Return to sender

The first letter came in a plain envelope with no stamp. The handwriting on the front was mine. Not like mine. Mine, with the little hook on the y that my teacher always tried to fix.

Dear me, it said. Don't panic. This is going to sound mad. I'm writing from about a year from now. I've found a way to send letters back, and I need you to listen. Don't take the job at Harlow and Finch. Trust me.

I'd had an interview at Harlow and Finch that very week. I hadn't told anyone. I turned the job down, mostly out of fear.

A month later, the second letter. Well done. Next thing: sell the car. Don't ask why. I sold the car. A week after that, the brakes on the same model were recalled after three crashes.

The letters kept coming. Small things, then bigger ones. Leave the flat. Stop seeing Mark. Don't visit Mum at Christmas. Each time I did as I was told. Each time something terrible happened to someone else instead.

I started to feel like I owed this future me everything.

The letters started to change in the spring. The handwriting got worse. Shakier. You're doing well, one said, but it's not enough. It's still coming. What's still coming? I wrote the question on a piece of paper and left it on the kitchen table, feeling stupid. The next morning there was a reply underneath it in that shaking hand.

The thing that's writing to you.

I didn't sleep after that. I read through every letter again, looking for clues, and noticed something I'd missed. In the first few, the hook on the y was there. In the later ones, it wasn't. Someone had been copying my handwriting, and they'd got better at it, and then they'd stopped bothering.

Last night a new letter came. The handwriting was perfect. Better than mine.

Dear me. You've done everything I asked. You've left your job, your flat, your car, your friends, your mother. Nobody will notice when you're gone. I'm nearly there now. Leave the back door unlocked tonight. I'd like to meet you. I'd like to see how I'll look.

I've locked every door. I've pushed the wardrobe in front of the back one.

But I've just found a final envelope on my pillow. It isn't sealed. It isn't even a letter.

It's a return address label, the kind you stick on a parcel. Neatly written, in my perfect handwriting.

It has my address on it. And under my name, someone has crossed out sender and written occupant.