Lindsey moved behind the counter, slid his cash drawer into the register, and turned on his retail system. It was almost 8:30 am on Monday morning at the Village Branch Post Office, and Lindsey felt apprehensive.
Mondays in Los Angeles were always monster-crazy, especially on a hot day like this one was bound to be. Four years he’d been a window clerk and during that time he’d seen some wild stuff go down in the lobby. Most had happened on a Monday.
Trying not to focus on the crowd lined up all the way to the front door of the lobby, he checked the touch screen, straightened his tie. The sound of shuffling feet, muted conversation, and the rushing traffic on Wilshire Boulevard competed with the rumble of equipment and buzz of voices from the workroom floor behind him. Lindsey noticed the new bundles of Priority shipping boxes stacked in the supply rack and squatted to cut the straps with his box knife.
"Morning, Lindsey," Jane said from behind him. He looked up at the petite clerk.
"Happy Monday," he replied with a grin. She laughed and strolled back to the workroom floor with a tray of letters, looking back over her shoulder to make sure Lindsey was watching her.
The register pinged finally, telling Lindsey it had finished setting itself up. Box knife back in his hip pocket, he entered his password with a few taps on the chilly touch screen. The time readout on the screen showed one minute left to open, but Lindsey decided there was no reason to delay any longer. Ignoring a prickle of dread he pushed the button that raised the steel security grill.
As the mechanism hummed and clattered he straightened his tie once more, turned the ‘This Window Closed’ sign around to ‘Open’. The crowd shifted uneasily, shuffling into tighter alignment through the winding path of gleaming brass poles and white plastic chains. He could hear the other windows opening to his left, the noise almost drowned out by the increased noise level from the lobby.
"I can help you here," he said, smiled at the woman who was first in line. She had dark hair casually gathered on the top of her head. Standard Hollywood issue sunglasses hid her eyes, and a garden of bangs and stray locks framed her face. She walked purposefully, with self-conscious indifference. Yes, her attitude said to Lindsey, you’re watching me, but I’ve had that all my life. She was a pretty girl but something else drew his attention, something undefined. Something creepy. Just another customer, Lindsey chided himself.
"I need to mail this, please," she said, her voice businesslike and impersonal. She placed a parcel already wrapped in heavily stained brown paper on the counter. He reached to take it, but she snatched it back before his hand got close. "I need a priority box."
"Yes, ma’am," he said, trying to keep his professional smile from turning into a grimace. Here we go, he thought, first damned one. Well, let’s see how she likes it back. Lindsey pulled a cardboard Priority mailer from the rack beside him and snapped it into shape. "Here you go, ma’am."
"Thank you," she said flatly as she reached for the box, but he didn’t release it to her.
"Ma’am, I’m sorry, but security rules say we need to check the contents of any mailing weighing more than sixteen ounces. Would you mind unwrapping it, please?" Lindsey held on to the box, smiling but firm. You could have avoided this, lady, he thought; all you had to do was let me have it. She hesitated, looking down at the parcel, then back at Lindsey.
"Of course," she said with obvious reluctance. She let go of the box and took a step back from the window, forcing another glaring customer to step around her. With the same care Lindsey expected a snake charmer to handle his performers, she unfolded the paper until a black, leather-bound book was exposed. She never touched the book, holding it up for his inspection by grasping the deep spine with the stained wrapper as a glove. Lindsey caught a whiff of must and rot; suspicion prickled his scalp.
"Would you open it, ma’am?" His eyes flicked to the line of impatient people behind her, and he recognized a face; Crazy Willy Parks was next in line. Crazy Willy was a street person who got his mail general delivery at Village Station. It hadn’t been too long ago that Crazy Willy had got into a scuffle over where the end of the line was with one of the rich folks from up in the Hills. Lindsey almost groaned out loud and quickly looked back at his customer. She was still standing there holding up the book.
"It’s a collector’s item, I don’t want to open it."
"Ma’am," he snapped with rising frustration, "I need to see inside, please." I’m gonna transfer to the carrier side, he thought; no way dogs and rain are this bad.
She hesitated a second more then nodded curtly. Her sunglasses aimed like gun muzzles into Lindsey’s face as she slowly turned the book sideways. Instead of gaping open and flopping limply over, the book seemed to leisurely riffle itself through the pages, briefly exposing each one.
Lindsey was transfixed with fear. He saw no page clearly or completely, but what was inscribed there scared him so badly that he simply froze, unable to even look away. Each letter writhed with sick meaning, every illustration clawed for his sanity. Malevolence and menace projected from the book with such strength that Lindsey reflexively held his breath, trying to deny even contact with shared air.
Then she snapped it up and closed. As the covers popped shut a slip of paper fell out and fluttered downward. A young man walking past the service windows to the post office box section saw the object fall despite the cell phone at his ear. He stopped and turned toward the woman at Lindsey’s window.
"Hey, lady . . . " was as far as he got; Crazy Willy surged into him.
"No cuts!" yelled Crazy Willy, and shoved the young man hard. The cell phone spun away and the man staggered into the woman, knocking her stumbling forward. Instead of trying to catch herself, she raised the book out of harms way with both hands and smashed face first into the counter’s stainless-steel edge. Her head snapped back and she went down, leaving a crescent of red on the steel. The book arced across the counter. Lindsey’s hands flew up, a reflexive gesture to fend off something deadly; he couldn’t have intentionally touched the book any more than he could have held his hands in a roaring fire.
The book tumbled into his grasp.
Pandemonium spun around Lindsey. Several people struggled to restrain Crazy Willy, who was screaming bloody murder between spitting and clawing. Others from the crowd were hooting and jeering, pushing forward to see the action. A few were even trying to get over the chains and through the melee to reach the fallen woman. Scott at the next window was braying over and over for security.
Lindsey was aware of it all, every detail, a montage of reality snapshots. His fear transformed the instant he touched the book, transcended into a glittering, faceted purpose. For a frozen second he let his senses roam. The flying pieces from the shattered cell phone opened plastic petals against the polished marble of the lobby floor. Spittle from misshapen mouths spun in diamond arcs, sounds echoed from glass and stone and steel in a choir of chaos. He focused on Crazy Willy’s face, just visible through the forest of tangling arms. Crazy Willy rolled his eyes and looked back at Lindsey, the only normalcy in roiling madness.
"It’s up to you," he said clearly, "you’re the only one, boy." Lindsey nodded in response. He already knew.
Space and time melded together again. The woman-thing rose up in front of Lindsey, her ruined mouth gaping with fangs, tentacle tongues writhing. Absurdly skewed sunglasses revealed eyes of mottled gray slitted with gold. Lindsey was prepared; his hand came from his back pocket with the box knife blade thumbed all the way out. He slashed the razored steel at inhuman eyes, swiped at its throat as it dodged his first cut.
Unhurt, the monster stumbled back from Lindsey’s attack and pitched into the hands of the rescuers. Without hesitation, Lindsey rolled over the counter, landed in a crouch beside it. Though shaking from reluctance to touch the monster, he hooked the blade behind the thing’s left knee and ripped upwards. Something hotter than human blood burned his fingers.
Hope that slows her down enough, Lindsey thought as he ran for the exit with the book tucked under one arm, slashing at any hand that reached to slow him.
One week later.
“Doctor, are you certain –“
“Please don’t say anything. Please? Thank you.” The voice became monotone. "Lindsey, can you hear me?"
Lindsey nodded. What a stupid question, he thought. The flowers were in a glass bowl placed in the center of a bright white tablecloth, with the arrangement spilling over the edges of the bowl. Lacy leaves framed the arrangement, and a spray of blood-red spikes provided a central accent. The flowers were the only important thing right now.
"Good. Lindsey, I want you to keep concentrating on the flowers. Focus on the flowers while I ask you a few questions. Okay?"
Lindsey nodded again. They were fresh flowers, not fake plastic or silk. I recognize roses, he thought, but the other leaves and stalks and berries might as well be from another planet. He could see murky water in the squat, globular glass vase, and a glimpse of twisted, tentacular roots. He started to sweat.
"Good. Lindsey, I want you to help me remember what happened last week on Monday. Can you?"
Lindsey’s nod barely moved his head. He studied the flowers harder. Even the roses seemed to have an unearthly tint, mottled and stained with grey.
"Okay. Lindsey, you were at work Monday morning, weren’t you?"
Lindsey’s heart began to race and a drop of sweat tickled down the back of his neck. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong with such a normal thing as an arrangement of flowers, but he was beginning to think that something would have to be done.
"Lindsey? Can you help me remember? Can you help me remember what happened when you opened your window?"
He could hardly hear the questions now over the thunder of his heart. Though his eyes vibrated to the pulse, he concentrated on watching the flowers. Something stirred the water in the vase, something pale and evil caressed the inside of the dirty glass. With that, calmness and certainty came to Lindsey. It was up to him to do something. He nodded to himself.
"Good, good. Focus now, Lindsey. Can you help me remember the woman?"
Lindsey stood up.
One week later.
Scott locked his cash drawer into the register, powered up the system, and turned back to face Jane, ignoring the crowded lobby.
"Yeah, they found him down on a beach, just off Old Malibu Drive, y’know? Dancing around naked, yelling about burning books and that he was the only one or something. Man."
"Isn’t that Topanga State Park?" Jane squinted in thought.
"Yup." Scott nodded, glanced at the touch screen waiting for his password. "He was in the park, burning his car, right in the middle of summer. Wonder he didn’t start another wildfire. Damn."
"I still can’t believe it," said Jane. "I think that woman had something to do with it." Her voice was firm with conviction.
"Yeah, well, she got outta here and they never found her or nothing." He tapped his password in, pressed the button to open the cage without facing the lobby. "Listen to this.” Scott lowered his voice, leaned conspiratorially toward Jane. “His lawyer had ‘em hypnotize him, y’know? Tried to find out what happened, but Lindsey went nuts, smashed up the guy’s office, almost got away again. Now they’ll never let him out of the psych ward. Man." Scott shook his head, saw Postmaster MacNamara standing in his office door, watching. MacNamara tapped his watch, raised his eyebrows. Flustered, Scott turned back to the lobby. "Well, I gotta get started, I guess."
Jane nodded. "Yeah, me too. Need to finish the box section. Take it easy." She sauntered back to the workroom floor.
Scott faced the window and the crowded lobby. Mondays suck, he thought. He spun the sign around to ‘Open’.
"Who’s next?" He watched a good-looking girl with dark hair march toward him, carrying a flat, rectangular parcel tight under her arm. Well, maybe this Monday won’t be so bad after all, he thought.
"I want to mail this, please, in one of your boxes."
"Sure thing, miss." He snapped open a Priority mailer box, held it out for her to slide the parcel in, and sealed it up. She addressed the box with a Massachusetts address written in an odd script then smiled at him as he keyed the transaction.
Her teeth were sharpened to points. Damn, all the freaks end up in L.A., he thought.
"Will that be cash or credit card?"
The End
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