I put the sign up. It reads: “Danger: Do Not Speak to the Mailbox”. Naturally, someone does. I watched the old man read the sign and smile. He leaned against the fence, and began to chat with the mailbox. I could hear everything he said from the window.
“Yes, sir, name’s Allan Johnson. Widower.”
The mailbox did not reply. Maybe it wouldn’t happen this time. Maybe my theory about the mailbox creating an energy field that compelled people to talk was true.
“Never used to introduce myself like that, but I do miss my other half. She was quite a woman.”
The mailbox’s flag shot upright. The old man smiled. Like this was perfectly natural. I knew what would happen next. I had seen it often enough.
“Name was Isobel. Quite a cook. But more than that, she was an excellent seamstress. There was nothing she couldn’t make. This suit I’m wearing is one of hers. I just finished visiting her grave. It’s been a year.”
I held my hand up to my mouth. I wanted to scream at the old man to shut up. That he was about to lose something so very important to him.
“I… I…” Allan Johnson had a vacant gaze and stared at the mailbox. Like he could feel it. I knew his mind was being erased.
“I loved… someone once.” Allan Johnson scratched his head. I couldn’t take it anymore.
I ran out the door and out to the mailbox. I smacked the back of it as hard as I could. Allan Johnson jumped, and the mailbox stubbornly put its flag down.
“You give it back, or I really will hit you next time. With the sledgehammer.” I leaned closer to the mailbox and whispered. “Until you bleed.”
The flag went back up. Would it work? Allan Johnson stared at me, searching for something to say. Then he smiled.
“You remind me of my Isobel.” He said. His memory was back.