Everywhere we go has a ghosts of the past. But do we want to know about know about them?

​

He recognised the name as soon as he saw the envelope on the doormat. 

 

A lot of post had arrived addressed to her when he first moved in. Most of it was clearly junk mail. Things she’d probably signed up for at work, or without knowing when she’d accidently checked some box or other online. 

 

Occasionally there had been letters that looked more important, but after a while they stopped. For the first couple of weeks he had forwarded them on, but after that, it just seemed cruel.

 

He’d started marking them ‘not known at this address’ and putting them back in the post pigeon holes at the bottom of the apartment block. 

 

He wished he’d never asked the downstairs neighbour who she was is the first place, he didn’t need this kind of thing.

 

He’d moved to the city to start again, and the flat was great, especially for the price.

 

After what happened, he realised that her parents had probably dropped the price to get it sold and move on, but he didn’t know anything about that at the time. And quite honesty, it wouldn’t have made any difference. It was a great flat, and all flats have a history if you care to look. 

 

As I said, to start with, when letters turned up, he forwarded anything that looked important on to her parents as instructed, but he always did so with a sense of dread.

 

He’d never met her, and it felt like he was intruding in something that had nothing to do with him, like he was contributing to a pain he didn’t feel or understand.

 

It must have been hard, sorting that kind of thing out. It was stressful enough when you had to do it for yourself when you changed address, or wanted to change electricity provider, or cancel subscriptions, or any of the other boring, mundane admin you had to do for industries that still dealt with actual, physical post. 

 

He imagined the parents picking up the phone, upset, and the unfortunate call centre operative of whichever company had failed to hear the news listening while they explained, desperately searching their call script for a response that wasn’t there. 

​

She was only thirty when she did it, and it must have been a mess. His was the only apartment with new carpet, so in that way, he supposed he owed her one.

 

The building was old, listed, with three floors, all separated into individual apartments. It must have been incredibly grand in it’s heyday, presumably some Edwardian duke or something like that owned the lot.

 

The entrance was tiled in black and white marble, cracked with age, with a spiral staircase up to the apartments. On the right of the staircase was a short corridor, where the pigeon holes for the post lined the wall. At the end of the corridor was the door to the basement. 

​

The basement was one of the real selling points for the flat. It was the last one on the square that hadn’t been converted into a trendy coffee house or late night bar. It ran the entire length of the building, with stone arches leading to each section. The stairs leading down to it were wooden, could use replacing and creaked badly underfoot.

 

He could see why property developers would snap these buildings up, ever since he moved in he’d been picturing having the money to turn it into a quiet jazz bar.

 

The apartment itself was relatively small. The basement meant storage space, and a lot of it. It also meant time. When he left, he had packed a lot of boxes he wasn’t ready to open yet, and the cool, dark basement was the best place for them. 

 

The basement was shared with all the other residents in the flat, and everyone kept themselves to themselves, which was just what the doctor ordered in his opinion. The only resident he’d spoken to was 2A, the flat directly above his.

 

They’d bumped into each other collecting post from the pigeon hole, and he’d asked who she was, and whether he knew where to forward her letters. 

 

The conversation was awkward from the off. 

 

‘You must be my new neighbour’ 2A stared at the post intently, checking each envelope intently.

 

‘Just moved in, was living up north, needed a change of scene’

 

He looked up briefly to clock 2A’s face, then back at the post. 

 

‘Nice neighbourhood’ 2A volunteered. ‘Can get a little rowdy at night when the bars on the square kick out, but no trouble’

 

‘That’s okay, I’m not a great sleeper, go to bed late.’

​

He hesitated, that might have come across wrong. 

 

‘Just reading though, no wild parties’ he said, trying to break the awkward vibe.

 

2A was a wirey man in his early 50’s, with the demeanour of a librarian. He stared at his shoes, the up with a look of panic and stepped back a bit.

​

2A finished examining his post, and with all seemingly in order, passed it back to him.

 

‘Sorry, before you go…Jenny McPhee’ he said. 

​

That was the woman's name on the post he was now holding again.

 

He stopped and began to turn round on the bottom of the stair, then stopped still. It was a strange and unnatural movement, and he wondered if this guy was a nut. 2A didn’t reply, but didn’t move either. 

 

‘You’re not from the city are you?’ 2A looked him in the eye with a worried expression.

​

'Look' 2A said, and paused.

 

‘Jenny died I’m afraid. I’m surprised no one told you. Killed herself up in the tub, slit her wrists and just let the bath run over, flooded the whole flat. Was me that knocked the door in, water coming through my ceiling and no answer. A real mess’. 

 

It seemed to him that having to something as banal and ordinary as remembering to tell whoever bought the flat she used to call home a forwarding address for the shit from various companies after money.

 

Though he supposed that would have raised questions the estate agent didn't want to answer.

​

The whole tragic situation seem somehow darkly funny. He wasn't sure why.

 

Had it occurred to her, he wondered, in that hour of despair, in the flat he’d consequently got for a fair amount under the original asking price, her parents would have to think to cancel all this shit, and speak to the new owner?

 

Ridiculous that that he'd paid so much under what was originally asked. He felt bad about it.

 

Surely after this woman’s act of defiance, her parents (or whoever the money went to) shouldn’t have to lose out further because people get so weird and foolish about death.

 

He had looked at buying a few places of similar size, one even in the same building, a year or so before, and had found it to be out of his budget. 

 

All of this was dimly playing through his head as he looked down at the letters.

 

After a couple of years, though he occasionally had thoughts about Jenny, the poignancy of them had dulled a little, and rather than feeling any genuine upset about them, they provided a feeling a little like nostalgia, the kind you have about an old film, rather than about anything that happened to anyone directly.

​

He rarely got post for her either, but today, there it was in his pigeonhole, another one.

 

This time however, something felt different. As he tried to focus his thoughts, he realised what it was.

 

This letter was addressed by hand. It was in a bright blue envelope, and in the corner there was a gold star. It was the kind of star you used to get given in primary school when you’d been good. The kind the teacher would stick to your jumper, or on your notebook for extra effort.

 

Someone had obviously put thought into sending this letter. Or whatever it was. 

 

He stood there for a while, not touching the letter, confused.

 

Surely, if this letter was something so personal, whoever sent it would know that Jenny was gone. It was well over a two years ago now.

 

Surely she had been depressed for longer than that too. Slitting your wrists in a tub isn’t (he assumed) a decision you make without a good deal of hopeless thought beforehand.

 

He'd struggled with depression himself on and off. He'd been to see a shrink a few times, but he wasn’t comfortable talking.

 

The writing was neat and small, and looked strangely at odds with the brightly coloured envelope and gold star. The envelope and star, he thought, suggested someone with big, looping writing, writing more expressive.

 

He puzzled at the front for a few moments before turning let envelope over to examine the back. 

 

The back was printed in professional looking type with a company address somewhere in Salisbury. The Harbour, the company was called. If undelivered, return to the Harbour.

 

This puzzled him further. Why would a company send such an elaborate, handwritten letter? Nothing but the address on the back looked in any way professional. 

 

He tried to think of various scenarios that would make this make some sense. He absent-mindedly for the moment, wondered where he had put the slip of paper that held her parent address.

 

Maybe the letter was from some friendly co-worker before everything went so wrong. He assumed it was a woman from the hand writing and the gold star.

 

Blokes just don’t put that much effort into sending a letter. In fact he couldn’t think of any men who would bother to send a handwritten letter at all. 

 

But it had been so long, it seemed strange to send something out of the blue. If it was a birthday card or similar, was it even worth sending to her parents? Nothing had arrived at the house for so long, it might just unnecessarily upset them to hear from him again about something so small.

 

Whoever this person from the Harbour was couldn’t have been close to Jenny, or they would have heard the news already. He turned the envelope over again to look back at the front.  

 

I’ll look the address up he thought. Maybe he could just find out what the company is.

 

As soon as the thought entered his head, he decided against it.

 

It's not my place to talk about her to talk to someone at some random company about this, he thought.

 

He looked at the company address again, and noticed something  strange.  It made him feel uneasy. Underneath the printed address was a date. It was over five years ago. He pulled his phone from his pocket, and looked at today’s date.

 

5 years and three days ago to be precise.

 

He wandered into the kitchen holding the envelope, still looking blankly at the date on the screen, put the envelope down, and flicked the kettle on.

 

Intrigue got the better of him. He searched for The Harbour, Salisbury. A list of suggestions appeared. A list of Fish & Chip shops appeared, and a listing for national fish & ship day.

 

Probably not those, he thought.

 

He scrolled down and saw another listing. The Harbour counselling service.  The description underneath read;

 

‘When you’re facing a difficult time in your life, it can seem hopeless. We’re here to help you…’

​

After a few moments, he selected the link.

 

The website appeared with a calm blue banner at the top, and a white logo and tag line. The tag line read ‘see beyond the now’.

 

See beyond the now? It was a weird line, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was this the kind of site that would have appealed to Jenny? It sounded like hippie crap.

 

He looked again at the letter, wondering whether to open it. If it was something important, He'd forward  it. If it was hippie crap he would just bin it.

​

He scrolled further down the web page.  It offered courses of 4 weeks or 6 months therapy.

 

Group therapy, one to one sessions, creative therapies and the like. However, there was one that caught his eye in particular. It was called the five year plan.

 

He selected it from the menu, and immediately felt cold. As the page title appeared, he realised it was overlaying an image of a blue envelope. The handwriting on the envelope was completely different to the one that lay on his kitchen counter, and there was no star. But the colour was unmistakably the same.

 

He stopped for a moment, looking back at the envelope addressed to Jenny. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to read on any further. He felt like someone was watching him.

 

‘When you suffer with depression and thoughts of suicide, it can be difficult to see a future for yourself’ the page began.

 

‘The Harbour’s five year plan helps you to take yourself out of the now, a place that can seem as though it could stretch on forever, and teaches you to separate and explain the feeling you have today, from the hopes you have for yourself in the future’.

 

‘After a course of six one to one sessions with your counsellor, we will help you to put down in writing all those black feelings you hold today. Once you have completed the exercise, you, with the help of your counsellor if you wish, will write a letter to yourself five years from now. 

 

We will teach you to explain with clarity how and why you battled with depression here today, and how to tell your future self that you can cope, and remind yourself how far you’ve come.

 

The letter will be completely personal to you, and the counsellors at The Harbour will hold on to it for you, in complete safety, security and secrecy.

 

Five years from now, to the day, we will post you your letter to the address you write on the envelope.

 

What better way to rid yourself of demons, remember today with the knowledge that you’ve taken control of your future, and seen beyond the now’.

 

He looked at the last line for a little while.

 

Take control of your future.

 

Well, Jenny had certainly done that.

​

He crossed the kitchen a got his cigarettes out of the draw and took a big drag, starting at the envelope. 

​

So if this was full of all her bad thoughts, it was basically a suicide note. 

​

Would that help her parents? This much later? 

​

Then, he thought, if she'd ended the letter with a load of positive stuff about the future that clearly hadn't worked out, would that just hurt? 

​

Should I read it? he thought I must admit, I'm morbidly intrigued.

 

No, I couldn't do that, I didn't know the woman, that would be far too intrusive. Besides, I didn't want to know what it said. I don't want that on my conscience.

​

Maybe I should just send it back.

​

He blew a line of smoke into the stream of sunlight, it looked strangely beautiful catching the flecks of dust in the air.

​

He stood there for I don't know how long, with absolutely no idea what to do.

 

'Jenny' he said to no one

​

'I suppose you've seen beyond the now'