I am not Janine. Nor do I know Johnny. My name is Jill. I send cards to people and sign them from their casual acquaintances. Some people purposefully lose pre-existing packages, others release statements that it’s more efficient to fly a letter halfway across the country and back before delivering it, but I like to keep things simple. This is one of the many cards that I write every year to ensure that the path is traced.
There’s a trick to it, of course. The acquaintances have to be someone that they’ll easily recognize on the card, but not someone that they talk to regularly enough that they might thank them and blow our cover. We can’t let them know the cards are from us. And of course, the path of the letters has to be correct. I leave it to my coworkers to collect the perfect names and addresses. My job is to sit down and write out the cards by hand every year. Birthday cards, Christmas cards, Get Well Soon cards, it doesn’t really matter.
Cards serve one purpose and one purpose only—to protect people. From what, I do not know.
It all started a few hundred years ago with the invention of the card, much like the one I find myself writing a brief note from Vincent to Lynn on. It was a group in what is now the UK who first discovered the shape of a very specific path that must be travelled while carrying a card. The size that had to be used was eventually standardized to the A-6. It also must be made of cardstock with some sort of writing on it, but other than that it did not matter what kind of card you used. By creating a very large path, it was found that the entire country could be protected. This country-wide path needed to be completed every year, to prevent something unspeakable from happening—or so we were told.
As the mail service spread to other countries, each leader picked a path that would be traced in their own land, then sealed it with the sacred protection ritual. This trek along a country-wide path needed to be repeated each year, which was when organizations like mine were born. Yes, I work for the United States Postal Service, and it is my solemn duty to repeat the ritual each year and continue to protect the people of the United States of America.
I’m told that it used to be a much easier job, as well as a more appreciated one. My predecessors ensured that railroad tracks followed the path, so mail sent would automatically trace it and continuously repeat the ritual. They created postcards and mass-produced greeting cards. But with the invention of airplanes and automobiles, things grew a little more tricky. More mail was sent, but not all of it was cards, there was the invention of bills and newspapers and junk mail which threw everything off. Now there are emails and cards are only sent as a by-product in packages or during holidays or for special occasions.
This is why I have to sit here, each year, penning notes to people I’ll never meet, and signing them from their acquaintances. Not because I want to, but because it is an integral part of my job.
After about my 30th letter, I realize that it is time for me to go up to the customer service counter. While this is the least favorite part of my job, at least I can do the important work of ensuring that extra cards are being sent along the lines of the path. My coworker who is currently at the counter visibly relaxes when I relieve him—he’s been working nearly two hours already.
As I scan packages, I type in the to and from addresses, the screen lighting up every time one of them adds to the path. It’s early December, so the lines aren’t as long as they will be in a week or two, but there are still enough people waiting that some are outside of the building. It’s just me working, despite the lines. We always only have one person working the counter, regardless of how long people have to wait, because this is not the real purpose of the USPS. Our job has never been to ship things on time, and it’s frustrating that people treat us like it is.
One young lady in particular seems especially upset as she walks up to the counter and immediately starts talking, without so much as an introduction. Typical.
“My package was supposed to go from Portland to Seattle but it’s been to Miami and is now lost somewhere in New Jersey! Is there anything you can do to help locate it? I really need this delivered, it’s for work.” She sounds whiny and unsettled as she places an invoice on the counter. I try to make my voice soothing in response.
“I’m really sorry, you’ll have to go to one of the New Jersey offices if you’d like help there.”
“But we’re in Oregon! I can’t go to the other side of the country!” she shrieks.
“Calm down, ma’am,” I say, knowing that it will help remind her to control her temper. She doesn’t even try though, and instead grows more agitated.
“It doesn’t have to be like this!”
“Yes, it does,” I reply solemnly, before repeating the same words that were once spoken to me. “You’ve been warned.”
“Okay,” she says, holding up her hands and slowly backing away. Her tone has completely changed. “I’ll try online, then.” She exits and the next in line approaches the counter. I smile, glad that I can skip helping one of the endless customers.
Another woman walks up and starts talking to me when the phone rings. I hold up a hand to hush her and answer.
“Yes?” I say into the receiver.
“This is Deputy Department Manager, Greg Mullins. Am I speaking to Jill?” a voice asks on the other end.
“Yes.”
“Jill, you’ve been chosen for the trail.” I gasp and my fingers start tingling. I’m not even able to respond, it’s all I can do to keep standing after hearing the news.
This is the highest honor, but it’s also incredibly dangerous. There are stories of postal workers taking trips that are similar to this. When they return, their actions are violent and nonsensical, attacking their own. I can’t let that happen to me, but this is also the only way to learn of the secrets of the USPS. My job is finally amounting to something. I will have to be careful.
“A representative will be by later with the official letter and instructions on your role.”
“Great!” My voice is breathy and uneven, but I don’t care. “I get off at 4, should I wait?”
“No, no. We’ll be there before then. Nobody should have to work after 4PM, we wouldn’t expect you to keep the office open late just for this.”
“Thank you,” I say, but the line clicks and the call ends without a goodbye.
“I’m going on break!” I announce to the line of customers, who collectively groan as I put out a sign claiming I’ll be back in 15 minutes. But I’m too apprehensive to remain at the counter, so they will have to wait.
I was given an official card to carry and sent on my way without much in the way of instruction; although I was informed of just what I was protecting everybody from and how dangerous it would be. My job now carries much more weight than it did earlier today.
There’s an overgrown paved road that led to the start of the trail—the remains of a futile attempt made by the USPS to include traffic that would trace the path. But this particular terrain is too mountainous, too wild, to ever be tamed. So I was told that every year, one of us needs to cross the trail while carrying our letter, avoiding the horrors below, and complete the ritualistic path of protection.
The wind howls through the trees as I traverse the overgrown and barely present path. Goosebumps pop up over my body and my USPS uniform clings to me, blown this way and that by the relentless gusts of freezing wind. I finger the worn edges of the small card in my hands, carefully holding on to it to ensure that it doesn’t fly away. That would lead to disaster; I know that now.
On what I hope is the last piece of the path, strange things begin popping around me. This is not unexpected, Greg told me that it would happen. But it’s one thing to know that odd things will happen, and another thing entirely to feel shivers as someone watches you from behind. The occasional creaking of wagon wheels or the distant howls of unseen creatures keep me company as I continue onward. Towering trees cast shadows that dance with malevolent intent, and my imagination runs wild. For the first time in years, I am reminded of my mother’s advice to go into nursing. Changing bandages on wounds has never sounded more appealing than it does right now.
I forcefully stop my mind from wandering. One must be constantly vigilant on this trail. The whispers of the entities that dwell in the shadows prey on the unsuspecting and seek to drag them into the abyss. That was the first thing Greg had told me, and he had really hammered the point home. I’ve known there was danger related to this job for a while, but it had never clicked just how much until tonight.
As I approach the final stretch of the trail, the ominous atmosphere intensifies. The landscape grows otherworldly, with twisted trees and surreal rock formations creating a foreign landscape. The only thing familiar is the ferns around me. I clutch the card tighter, my heart pounding in my chest, and repeat the sending instructions in my head in an attempt to drown out everything else. The card must reach its destination. Nothing else matters. I am too far in to turn around now, so I must be the one who brings it.
I am looking for a secluded clearing surrounded by ancient trees, and I think I’ve found it by the energy that hangs thick in the air. An amber glow emanates from the ground. I hesitate for only a moment, my eyes darting nervously around the clearing, searching for any signs of what might lie in wait. And that’s when I see her. A beautiful figure that beckons me forward. Is this the recipient?
I take a step, and then another, without even realizing that my feet are sinking as I continue until my arms brush against the ground as I go. Stumbling, I now see that my legs are completely engulfed in the cold and frozen earth and I can’t continue forward. I struggle to break free, but that only pulls me further down. The woman from before struts forward and easily plucks the card from my trembling fingers, gone numb with terror. I sink further and the earth engulfs me. I squeeze my eyes shut, but even still the sounds and voices lash against my consciousness, forcing my eyelids open. All I see is impossible pain and cruelty before I am lost, my mind being flayed open, never to return to sanity. My last thought before I succumb is that hopefully someone will follow, carrying the card in my wake, or next year will be a disaster.
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