Man of Letters is an Internet ghost story I wrote for Melonland!
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Not long ago I met a man of letters. He wrote the most cheerful things, of life, and of dreams he’d had and those of others. He seemed quite connected to a whole host of interesting people and it was consistently the case that he encountered the most peculiar things. His every e-mail was so vibrant and full of life that I never for a moment thought to question a thing he said. I quickly began to cherish his e-mails very much. And over the many months of near daily correspondence, we grew closer than I ever had been with anyone else in my life.
One evening he wrote me of a girl he had just met in Rome who spoke with ghosts. This intrigued me due to my own connection with a ghost my own, which I hadn’t ever discussed with him. He must have sensed my eagerness to learn more about her, but his next letter that same evening mentioned nothing of her. Before I had a chance to respond, that next morning, the woman from Rome wrote to me herself. After pleasantries she launched into the story of how she and he had met just the night before, promising me there was a burning question to come.
He had ordered her a drink at a bar, and she reciprocated. Upon receiving the drink from her, he walked over to her speechless. For a moment she worried she had made the mistake of entertaining a fool. But he gathered himself and explained that the drink she had ordered was his very favorite drink, and by no means a common one. She smirked as I’ve learned she does but she offered him no explanation. He was transfixed.
Their evening together carried on with discussion ranging from Rome to planet earth, the stars, to her dying aunt, which led to ghosts, aliens, back to stars, then afterlife. And when the bar was done with them, she helped him to her car and dropped him off at his home. He had proven to really like the drink she had ordered him, along with six one-mores.
It was curious though to me how they arrived at his home. In her description of the ride from city to rural, I realized neither one of them were driving. In fact, it became clear toward the end of her description that the car had driven itself.
It was only in her final paragraph that she confessed to me that he was dead. And that she, only twenty four years of age, was living thirty years into my future. That is not the strangest thing. For it was within her closing sentence that I learned my fate; for my dear friend, the man of letters, shares my name.
As for her burning question, it came in the form of postscript, marked by a drawing of a lamb. Would I meet her thirty years from now in Rome? So that she might have the pleasure and honor of taking me home.
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Did you enjoy this sPo0o0kY story? Check out more!
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Man of Letters (504 words)
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