When my flight landed earlier this morning, I checked my P.O. Box. I had set it up as my forwarding address prior to leaving the city a couple months ago as a precautionary measure so as not to miss important correspondence Inside I found three letters written by Aunt Abigail. I must admit that upon reading the letters I had assumed she was pranking me, as she was apt to do in my youth, but the subject matter was too serious so I quickly brushed the notion aside.
In the first letter, dated only two weeks after I had left the city, Aunt Abigail seemed as lucid as ever. Apart from the usual updates about her side of the family and questions about my work, she mentioned a case she had been investigating. She had always been more open to the paranormal than I, and had promised to alleviate my skepticism if it was the last thing she did. This case, however, seemed unremarkable. She was planning to meet a man that had contacted her over the phone about strange sightings in his bathroom mirror. These sorts of cases were of the type I had come to ignore, since most were either outright hoaxes or delusions of a disturbed mind. Aunt Abby held no such prejudices, and so when she declared her intentions to meet the man in the Cafe Brazil off of 75 just north of Campbell, I assumed she had done so.
The second letter was dated only a week later. It wasn't like Aunt Abby to write a followup letter while still on a case, so I knew immediately something was wrong. I could tell right away that she was agitated by the fact that she skipped the usual formalities. Aunt Abby had met with the man in Cafe Brazil as planned. She refused to transcribe the specifics of what he had said, but it must have been convincing because she agreed to investigate his home in person. This was uncharacteristic in her old age, but not unprecedented. Her last few sentences sent a chill down my spine:
“I waited until 2AM that night as instructed. I felt like a damn fool, as though perhaps my instincts had frayed in my advanced age. But as I starred at myself in the mirror, I swear something changed. Maybe it was a trick of the candlelight, but the flicker in my eyes looked different somehow, alien. I can't explain it, but it didn't feel like me in there.”
The third letter, dated about three weeks after the second, was barely legible. Aunt Abigail had always been proud of her penmanship, so I assumed she was forced to write left-handed for some reason. But her words made little sense either.
“She's taunting me in there. She thinks I can't see her, but I can. You can too, Jimmy, if you know how to look. I can't live like this forever! So I'm taking action while I still can. Don't look for me. If this works, there's no need. If it doesn't...”
The last few words are smudged out, though I can't tell if this was intentional or if the ink ran. Regardless of her protestations, my curiosity won't let me drop this issue. I'll find her, if her trail hasn't already gone cold.
Perhaps your aunt has become possessed or is being perpetually haunted by the spirit she was investagating. I've heard of such things and of spirits attaching themselves to a living person. I'd be worried if I were you but then again I'm a believer.
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