In the quiet, unassuming town of Hollow Creek, nestled deep within the dense forests of the Pacific Northwest, life moved at a pace so slow it felt almost timeless. The townsfolk knew each other by name, the seasons dictated the rhythm of life, and the arrival of the postman, Harold Grayson, was as reliable as the sunrise. That is, until the morning of October 17th, when Harold vanished without a trace.
Harold had been the town’s postman for over 30 years. He was a man of routine—always leaving his house at 6:15 a.m., stopping by Millie’s Diner for a cup of black coffee, and beginning his route by 7:00 a.m. sharp. But on that fateful morning, Harold never made it to Millie’s. His mail truck was found idling on the edge of the forest, the driver’s door wide open, and the mailbag still sitting on the passenger seat. The keys were in the ignition, and Harold’s thermos of coffee was perched on the roof, still warm.
The townsfolk searched for days. They combed through the dense woods, scoured the nearby creek, and even sent divers into the murky waters of the lake. But there was no sign of Harold—no footprints, no torn clothing, nothing. It was as if he had simply evaporated into the crisp autumn air.
The mystery deepened when the mailbag was examined. Among the usual letters and packages was a single, unmarked envelope addressed to no one. Inside was a faded photograph of the Hollow Creek town square, dated 1923. The eerie part? The photograph showed Harold Grayson, looking exactly as he did in the present day, standing among a crowd of townsfolk in old-fashioned clothing. Harold would have been over 120 years old if the photo were real.
Rumors began to swirl. Some claimed Harold had been seen wandering the forest at night, his figure flickering like a ghost. Others whispered that the forest itself had taken him, a punishment for some long-forgotten sin. The most chilling account came from a young boy who swore he saw Harold standing at the edge of the woods, staring blankly ahead, before vanishing into the trees.
The police closed the case after a month, labeling it an unsolved disappearance. But the people of Hollow Creek couldn’t let it go. To this day, they speak of Harold in hushed tones, and some claim to hear the faint jingle of mail keys on the wind late at night. The unmarked envelope and the photograph remain locked in the town hall’s archives, a haunting reminder of the day the postman of Hollow Creek vanished into thin air.
And every October 17th, as the leaves turn golden and the air grows cold, the townsfolk leave a single letter in their mailboxes—addressed to Harold Grayson, wherever he may be.