The Replacement

I was there as the replacement. By the time I reached the village, night had fallen. The bus dropped me at a crumbling stop and sped off, its taillights disappearing into the darkness. I wasn’t expecting a grand welcome, but a familiar face would have been comforting. Perhaps that was asking too much. After all, I was just a humble postman.

I looked around but saw no street signs or landmarksonly shadows and whispers of an abandoned place. The sky was thick with clouds, and I knew I had to find shelter before the storm broke. This village was notorious for its torrential downpours. No one came here willingly. The previous postmanthe man I was sent to replacehad vanished without a trace. One morning, he simply stopped answering calls from the head office. They waited a month before sending me in his stead.

“Stay away from the old graveyard,” my friend had warned. “That place has storiesbad stories.”

I laughed it off at the time, dismissing it as village folklore. But now, standing alone in the damp, desolate night, those warnings replayed in my mind, sounding less like superstition and more like prophecy.

A dim light flickered in the distance. I squinted through the gloom and made my way toward it. The ground was sodden, slick with mud from yesterday’s rain. I traveled lightone suitcase and a holdall, containing a change of clothes and a small collection of books. My entire life, packed into those two bags.

As I approached, I realized the light was coming from a hut made of bamboo and mud, its roof sagging under rusted corrugated sheets. The first drops of rain began to fall, and before I knew it, the skies unleashed a torrential downpour. I dashed inside without waiting for an invitation, grateful for the flimsy shelter.

The rain hammered against the iron roof, each drop a deafening drumbeat. In the center of the room, a hurricane lamp flickered weakly on a rickety wooden table, its glass smudged with soot. The air smelled of damp earth and decay.

“Sorry for the mess,” a voice said behind me, sending a jolt through my spine. “But you’ve got all the time in the world to clean it up.”

I spun around, dropping my bags. In the dim light, an old man sat cross-legged in the corner, his silver hair glistening faintly. He looked ancient, his age impossible to guessseventy, maybe older. I hadn’t noticed him when I entered.

“Is… is this your house?” I stammered, my voice betraying a nervous edge.

The man chuckled, a dry, hollow sound that bounced unnaturally around the small room, echoing as if it came from nowhere and everywhere at once. My mind snagged on the oddity of an echo in such a confined space, but before I could dwell on it, something else caught my eyea faded sign on the wall, painted in red and white, spelling out “Post Office.”

“You must be joking,” I muttered. “This… this is the post office?”

Silence. I turned back to the corner, but the old man was gone. I blinked, scanning the room, but it was empty. Panic clawed at my chest. I grabbed my bags and rushed to the door, but a sudden gust of wind slammed it shut. I yanked at the handle, but it ripped clean off in my hands.

The hurricane lamp sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness. The last thing I heard before the blackness swallowed me was the sound of the old man’s laughter, echoing in the room like a cruel, mocking ghost.