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No answer at Number 17

It was a lovely summer’s day, the sun was out, the sky blue and the temperature was just perfect. The postman was whistling away as he was making his deliveries. He was in such a cheerful mood. Well he was until he realised that he had a parcel to be delivered to number 17. He never liked delivering anything there, as he always felt uneasy, like someone was watching his every move.

He walked along the path up to the door and knocked… no answer. He knocked again… no answer. He started down the path and suddenly stopped, he could have sworn he had heard someone talking at the door.

He went back and knocked on the door and said in a loud voice, “There’s a delivery for you!” Once again, no answer.

He again felt that uncomfortable “I’m being watched” kind of feeling. He looked up at the windows and thought he saw a curtain twitch.

By this time the postman was not only very uncomfortable but was getting fed up and wanted to leave. So he wrote a note and put it through the letterbox telling the house’s occupants that there was a delivery waiting for them at the nearby post office.

He started whistling again as he went back down the path, as he was glad to be away from there, but once again he heard a noise from the door, this time crying. He became concerned that something terrible was going on, so reluctantly went back to the door.

He knocked once again and shouted, “Hello?” Of course, no answer.

He then heard more crying, this time louder. He put his head closer to the door and could hear someone sobbing and muttering in an unrecognisable language.

The postman said, “Hello? Is everything alright?” Again, no answer.

He decided to look through the letterbox to see if he could see anything. He lifted up the flap and saw some big intense eyes staring out at him, suddenly a poker was thrust out of the letterbox piercing the postman’s right eye, forcing its way through his skull, impaling the unfortunate fellow. The door quickly opened, swallowed up the postman, and slammed shut.

The sun disappeared, the sky blackened, the temperature cooled. The rain came and the postman’s blood washed away, leaving just a rain soaked parcel for number 17.


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