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 present in the mail. A lovely Victorian tipping table. One my aunt had used for many a seance before she bequeathed it to myself. It was part of an inheritance. I missed my aunt, and was sorry to see such a vibrant woman succumb to the ethers, but time erodes us all. I was glad to have something I knew she loved, and which reminded me so much of her. The table was an attractive piece of furniture; three-legged with a dark walnut finish. I could not wait to give it a go. But it's not easy to put together a seance in this day and age. People are not that interested. The lack of enthusiasm I encountered was baffling. And even though I had messed around with Ouija boards, I wasn't entirely certain how to use the tipping table all on my own. So it sat gathering dust in the corner. 

Then one night, after a couple of glasses of good French wine, my neighbors and I decided it was finally the perfect time to try the tipping table. It was the hunter's moon after all. My most favorite moon of the year. We set up the tipping table in an unfinished guesthouse they were building in their backyard. It was being erected over the previous foundations of one of the oldest dwellings in the canyon. A ramshackle cabin that had fallen into disrepair which my neighbors had been forced to tear it down, and were now rebuilding over the site. 

There was no electricity so we lit the space with pillar candles. My two neighbors and myself sat ourselves around the table, settling into the darkness. I rang a small bell which had a clear, sweet tone, and opened the veil to the spirit world as my aunt had taught me how to do when I was a child. After that, we took deep breaths to calm our thoughts, placing our hands gently upon the table, palms facing downwards. The wood was worn soft and was cool to the touch. We waited, unsure what to expect. Would the table actually tip...? Or move of its own accord...? But neither of these things happened. Nothing happened. Either the spirits were shy, or they weren't interested in talking to us.

We had almost given up for the night, declaring the session to be a complete bust, when I noticed a soft knocking coming from inside the center of the table. "Did you hear that?" I asked. 

My neighbors nodded. "Although, we felt it more than we heard it."

I agreed with them. 

A faint chiming from inside the big house let us know the witching hour was upon us. The shadows deepened as the moon blazed overhead. The hair raised on my arms for no apparent reason as a shiver tore through me. "How curious..." I mumbled. "Is someone here with us?" Bang! From deep within wood in the center of the table, it knocked a response. We all jumped, laughing nervously. "Well, I think we have a live one..." 

A few questions later, we discerned one knock was a yes, and two knocks was a no. 

"Are you someone I know?" I asked, half convinced it was aunt trying to make contact. It had been her table after all. Two soft knocks. No.

"Are you someone we know?" asked my neighbors, following my lead. Bang! was the response.

We kept asking questions with varying degrees of success when suddenly it struck me. "Are you the man I saw standing next to the post box?" I asked. Bang!  

My neighbors looked at my oddly, asking to who I was referring. I laughed, telling them about the man I thought I had seen out of the corner of my eye. 

"What did he look like?"

I described him a being older and lanky, with a black cowboy hat and long straggly gray hair. Why did they ask? 

"Neil?" My neighbor asked tentatively. The strangest look upon his face. 

BANG! The knock was so loud, it nearly tipped the table over. 

"Are you waiting for us?" 

BANG! The same reaction. 

They glanced at each other. "It can't be him, can it?" 

"Can't be who?" I asked. "Do you mind telling me what's going on?"

"Neil used to live here," answered my neighbor, his face growing ashen. "Where we are right now actually. He was born in the cabin that we just tore down. When we bought this property he was living further up the canyon, but he used to wander down in the mornings, waiting for us to awaken so he could have coffee with us. He used to stand right next to the post box for hours at a time."

"He's the man I saw!" Bang! The table knocked again. Only a little less strenuously than before. 

"He's been gone for a couple of years now." 

"Gone?"

My neighbor shook his head. "He died." 

"Oh." I said quietly. "I see..." 

The atmosphere in the room changed. It grew calm and serene as the night released its hold on us. We all felt like we could breathe again. The table fell silent. There were no more knocks. 

I thanked the spirts for joining us and closed veil, ending the seance. Ringing the bell, we fully returned to a more mundane frame of mind. 

Not soon after the guest house was complete. We never had another seance in there, but my neighbors did start leaving out a cup of coffee for Neil on a regular basis, and this seems to have kept him happy because none of us have ever seen him again.