My Terrifying Mystery Letter
Who sent it? What do “they” want?
Not that my house looks scary like this picture; actually, it looks just like a house. But a real picture of my home would bore you.
It started on day one
I’d no sooner gotten settled into my very comfortable suburban abode when a mysterious envelope appeared in my mailbox. Its contents were terrifying.
Fortunately, St. Jude (Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases) Church was only a block away and so, with the cursed envelope in my hand, I frantically pounded on the rectory door.
After several minutes, the old, creaky, oaken door slowly opened.
“What is it?” asked a man in a black cassock who appeared to be at least one hundred and ninety years old.
“Father?” I asked.
“Yes”, he answered. “I am Father James.”
“James the Greater, or James the Lesser?” I asked, thinking he’d be impressed with my liturgical expertise.
“Neither” he responded. “I am the namesake of the most holy St. James the Dismembered.”
With that, he held up his right hand — WITH HIS LEFT HAND! — and I ran off screaming. (I later learned that his church was part of an outlaw sect disavowed by The Vatican.)
Back home
I started a fire in the fireplace, half expecting a laughing demon to menace me from out of the flames, and looked again at the contents of the envelope.
I needed an answer. I would try my next-door neighbor.
A much more friendly neighborhood than I expected
This time, the door was opened almost immediately by an attractive, some would say sexy, middle-aged woman.
“Are you here for a piano lesson?” she asked.
“No, Ms., I’m your new next-door neighbor.”
“Oh, excuse me, since my divorce I’ve been doing some piano instruction on the side. Would you like to come in and tickle my ivories?”
I took that as an attempt at seduction. “That’s tempting, but I have other fish to fry,” I responded, thrusting the envelope toward her.
She put two fingers in her mouth and answered coquettishly, “I just love fried fish. Sometimes I go over to the rectory and help Father James with the annual parish fish fry.”
Have I just moved to The Twilight Zone?
I had to listen to her play half of The Brandenburg Concertos on her baby grand, kill off a bottle of expensive wine, and let her massage my hamstrings (she wasn’t bad) before I could get out of there.
But I finally did, with the promise that I’d stop by later with some fish and chips to watch reruns of Columbo on her brand new 65-inch flat screen. (I confess I’m looking forward to it.)
The mysterious envelope never came up, by the way.
Finally, I find peace — sort of
Now at my wits end, I took the terrifying piece of mail to the town’s Village Hall, where I showed it to the city finance manager.
I learned that I was not the only village resident who had come to him with similar postal terror. And, he assured me, they were all just as horrified.
“It happens every time,” he said somewhat timidly, “that people receive their property tax bills.”
Pardon my escrow
All told, the experience was worth it. I was inspired to run for public office on the “Lower Our Property Tax” ticket.
The votes should be counted soon. I was leading as the night closed, but rumor had it that the mail-in ballots hadn’t been counted yet. Now I’m really terrified.
As it turned out, I lost. But I had the satisfaction of knowing I tried. And the good sense to relocate.
