Page 12

Harry and Bob walked down Market Street. Two in the afternoon, and the sun hadn’t bothered to show up in days. Harry was sporting a new haircut under his fedora — courtesy of Bob. Bob, meanwhile, was munching on a hot dog — courtesy of Harry.

“What do you make of this building, Bob?” Harry asked, inclining his head.

They were just coming up on an old, abandoned building — very square, with boarded windows and an overgrown lawn. At least, it looked abandoned… except for the United States Postal Service employee walking down the steps after stuffing mail into the slot.

Bob shrugged. “It’s a building,” he said matter-of-factly. “There are a lot of them around.”

Harry made a face. “Yes, but this one. It still gets mail.”

“Didn’t you stake it out once?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. And there was no one. No one for a week.”

He grimaced at the memory — a week sitting and sleeping in a borrowed, broken-down 1981 Volkswagen Rabbit. Legroom was not its strong point.

“But the mail was still delivered?”

“Daily,” Harry said, nodding again. “Once, sometimes twice a day. Never a parcel. Only letters.” He paused, frowning, thoughtful. “Except for one day. A parcel was left, addressed simply to ‘Resident.’ I know. I looked.”

Bob swallowed the last of his hot dog and licked ketchup from his fingers. “Maybe they all died inside and no one knows or told anyone.”

“That’s pretty morbid, Bob.”

Bob just shrugged, as if death inside buildings was perfectly normal. “Maybe. But until you break in and learn otherwise, it could be true.”

A gust of wind blew past, tugging the edge of a yellowed envelope stuck in the mailbox. Harry watched it for a moment, then turned away.

The building didn’t move. But it didn’t have to.