Marshall pulled up to the rusted iron railings separating the overgrown, weed-choked garden from the overgrown, weed-choked pavement. He dismounted and leaned the JH772347 against the low, crumbling red brick wall, pulling five neatly rolled copies of the Eerie Examiner out of his almost-empty saddlebags.
Partway up the cracked and shifting walkway that led to a red front door whose peeling paint job had faded almost to pink over the years, he paused.
There were the five mail slots, each one still labelled with a number and the name of the occupant. There were the buzzers for apartments Five, Four and Seven, likewise labelled. And yet, where the doorbells for Two and Thirteen had been only the Saturday before, there was only exposed wiring poking from a jagged hole in the aging stucco. The darkness beyond the ravaged nameplate glittered with the distant light of strange stars, and the wind that blew from it was hot and smelled of dying things.
Marshall slid that week's paper into the last three letterboxes still in this dimension, and therefore technically the only ones on his route.
He'd have to tell Mister Radford that the subsidence issues on Dunwich Street were getting worse.
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