The Messenger

Today the most remarkable thing happened. We could hear a great deal of commotion outside our house, an approaching crowd of voices chattering and cooing over something. By the time we were at the door to see what the fuss was about, the crowd was literally at our doorstep, voices loud and clear, bodies bumping on the other side. I opened the door, someone almost stumbled inside backward, and there towering over everybody was CreatureThing, in broad daylight, right here in the middle of town.

Far from being frightened, people were petting and stroking it like children swarming a tame elephant. I could tell CreatureThing, on the other hand, was fairly distressed trying to avoid stepping on anyone or injuring them with any of its limbs.

Upon seeing me, it extended through the crowd a long gripper wielding of all things a plain, white envelope. I snatched it and examined it front and back. It was hand-addressed to me, just my name, nothing else. Without further ado, CreatureThing turned with a careful shuffle and headed away at an accelerating gait, the crowd trotting and then running after him, more than a few getting tripped up in its trailing rooty bits and pratfalling this way and that.

I opened the envelope, and found inside a single folded piece of paper, with the words "Hang tight, my old friend, I'm coming for you" hand-scrawled across it. Peculiarly, the mirror image was equally visible on the back side as if the ink went all the way through. I didn't recognize the handwriting as belonging to anyone I know, but then whose writing had I ever seen? In my day people spoke or typed; the pen was archaic. At least I know it is of human inspiration if not actually from a human hand.

Hang tight? Where would I go?

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