Dead Letters Anthology (2 page)

Now we’ll progress to the contents. Every green envelope contains a single item we refer to as the List. We have only succeeded in acquiring one ‘unused’ List thus far, so have been unable to make the sort of material comparisons that had been possible with green envelope samples. That said, our tests on the List have been extensive, culminating in an experiment named Investigation Number One, the results of which you are probably aware, even if you have not been briefed on the context of the experiment or the green envelope phenomenon previously. As I have the luxury of speaking more candidly than my superiors to you in this capacity, I will not sugar coat this information and report simply that Investigation Number One was an unmitigated disaster, and responsibility for the loss of Captain Michael Wayne rests squarely with this department.

I’d like to warn you that the attached footage is very distressing. As you’ll see for yourself, Captain Wayne made fourteen requests for the test to be aborted, which were not observed despite clear and increasing levels of distress. I consider this inexcusable and will implement whatever reprimand you consider appropriate without hesitation, including my own resignation from the project and the department, if you feel this to be appropriate.

But, as time is of the essence, back to the subject at hand:

The List is exactly what its name implies – a simple list written on what is, to all intents and purposes, an ordinary yellow Post-it note. Written in black biro, in the same hand as the envelope, the list reads:

1. TO BE SUCCESSFUL

2. BE HAPPY

3. AND FOR OTHERS AROUND ME

4. PROGRESSION

5. MONEY

6. XXX A LOWERCASE ‘P’ AND ‘R’ SCRIBBLED OUT PRAISE

7. REWARDS FOR U

8. MUSIC

9. SECURITY

On the day of the green envelope’s arrival, most usually around 1.40 p.m.–2.30 p.m., the recipient typically succumbs to an absentminded urge to draw a circle around one of the first nine points on the list, the selection varying from recipient to recipient (from interview data it seems that the recipient does not make a conscious choice to select one point over another, although our data suggests that the choice is not random, selection probabilities forming loose clusters in line with a number of demographic markers – see attached).

What happens next depends on the point selected. What we call the ‘List Outcome’ is solidly linked to the recipient’s selection – the same selection will always result in the same outcome 100% of the time. The List Outcomes are bizarre in many instances, but thousands of hours of interview footage along with substantial medical and site investigation work has convinced us that the below – though outlandish – are all accurately presented, and a direct result of point selection on the List. Here are the outcomes:

Outcome: Typically within 24 hours, recipients who circle this item will find that babies and small children (usually under the age of five) in close proximity to them become extremely frightened, often degenerating into outright hysteria if forced to make any sort of physical contact. The children exhibit what seems to be a panic-stricken terror that endures as long as the recipient is in the child’s sightline, and typically for some 20–30 minutes afterwards, with nightmares following an encounter in around 65% of cases (and 90% of ‘touching’ cases). The child will always outright refuse to explain their extreme reaction at the sight of a number one recipient, and even mentioning the experience is likely to cause considerable distress. There are no exceptions to the effect – we have observed a newborn baby react to her own mother in this fashion. The effect also appears to be permanent. As an addition, several recipients in this group have reported occasional feelings of deep uneasiness when catching sight of their own reflection out of the corner of their eye, though none have yet been able to put this experience into clearer terms. Physically, the recipient appears to be completely normal, and Research and Analysis can identify no physiological changes of any kind.

Outcome: Recipient will find a mug with the slogan ‘No. 1 Dad’ at the back of a cupboard. [Note: this outcome has only recently been discovered by our investigators, after following up this seemingly ‘blank’ outcome.]

Outcome: A recipient who circles number three will have sex with a relative within 100 hours. In most instances, extreme distress and revulsion will follow, with recipients reporting a disturbing ‘coming to my senses’ moment following intercourse. Relatives are generally older than the recipient, with grandparents or aged parents being the most common partner. We are running therapy sessions with additional data mining for all known number threes. But – with the exception of number sixes – this outcome is reported least according to our records, perhaps unsurprisingly.

Outcome: Number fours vanish within 60 seconds of circling this point, leaving a pile of whatever clothing they were wearing behind. Where they go is unknown, as no number four has ever been seen or heard from again. Whether this disappearance relates in some way to the word ‘progression’ or is as unrelated an outcome as most of the other numbers is unknown, but relatives have been known to find some comfort in this notion, and current protocol for field officers is not to dissuade them of it.

Outcome: An illness manifests in number fives within three to six weeks. Often these are withering diseases, or diseases that cause a severe reduction in brain function.

Outcome: As far as we know, no recipient has ever circled number six. This would suggest either (a) an inactive portion of the List, (b) a positive outcome that 100% of recipients would wish to keep secret from the world at large, or (c) a negative outcome which would likewise cause 100% of recipients not to contact the authorities.

Outcome: [REDACTED FOR REASONS OF NATIONAL SECURITY]

Outcome: A rare instance of the selected word on the list having some relation to the outcome itself. Number eights develop a constant, melodic tinnitus which has been proven to accurately predict the next-but-one song on any tuned radio within thirteen metres. Research is ongoing, but early results suggest number eights are capable of developing some wider capacity for precognition if supplied with extensive training and favourable conditions.

Outcome: The next time a number nine returns home after an absence of over one hour, they will discover a pet, spouse or child living in the property who did not exist previously. The newcomer and other members of the family (if any) will believe that everything is as it has always been. Reported responses to this have been widespread, with many number nines submitting themselves for psychological evaluation in the weeks following the discovery. Some families split when the nine cannot accept the interloper, but in a few cases, the result is extremely positive. We have records of a female number nine who could not have children returning home to discover her husband and nine-year-old daughter cooking dinner. After a period of adjustment, the woman felt very happy with her altered circumstances. It may be supposed that more of these ‘happy outcomes’ occur, but few are reported.

The blank. As you will see from the attached footage, Captain Wayne had been instructed to write ‘Are you trying to communicate with us?’ in this space. I repeat, I am fully prepared to submit to whatever reprimand you feel is appropriate for this experiment and the tragic loss of life, however I must state in closing – it is entirely possible that what happened to Captain Wayne might be considered to be some form of response.

Steven Hall was born in Derbyshire in 1975. His first novel,
The Raw Shark Texts
, has been translated into twenty-eight languages, though it stubbornly refuses to be adapted for screen. In 2013, he was named as one of Granta’s Best of Young British Novelists.

I didn’t go to the mailbox in expectation of finding anything worth the trip. I never do these days. There will be bills from the utility company, of course, clothes catalogues for my wife, direct mail from Comcast excitably pimping some new cable TV/Internet/home security package in which I would have no interest even if I could comprehend how it differs from their previous offering. All more meaningful forms of communication now arrive on my computer or phone. Gone are the days when you made a choice over when to encounter a missive from the universe: now they get right up in your face and ping at you. Somebody — I can’t recall who — once said that each letter is an uninvited guest, turning up on your doorstep without warning, armed with the potential to make or ruin your day. Emails can certainly do that. The stuff in the mailbox, once an iconic symbol of community and far horizons? It’s just recycling waiting to happen.

I didn’t even go to look for mail, if the truth be told. Walking down the path was cover for having a sneaky cigarette. Smoking is bad for you, it would appear. I long ago made an internal accommodation over this — by ignoring the fact — but my son, now ten, has different views. When I was his age, lots of people smoked. Now nobody does (at least amongst the middle classes) and the media and schools are full of dire warnings on the subject. Scott is extremely keen that I give up, and manifests this position in a strident campaign that includes destroying my packs whenever he finds them.

I’m working on it, kind of. I smoke less than I want to, certainly. And in secret. An occasional walk to the mailbox has become a ruse for grabbing a morning nicotine hit in relative safety, during what was beginning to feel like a somewhat endless school summer vacation.

I stubbed the butt out and rolled it into a discreet ball which I slipped in my pocket for later disposal. Then, because I might as well, I checked the mailbox. There wasn’t much inside, as I’d done the same a couple of days before. Supermarket coupons. Credit card companies urging me once again to consider getting further into debt. A small padded envelope.

I shoved all the junk under my arm — remembering once again my idea of moving the recycling container so it was right next to the mailbox, a notion I’d again forget as soon as I started walking back to the house — and examined the envelope. It was four inches by six, a buff color. The most notable thing about it was the NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS scrawled across the front. It’d been sent to someone called Patrick Brice, who lived — or was supposed to live — in Rockford, Illinois.

My name is Matt, and I live in California.

I flipped it over. Someone had written ‘Return to sender’ on the reverse, in a different hand and colour. In a third hue — and different handwriting once again — someone else had further written ‘NO FORWARDING ADDRESS’.

None of which explained what it was doing in my mailbox. I considered putting it back, but realised it’d likely been sitting there a couple of days already, and the mail person hadn’t taken it away, having discovered their error. So instead I carried it and the other stuff back to the house, where I dropped the whole bundle on the kitchen table and forgot about it.

* * *

Late morning found me back in the kitchen, making coffee. Karen had taken Scott out for a few hours, giving me an opportunity to work in peace and, coincidentally, have a smoke or two without being given a hard time. As I headed toward the back door, coffee in hand, I noticed the envelope on the table and grabbed it in passing.

Outside, I looked at the package again for a few minutes without learning anything new. The only way to do that would be, of course, to open it. It wasn’t for me, self-evidently. It was to this Patrick Brice person. But — equally obviously — it wasn’t going to get to him. I could put it back in the box or take it down to the post office, but it had clearly done the rounds already without finding a home. So what should I do? Drop it in the trash? That felt wrong. Someone had sent something to somebody else. An engagement had been commenced, a baton proffered. To simply dispose of it, be a stranger summarily curtailing that journey, didn’t seem right.

I could at least find out what was inside, and make a judgment as to how important it was. If it seemed like some big deal, there might be something I could do. Plus if I took my time over the process, I’d be outside long enough to legitimate having another cigarette.

Sounded good.

The envelope had been securely sealed with brown duct tape. I circumvented this by tearing it open at the other end, fairly neatly. Inside was an object wrapped in a small piece of white paper, secured in place with a piece of scotch tape. I used my thumbnail to slice through this — again, fairly neatly — and unwrapped something that was immediately recognizable.

A chess piece. A bishop, to be precise, about an inch and a half high, quite nicely made out of a darkish wood. On the base was a thin pad of dark red/brown felt. The piece was in good condition, but a little worn, as if it had been used many times.

So?

Realizing that there was something on the paper wrapping, I took a closer look. A short sentence, three words, ending with a period — all of it in Courier, or some near equivalent, as if produced on a typewriter.

‘Over to you.’

‘Huh,’ I said. I lit my second cigarette, and tried to make a mystery out of what I’d found. Most likely there wasn’t one. Two guys playing long distance, I guessed, and this a notification of a move, presumably one in which the bishop had been taken. Though… instead of ‘Over to you’, or even ‘Your move’, shouldn’t the message have been ‘Knight to King 4 x Bishop’, or however it was they indicated those things? I’d never been a player, finding the game both hard and boring, and couldn’t remember the exact terms. Plus you wouldn’t actually send someone a piece, would you, even if you’d taken it? You both needed to retain full sets in order to keep playing the game.