Postmarked Tomorrow by Rod A. White

I found the postcard in the burnt ruins of Hollow Creek; the ink smeared like old blood.

It read only: Wish you were here.

That night, the wind carried whispers, too many voices, clawing at sanity. I saw them then, shapes in the fog with hollow faces, reaching, yearning.

Each dawn since, I wake with new scratches on the walls, letters I don’t remember etching.

Tonight, another card slid beneath my door.

I trembled.

On it, one word, written in something sticky and dark: Almost.

The address matched mine.

It was postmarked tomorrow, stamped with ash, teeth marks, and fingerprints.