fourth letter, his last task, as the letter informed
him, was the one that made him slightly uneasy. "Go to Good
Samaritan Hospice and ask for Mohammed Ghazal. Mohammed is an elderly
man, now blind and bedridden. When you are taken to his room, speak to
him the same message. You can instigate any dialogue you like with him,
but make it pleasant, by all means. Deliver the message, wish him a good
day and a long life and then go on your way. Thank you, Carl."
Philip received no
more letters from that point onward. For five days afterward, he
continued to look for messages, with the slight hope of seeing something.
But he received nothing. One evening exactly seven days after his
initial mystery letter, a news report peaked his interest. The NSA had
been tracking a series of communiqué coming from Saudi Arabia to Norfolk, VA,
Philip's hometown. But suddenly the messages stopped. The NSA
viewed this as a successful interception and abortion of a possible terrorist
attack.