This morning, I checked the mailbox. The landlord insists we all have one in there, and to my surprise, yes, I found it. It was embedded in my left lung, under the ribcage. There’s a button tucked beneath the rib, and once you press it, the cage unhinges with a screech. Inside, there is a sophisticated network of mail mechanisms that gazes back at you. It’s alive. One of the world’s wonders, I’d say.

The compartments are precise, smell metallic, and they’re pretty wet. Designed for envelopes that arrive through a slit near the sternum. Letters slide in effortlessly, each landing with finesse. It works perfectly if you don’t think too hard about where the paper’s been.

The first time I opened the mailbox, to my surprise, I found a folded note. It read:

“Congratulations, a mailbox user. Be aware that your mouth must remain open for most hours to permit the safe passage of unregistered mail. Failure to comply will result in penalties, including but not limited to: recursive digestion.”

Lo and behold, I would have never envisioned anything like “recursive digestion” in my wildest dreams. That must be a terror; being consumed endlessly by yourself, and still owing someone their due postage.

I shut the ribcage carefully, pressed the button, and tried to breathe. The air tasted like envelopes ever since.

Third Eye Horror
© Maciej Sitko, 2025
All rights reserved.