Published: 2025-10-09

Today I received another letter. My heart skipped a bit. The dreaded envelope was made of the same rustic, unrefined paper and was impregnated with the scent of that same perfume I have come to know too well. There was no doubt, it was from him. My heart started pounding; I had no choice but to read it, and yet I hesitated. As I held the envelope with both hands, the rustic paper started to become soft and malleable. My hands were sweating. I took a deep breath and opened the letter. This is how it read:

“His name is Eduardo Ureña, he follows the same exact schedule everyday, as a lab rat would do. He works from nine to five, stops for coffee in his way home, and finally returns home. He probably doesn’t have time to meet you. I would suggest visiting him at home. His address is Evergreen Terrace, 1001, New Town. Remember, we wears high heel shoes; you’ll recognize for that.”

As I ran my fingers through the letter I couldn’t help but wonder who this Eduardo Ureña was and why did I, of all people, had to visit him. The postscript read: “visit him before the end of the day.” The signature read, as it always did “Alan Zigmund”.

Attached to the letter were detailed instructions for a package I should deliver to Mr. Ureña. I didn’t knew what the thing was but I could easily make it with stuff I had lying around the house.

The clock struck 5:00 PM. I was wrapping the package when I heard the beeping of my wristwatch. “Mr. Ureña must be on his way to the coffee house.” I thought, and shortly after, left for his house. Not without getting my glasses first

The houses in Evergreen Terrace were all the same. The mailboxes all had the same design and were placed at the same distance from each other; even the posts that held the boxes were made from the same wood.

I strolled along the long street, carrying the package with one hand, en route to Mr. Ureña’s house, and left the package at his doorstep as instructed. “It’s done.” I thought. Before I turned to leave, I heard the sound of thick heels approaching. It was him, Mr. Ureña was home early.

“What are you doing on my porch?” He said.

I didn’t answer, I was frozen in place. “I said, what are you doing in my porch?” He said again while walking towards me. The sound of the thick heels now growing stronger as they met with the cement pathway that lead to the porch. He grabbed me by the shoulder, his hand was big and calloused; I could sense the tip of his fingers digging into my shoulder. I turned and immediately sensed how hostility left his body.

“Delivery service.” I said, pointing at the package on the floor.

He remained silent for a moment. “You are a delivery person?” He said.

“Is that a problem?” I said.
“No, no, it’s not. It’s just that…”
“Just what?”

He fell silent again. “Nothing. Do you need my signature?”

“No need. Have a nice day, sir.”
“Thank you… You take care.”

As I left, I heard the package being lifted and the door opening. I had my suspicions about the content of the box, although I was not entirely sure. The sound of the thick heels indicated to me that Mr. Ureña had entered the house. I hurried the pace. On the opposite sidewalk, a dog refused to stop barking. By this point, I was striding. A thundering sound was heard, and car alarms went off; the dog kept barking, and now other dogs had joined it. I kept walking. The quiet street was suddenly flooded with people. Neighbors left their houses to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s Eduardo’s house! It blew up into pieces.” Said one of the alarmed neighbors.

I kept walking.

I didn’t know why Alan made me do the things that he did, but obeying him made me sleep better, and for that, I, and the bags under my eyes, were grateful.

Of course, I felt bad for my actions; I’m not a murderer. But I cannot disobey Alan; he has power over me, he watches me. I fear for my life.

Home, a lavender tea, and for the day to end. That’s all I wanted. I lay in bed still wearing clothes, and before I knew it, I had lost to Morpheus.

I woke up to the beeping of my wrist watch; it was 7:00 AM. My hand was holding something. I could recognize that rustic feeling in the tip of my fingers. Dread took over me; Alan was here. I tore the letter open and ran my finger through each line. I gasped with horror. The letter read:

“You blew it. The police is onto you. From now on you are on your on. I’m sorry but I cannot make more promises. Your son might not live to the end of the day.”

I started panicking, I did everything he ever said, and yet he abandoned me. That bastard. I reached for my glasses and ran to the door. As I crossed the door frame I felt my hand being grabbed.

“Are you Linda Guzmán?” Asked a man with a raspy voice.
“Who wants to know?”
“Lemuel Ramírez, New Town Police Department. You’ll have to come with us.”

Before I knew it, I was in the police department. Questions flew towards me. Everything happened too quickly. They had my fingerprints, they had witnesses. I broke.

“I’ll tell you everything,” I said, “yesterday I received a letter. It instructed me to make and deliver the bomb to Eduardo Ureña. I have received similar letters in the past, all from the same person, Alan Zigmund. He has my son and has threatened to kill him. I just want my boy to live.”

By that point, I was swimming in my own tears. The detective ordered a search of my house to verify the story. In the meantime, I waited.

It had been at least four hours since I waited. I knew it because my wristwatch had beeped that many times. The detective stormed the room and slammed the table.

“Is this a joke to you?” He said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, is this a damn joke to you, you fucking psychopath.”
“Detective, I don’t know—”
“Shut the fuck up!”

I didn’t know why he was suddenly abusing me after I showed myself open to cooperating.

He pulled his chair, sat down, and let a stack of paper drop on the table.

“You, Ms. Guzmán. It was you all the time. The Alan letters all have your prints all over, none others. The perfume? Found in your house. The rustic envelopes you hated so much? You had a stack of them in your night table. Alan Zigmund, what a fucking joke.”

I couldn’t believe what I was being accused of. I was speechless.

“How dare you? I would never harm anybody. He has my son, for Christ's sake!”
“You have no son!”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Your husband and son died in a traffic accident. Three months later, you did that to yourself.”
“What? I was born this way.”

The detective slid his chair back and stood up. The shrieking sound of the metal chair on the ceramic floor made me grit my teeth.

“They don’t pay me enough for this. I’ll go get a psychiatrist.”

The door opened and closed with a slam. I heard the detective yelling outside the room.

“Is anybody gonna tell me how a damn blind lady can commit eight murders without being caught?”

THE END.