A Mysterious Mailbox of Unknown Destination

Prologue:

Bodies kept piling up at Serenity Apartments.

My mild-mannered roommate started acting suspicious.

A strange smell festered inside the house.

The letters in the mailbox always read backward and jumbled.

When I finally managed to deliver the envelope to the police, I understood: some words shouldn't be spoken in order, or they become real.

1

"We interrupt this broadcast with breaking news: At approximately 2 AM today, a brutal homicide occurred at 'Serenity Apartments' in the West District."

"The victim, a 27-year-old male office worker living alone, was discovered dead in his living room—his throat slashed, the wound showing a distinctive 'serrated' pattern."

"No murder weapon or viable fingerprints were recovered from the scene. The killer employed extremely cruel methods and demonstrated obvious counter-surveillance awareness..."

When I stumbled downstairs rubbing my eyes, my roommate Bella was watching the morning news.

"Alvin, you're up. There's some psycho killer on the loose—and Serenity Apartments is really close to us." Bella's round face had gone ghost-white as she looked at me, visibly shaken.

I poured myself some water and gave her a reassuring smile. "Bell, don't worry. We're roommates, not his target demographic."

Frowning, I added, "Bell, have you noticed any weird smell around here lately?"

"Huh? No, I haven't. Alvin, are you pulling all-nighters on deadlines again? Maybe you're just stressed."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"Alvin, I'm heading to work. Could you pick me up from the office tonight? I'm still kind of freaked out." Bella touched her hair self-consciously.

I nodded casually, agreeing without hesitation.

After stretching and grabbing my freshly brewed coffee, I headed to the mailbox by the door as usual. The mailbox that was normally empty now inexplicably contained a letter.

For a moment I was confused, turning the envelope over to examine both sides. Ordinary paper stock, no sender information, not even a postmark.

Frowning, I tore open the envelope. Inside was just a single folded white sheet. When I unfolded it, the paper bore a message in crooked, uneven handwriting: [HIS LOCK NECK IS THE SO TIRED DOOR TO SAW.]

A bizarre, incomprehensible sentence. After the last word was a blood-red fingerprint.

My heart lurched. The coffee cup trembled slightly in my hand, liquid sloshing in small ripples. My mind immediately flashed back to the morning news, and an icy sensation crawled up the back of my neck like climbing vines.

Instinctively I glanced around. The hallway stretched empty and silent—frighteningly so.

I tucked the letter away and went back inside, locking the door behind me.

Sitting on the sofa, I stared at the note, lost in thought. Could the killer be someone in our complex? The thought that I might interact daily with a psychotic murderer hiding in plain sight sent a shiver down my spine.

Darkness gradually devoured the light at the horizon. The half-concealed moon hung in the sky. My alarm went off—time to pick up Bella from work.

Despite my growing dread, I steeled myself, grabbed the car keys, and headed out.

Standing outside her office building, I watched people file out one by one, but still no sign of Bella. Night deepened, seemingly poised to swallow everything. The entire building went dark.

Worry gnawed at me. I couldn't help calling Bella's phone. After several attempts, it just kept ringing—no answer.

Remembering that Bella had no family or friends here except me, I rushed over to the security guard who was about to lock up. "Sir, is anyone still inside?"

"I've done three rounds already. Nobody's left." The guard didn't even look up.

I stood beneath the pitch-black building, feeling lost. Where was Bell? Did she go home already?

Suddenly my body went rigid.

That psycho killer—if Bell was home alone right now, she could become his next target!