The Man at the Post Box
I moved into the canyon a couple of years ago. A recent transplant from darkest Europe, I liked the unbridled and remote vibe it possessed. And only a stone's throw from the hustle of 21st century Los Angeles. Not easy to find in this day and age. So when of the cute old cabins came up for rent down by the creek, I nabbed it as quickly as possible. One afternoon not long after moving in, I sat on my front porch smoking a cigarette when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. It was a man standing by the post box. He wore a black hat, like a cowboy hat, with long, messy gray hair, as he stared fixedly at the neighborhood's house across the street. When I peered closer, he wasn't there. I shook my head, telling myself it was only my imagination. I was overly tired. It had been nothing more than a shadow from the old oak tree. The mind is a monkey , I told myself, stubbing out my cigarette, thinking no more of it . A couple of weeks later I received a pre