Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Mailman. I deliver letters to DEAD PEOPLE | Scary Stories

Episode Date: June 1, 2024

The letters hide a horrifying secret... Story from Blair Daniels Make sure to check out more of their work at u/BlairDaniels  Cover Art from Ninerio More of their works at ninerioarts  Original Post: My garden hose grows longer every day. : r/blairdaniels                        Original YouTube link: I'm a Mailman. I deliver letters to DEAD PEOPLE.     Merch: lighthousehorror.com  For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I've been a mailman in Briarwood, Pennsylvania for almost a decade. In that time, nothing even remotely strange has happened. I just go to each house, deliver their mail while listening to podcasts. Sometimes I wave to the residents if they're outside. My job, it's probably the most stable thing in my life. But all that changed a few weeks ago. That's when I started getting the black letters. At least that's what I call them.

They were envelopes that were pure black with silver lettering, no return address, no stamp either, which was weird. They shouldn't have been able to get into my mail truck without a stamp. I didn't know what to do with him. But when I mentioned it to my boss, he was too busy to care. So I delivered him with the rest of the mail. I figured there were some sort of themed invitation or something. I don't know, maybe a goth teenager's birthday party.

Maybe a funeral. I didn't know, and I didn't waste too much time thinking about it. But then more of them started appearing. They all look the same, a pure black envelope with the same looping cursive. No stamp, no return address. I started feeling a little weird about it, because if they were invitations, they would have all been sent out at the same time. These were being sent out over two weeks.

I was curious what was inside. But of course opening someone else's mail, it's a federal offense. So I didn't open them. I just continued delivering them. Maybe it was a new marketing campaign. Maybe for something goth, edgy, like a new hot topic or something. I don't know. I'm 35 years old.

I'm a single guy. I have no idea what the kids are into these days." Eventually, I recognized a name on one of the envelopes. Richard Frazier. He wasn't a friend or anything, but I'd run into him a few times. He was often walking his corgi around the neighborhood. And the dog, he would yap at me constantly. I slowed the mail truck as I came up to his mailbox.

I stared at the silver lettering. Richard Frazier, 15 Robin Court. Shaking my hand, I leaned over. I popped open the mailbox and I slid it inside with the rest of the mail. Two days later, Richard Frazier was dead. I ran into his widow walking the dog. She looked very out of place, tall and thin, with a full face of makeup, walking after this wild barking corgi.

I slowed the truck down. Hi, where's Richard? I was actually hoping to ask him about the letter, if I could bring it up naturally. Her expression immediately darkened. Richard passed away, she replied. She told me the whole story. He was in great health, great shape. But he'd had a brain aneurysm and suddenly died.

like that. Doctors can't really predict them, she said. So we had no idea. I didn't know what to say. I gave her my condolences. And then I just drove away. I didn't make the connection at that time between the letter and his death. He was an acquaintance I knew, and he passed away suddenly it happens. But then things started getting really weird. A few days after I heard about Richard's death, I got another letter addressed to him. It looked identical to the first one. Black envelope, no return address or stamp, and looping cursive lettering.

But there was one important difference. It had a different address. Not fifteen robin court, but one five. I stared at the envelope in confusion. Richard hadn't moved across town. He was dead. Maybe that's his office address, I thought. But I'd never seen any offices on Elm Road.

It was a winding road through the forest with a few single-family homes on it. Why would this person send him two copies of the invitation, or whatever it was, and wouldn't they know he'd passed away by him? now. I drove down Elm Road, dropping off various bundles of mail. When I got to mailbox number 151, I looked up knowing the next house would be where I was supposed to deliver Richard's letter. There was just one problem. It wasn't a house. It was the Briarwood Cemetery. I pulled out my phone and typed in the address just to make sure, but it was correct. Richard's letter had been addressed to the cemetery.

And now, when I looked at the letter more closely, I noticed there was something written underneath the address line. The letters PL followed by the number five, six. Could that be plot number five, six? I pulled into the cemetery parking lot, got out of my truck, and began to wander through the cemetery. It took me 20 minutes until I was standing in front of a grave. The earth was freshly turned. And the name on the headstone read Richard Frazier. I stood there for a moment confused. If I hadn't seen any of the other black letters, I would have assumed a loved one

was sending a letter to his plot, maybe even a grandchild. Like, I don't know, a letter to Santa. A way for them to get their feelings out. To grieve. But why would someone send this black letter to Richard, find out he died, and then send another one to his grave? It felt like some sort of morbid joke. Not knowing what else to do, I set the letter against his headstone. Maybe whoever sent it would visit his grave and see that it had been delivered, I don't know.

I made a mental note, though. If I saw any other letters addressed to 153 Elm Road, I'd just give him to my boss and let him deal with it. The next day, I found another black envelope in the mail, not addressed to the cemetery, but to a house down by the lake, addressed to a Brianna Chen. I didn't think much of it, until later that night when I was browsing the local news and saw the headline, Local woman killed in car accident on Route 72. Her name was Brianna Chen.

My blood ran cold. No, there's no way. I stared at the screen in front of me until the after image was burned into my eyes. It's got to be just a coincidence. But it was too much to be a coincidence. I'd probably only handed out about 25 of these letters so far, and two of them had met sudden, untimely ends. Lightning doesn't strike twice.

What about the others? There were a few other names I remembered, just because they were ridiculous. Chrissy Feather, Stephen King with a V instead of a Ph. And I googled both of them. My stomach plummeted to the floor. They were dead. Chrissy had died of an allergic reaction. And Stephen had been hit by a car while crossing the road.

I stared at their obituary pages. My heart pounding. There is no way that's a coincidence. The letters. Are they killing these people? Or maybe just predicting the future. Am I? Am I helping these people?

people die by delivering these letters? First thing the next morning, I went to my boss and I told them everything, that it seemed like everyone who received one of those black envelopes has died. It's just a coincidence. With 8 billion people in the world and so many things happen to them, there's bound to be some really weird quinky dinks. And what are we supposed to do anyway? deliver in the mail? He told me. Well, I think we shouldn't deliver those letters, I said.

They don't even have stamps, I pointed out. His face darkened. They, uh, they don't have stamps. Yeah, I told you that a few weeks ago. When I first told you about the letters, remember? He shook his head. I didn't hear you, I guess, sorry. And then he got a, and started for the hallway. Hey, Stan, Stan. And I was all alone. Okay, so that was basically permission to remove all the black letters, right? They didn't have stamps.

They never should have been allowed to get sorted out into the mail in the first place. I should be in the clear if I just don't let these letters out. And maybe that'll stop the deaths. That day, as I was making my usual route, I found two black letters, one address to Hector Garcia, and the other address to Anna Ivan. I slipped both in my pocket, and I continued like nothing had happened. When I got home, I pulled out the letters. It felt wrong having them in my house on my kitchen table.

So what do I do with them now? I thought, throw them out? Put them through the paper shredder, burn them. Should I open them first? I knew opening other people's mail was a federal offense, but if the envelopes had no stamps, were they really even mail? Or were they just pieces of paper put into an envelope? I grabbed the first one off the table, addressed to Anna.

I held it right in front of my face, and then I ripped it open. Inside was a folded white piece of paper. I could see lines of ink through the underside of the page, but it wasn't writing. It almost looked like a drawing. I flipped the paper over, and I froze. It was a drawing of a woman face down in the lake. For a second I just stood there, staring at the horrifying image. had put a fair amount of detail into it, enough to draw identifying features like a phoenix tattoo

on Anna's left arm. Individual strands of hair spread out in the water. I crumpled the paper in my hands, crumpled it up until it was a tiny little ball, hands shaking. I grabbed the envelope address to Hector, and I ripped it open. It had a drawing inside, too. A drawing of a car barely recognizable with how crumpled and twisted it was. In the driver's side window, there was a man. His head leaned against the steering wheel. I crumpled it up, too. I walked over to the trash, and then I thought better of it.

What if this whole thing becomes an investigation? What if someone finds these in my house? My garbage? So I walked over to the fireplace. I struck a match and I started a fire, tossed the two crumpled pieces of paper inside, along with the envelopes. The fire hissed. More than it should have for ordinary paper,

it almost felt like the fire was angry at me, that there was something evil and horrible embedded in that paper being burned up to ash. I stayed up for an hour afterwards, making a cup of tea and reading a book, eventually when the fire had gone out, and I felt calm enough to sleep. I headed upstairs to bed, the smell of burning paper following me. Now for a few days, I didn't see any more black letters, just the normal wave of ads and flyers and bills. I thought maybe this whole thing was over.

somehow not delivering the letters broke the curse or whatever it was. But I was wrong. On Tuesday morning, I found a letter addressed to Anna Ivan, the woman in the drawing lying in the lake. But her name and her address weren't written in silver cursive. They were written in jagged, angry, red letters. I can't deliver something like this. I went through the other mail, and sure enough, I found a second black envelope with red lettering. It was addressed to Hector Garcia.

I took them both, and when I got to the park on Railway Avenue, I pulled into the parking lot and put on my hazard lights. I tore up the envelopes without even. even opening them. I made sure every little piece ended up in the trash. I pulled out my phone and Googled Hector and Anna. No obituary or news articles popped up. Maybe I prevented their deaths by refusing to deliver the letters.

That would be ridiculous, though, right? More than that, who's writing these letters anyway? I sucked in a breath and let it out, and then I pushed the thoughts out of my mind, and I pulled out onto the road, even with all the weird letters, I still had work to do. Things went fine that day for the most part. The Doberman on Tulip Avenue barked at me a lot, but other than that, it was a peaceful day, until I got to the last bundle of mail. There was another black letter I'd missed.

It'd been tucked in tight, wedged between two junk mail flyers. My heart started pounding. My hands shook as I took it out. All the air was sucked out of my lungs. The envelope shook and fluttered in my hands before falling to the floor. The envelope had my name on it. And for the longest time, I couldn't open it. I just sat there, watching.

the sunlight out the windshield. I turned it over and over again in my hands. The silver lettering glinted against the black paper. I knew what it would be. A disturbing, horrible drawing of my own death, and I couldn't open it, couldn't receive it. Opening it might cause my death. That seemed to be the case for Richard Frazier, Brianna Chen, and all the other. I pulled back into the park. The cold wind, the sounds of children playing on the nearby playground, they all sounded muffled to me. It was like I was underwater, as if they were in some faraway place, some happy place, completely

disconnected from my own world. Without opening the letter, I put it in the trash. And then I delivered the final bit of mail and I drove back to the post office. I made sure to lock every door and window as soon as I got home. I woke up later than usual the next day. I didn't sleep well that night. I kept waking up over and over. No reason.

I should talk to someone about this, I thought. I should talk to someone about the letters. I'd already told my boss. But his solution was to just not. not deliver the letters. Clearly, that's not enough. I wasn't going to tell my girlfriend. We'd only been seeing each other for a month. Didn't want to freak her out or make her think I was some superstitious weirdo. But I had to tell someone. Unfortunately, I still had to go to work. So I grabbed my coffee and rushed out to my car. But seconds later, I stomped on the break.

My mailbox was hanging open. And there was something inside. Not the usual mail. No one's delivered the mail yet. No, it was just a single letter. A single black envelope inside my mailbox. My heart dropped. I stopped the car and got out.

I went over and pulled out the letter. No return address? No stamp. Someone had hand delivered it, and the writing on it, it wasn't silver this time. It was blood-red. Just like Anna and Hector's second letters. I swallowed my throat dry. They know.

They know what I'm doing. They must have seen me getting rid of their letters. The thought that someone's been following my every movement made my stomach coil. This is bad. I wasn't going to open it, obviously. Instead, I pulled back into the driveway and put the car into park. Once safely inside, I pulled out my phone. From there, I could access my doorbell camera.

Maybe it caught who delivered the letter. I scrolled through the captured footage. 7.05 a.m. there was motion detected. It was the school bus picking up the neighbors. I tapped on the next one, taking at 528,

but that was just a bug flying around the porch. The next one had been taken at 3.42 a.m. When I tapped play, my heart dropped. For a few seconds, I just saw footage of my porch.

Dark, grainy, shadows moved in the street. But as I squeated at the screen, I saw something. A figure, tall and lean, approaching my mailbox. There were no visible car or headlights, just this figure, barely visible in the grainy footage, opening my mailbox. It slipped something inside before closing it. And then for a moment, they paused. They were looking up at my house, right at the doorbell camera, like they knew I would watch this footage.

And then they left, disappearing off the right side of the frame. Okay, it's time to call the police. I had evidence of this person now delivering this weird letter. They were mailing them all around town. Sure, you couldn't see their face or anything else about them. But it was evidence. They couldn't tell me I was imagining things. I wasn't crazy.

This person knew my address and came to my house in the middle of the night. I texted my boss that I couldn't come to work that day. And then I called the police. Have you tried tracing the letters? The officer asked. Officer Martinez stared me down, hands crossed over her chest. She didn't seem very interested in all this. Even after I showed her video proof of this person,

the black letter addressed to me is still unopened. It's sealed up in a little baggie in the middle of the table. You can't trace them, I began. They don't have stamps, so they aren't marked or anything. And you don't have the other letters, the ones with the violent drawings that you opened, she asked. Ah, no, I throw them out. I knew lying to the police was bad, but I felt like telling her I burned them would make me look

like I was hiding something. Well, I'd recommend setting up another camera on your mailbox, in case they come back again. It is technically against a law to put something in someone's mailbox like that." She locked eyes with me. I'm going to take this back and open it now. Okay? She asked. I nodded.

She left with a letter. I couldn't help picturing what might be on the paper. A drawing of me being stabbed by a faceless person in the darkness. Me slumped against the steering wheel in the wreck of my car. Me being chased down the street by that tall, dark figure. Officer Martinez didn't come back for almost a half hour. When she finally did, she brought back the letter in a bag and held it up for me to read. It wasn't a drawing.

It was just three words, all caps, written in blood-red ink. Deliver the letters. Seems like this person's mad. You didn't deliver their letters, she said. I wouldn't be concerned about it. Probably just some teenager playing some edgy prank. We've seen a lot worse from kids around here, honestly. So you don't think I'm in any danger?

I asked. No, I don't think so, she replied. But you can get a camera on the mailbox so we can catch them. Okay, but all the deaths match up with the people who got the letters, I insisted. This is way too much of a coincidence. Yeah, that's true. She began, and I would be concerned if all those people died violent, unexplained deaths. But as you said, Richard Frazier died of an aneurysm, and Brianna Chen died in a car accident.

That's all this is. A bunch of coincidences. I thanked her for her time and left the police station. I got the feeling that she thought I was freaking out about nothing. To be fair to her. I guess she'd seen worse things as a cop than some creepy letters. But teenager or not, this person knew where I lived. Who knows what they do next to me? Me?

Or anyone else those letters are addressed to? I took the rest of the day off and bought a small camera. I put it under the mailbox. It couldn't be seen there. And then I went to bed. I'm not sure if I really wanted any more footage of the other. a tall, shadowy figure in front of my house. Thankfully, there was nothing in my mailbox that morning.

I checked my footage, too, and there were no shadowy figures. Nothing from the new camera either. I went to work, and I told my boss everything. I filled them in on my meeting with the police, the deaths, everything. He told me to throw out any letter that didn't have a stamp, And that was all he'd say. So I got into the truck and I started my route. I put on some music to help calm my nerves.

I started at the north end of town, as usual, making my way through the houses. My nerves were frayed. I couldn't concentrate. And then I saw it. Another black letter tucked between a bundle of white envelopes. Time stopped. I snatched it up, bringing it to my face. My heart dropped when I saw the name.

It was addressed Anna Ivan again. The woman whose drawing showed her face down in the lake. The address on this letter was different, though. It wasn't even a proper address. Under her name, it just says, Lakeside Drive. My blood ran cold. I quickly pulled out my phone and Googled her name,

but there was nothing about her online. No news articles, no obituaries. Nothing. The lump grew in my throat. I started the truck and I headed towards the lake. I needed to know. Maybe I could warn her, save her even. As I drove down Lakeside Drive,

I studied the shoreline. It made me sick, but I was looking for a body. Looking for Anna. I finally pulled into the parking lot for the beach. It was empty. It's roped off since it's too cold to swim. Should I call my boss? The police?

Someone. As I sat there thinking about my next move, I saw it. a dot of bright neon pink in the distance, bobbing up and down near the shoreline, about 30 yards away. No. I got out of my car and ran to the shore. My boots sank in the sand.

The cold wind whipped at my face. The neon pink dot grew closer. Deep down. I knew it was her. I knew it was Anna. Even though I hadn't delivered the letters, she'd still died. The drawing still came true. I called the police.

I couldn't get any closer without actually swimming out to her. So I just stood there, staring at the pink dot until they arrived. When they did, I watched them paddle out to her. They wouldn't tell me what was going on. But by the look on their faces, I knew they'd found a corpse. I opened the envelope, the one addressed to Anna on Lakeside Drive. It was just two words written in jagged red letters. It said, I'm sorry.

I didn't finish my route. I went home and I shut the doors and locked them. The only option was to quit my job. It was obvious. There was no other way. Surely the police would be taking the whole thing more seriously now. Now since they found Anna. But I didn't care.

I just wanted out. I couldn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned thinking about the letters about Anna. in the water. I should have warned her. I thought destroying the letters was enough. Why didn't I warn her? I knew where she lived. I could have knocked on her door. But I can still warn Hector. I looked up his number online. I dialed it around 1 a.m. He didn't pick up, of course, But I kept trying till I saw it was almost three. I left a voicemail that probably sounded insane, but I didn't care I needed to tell him.

And then, just as I was about to fall asleep, my phone buzzed. I picked it up. It was a notification. It was from the camera on the mailbox. There's something out there. My blood ran cold. my hands shaking, I tapped the notification. They were wearing a mask this time, a white plastic mask with a wide open smile.

The eye cutouts were pitch black, staring into the camera. I dropped the phone. I ran over to the dresser and I dragged it over my door. I need to call the police, I thought. But when I picked up the phone again, the person was gone. I swiped away from the camera feed to dial 911 when I heard it. Footsteps. Right outside my door.

There's no way they got into the house that fast. I didn't even hear the front door open. Unless someone was inside the whole time. I flattened myself against the wall furthest from the door. I stared at the doorknob, shining in the darkness. I pressed the phone to my ear. I was breathing so fast I felt light-headed. There's someone in my house, someone right outside my door.

I whispered into the phone. I was interrupted by three loud knocks on the door. It sounded like whoever was out there was trying to break in. The dresser rattled against the wood. And then the metallic clicking sound of someone turning the knob. I ran into the closet and I squeezed myself in, hoping they didn't hear me. As I pulled the sliding door shut, I pressed my face against a small crack. I looked out.

The figure was now standing in the middle of my room. Worst of all, the bedroom door remained shut. The dresser was still blocking it. The figure was wearing a long, dark robe. The white mask shone out from the shadows, frozen in that wide, empty smile. Eye sockets blank. Hurry, I whispered into the phone. It's in here.

here with me. But as soon as I said it, the face turned towards me. It was staring at the closet. It started towards me. Its head and shoulders barely moved with each step. It was almost like it was gliding towards me across my bedroom floor. I'm going to die, I thought. It got closer and closer. And then it just stopped. It stood inches from the closet door. I watched as it raised its hand. The fingers were impossibly long, with too many joints on them. Its flesh was as dark as its hollow eye sockets. I started to wonder about its face. Maybe I wasn't wearing a mask at all. But before I could really think about it, I noticed something. There was something in its hand.

A letter. The thing slipped the letter through the crack in the closet doors. With a fluttering sound, it bounced off my legs and filled the floor. It settled between my feet. And when I looked back up, the figure was gone. I didn't come out of the closet. I didn't even move until I heard the sirens. They searched the whole house, but I knew they wouldn't find anything. Whatever that thing was, I don't think it was from this world.

After they left, I walked back into my room, and there on the closet floor was the letter. there wasn't a letter. It wasn't an envelope this time. It was just a black piece of paper. On the paper was a single sentence in silver cursive writing. One sentence that made me realize I'd done everything wrong. That I didn't understand the situation at all. On the paper, it said, I was trying to warn them.