The Letter

A week or so after settling in the letter appeared on the table of the back deck. Surprise weakly expressed my feelings. Astonished? Shocked? I noticed it upon my returned from a jaunt through the woods above the cabin. The envelope bore no stamp; someone delivered it personally. It was addressed to Thomas Woodham, Placid, Butterfly.
I stood looking at it for a while before picking it up. Who delivered it to me here? I hadn’t told anyone my destination. I set out on a trek with no clear destination in mind. I picked this area simply because it appealed to me at the moment. I hadn’t even had my mail forwarded to me as yet. Then I realized the silliness of those thoughts. It didn’t have a stamp so it had to have a local origin. But, the only local person who knew of my presence was Frank Hammond. This wasn’t his handwriting. I looked at it, turned it over again and again, held it up to the light as if I could see what was inside without opening it, I guess, and then flapped it lightly against my left palm.
I went in to the dining room, laid the envelope on the table and fixed myself a ham sandwich. As I ate, my eyes kept drifting to the envelope on the other side of the table.
I heard myself saying, “This is childish. What are you afraid of? Open it up and find out what’s in it! No need to feel so squeamish.” I stood up, reached over the table and took the envelope, sat down, wiped my table knife on my napkin and slit the envelope. For some reason I can’t explain, I felt nervous. My hands were shaking; my breath and heart rate had gone up. Something made me feel apprehensive. Inside was a sheet of paper folded in half and then in thirds. After a few fumbling tries I finally unfolded it. My arms fell to the table making the plate and silverware rattle. The paper dropped onto my plate. I stared at it in disbelief. The sheet contained almost nothing, just four typed lines in the middle in block letters:

PLEASE COME TO THE GENERAL STORE
MONDAY MORNING @ 9 A.M.
THERE WILL BE A BLUE PICKUP AT THE CURB
THE OCCUPANT NEEDS TO SPEAK TO YOU

It bore no signature, no return address, no phone number or any other identification. I refolded it, took it between my fingers ready to tear it up and toss it in the waste basket. But I hesitated. After all, the author must know me personally. It bore my name. Some secret admirer followed me up here? Possibly a former employee? Who of them owned a blue pickup? None that I knew of. Were the police involved? (That one I dismissed immediately. They would have contacted me personally.) A dozen more questions rattled around in my mind. The request involved no emergency obviously. The sender conveyed that unmistakably. This was Thursday noon. The meeting requested was for Monday morning, four days from now. Why the wait? Something about those four lines had me on edge. But I could not think of any logical reason why. I shakily put the refolded sheet back in the envelope and laid it on the table.
I cleared the table and washed the dishes. I felt too jumpy to sit around so I decided to drive into town. The butterflies were in my stomach now. There seemed to be no reason for them but I felt their flutters unmistakably.