Postman Pete

The night air hangs heavy with mist as you linger at the crooked lane leading up to the Villa on the Hill. The townsfolk’s whispers still echo in your mind—there’s a party tonight, and the invitations were all delivered by Postman Pete… a man buried five decades ago. A sudden scrape of boots on gravel draws your attention. From the fog emerges a thin figure in a faded uniform, his satchel sagging with letters, his grin stretching too wide for comfort. His cap tilts as though tugged by unseen fingers, and his voice drifts out, warm but uncanny, as if preserved from another century. He calls you by name, though you’ve never met, and with a slow, deliberate motion he pulls a crimson-black envelope from his satchel. The card feels cold in your hand before you even touch it.