“Melatonin” by Elsy Pawelak

I take two melatonin before I lay down. My sheets are always nice and cold and I hope to fall  asleep before I’ve warmed them. It helps if I’m asleep in less than 30 minutes. I just need to  sleep before they start. 

This would have never happened if I hadn’t been so curious. 

I walk three blocks south and one block west when I go to work. The streets are lined  with houses that look like they’re out of a catalogue, all with spacious, verdant yards and stairs  leading up to front decks. It’s not long before I find myself in front of the neighborhood post  office. I knock twice to alert Bea that I’m there. She’s usually sitting behind the desk organizing  papers and slowly chewing almonds, one at a time.  

My job is simple. I weigh people’s boxes, slap stickers on them, and sell stamps and  whatever other assorted office and mailing things we have. Paperclips. Packing tape. Birthday  cards. Pens. It’s a quiet job and I don’t have to be nice, but I often am.  

It might surprise people to know that we have regulars at the post office. There’s June,  who comes in every other day to mail off a letter or two to friends she’s made along the way. Her  wrinkles are deep set, her cardigans always bright pink and dotted with bristly orange cat hair.  She walks slowly, a shuffle even, to the front where I wait for her patiently, already getting out  the stamps she’s sure to buy. She prefers ones with birds on them. 

I once almost asked her why she doesn’t just buy a pack of stamps, but I know. It must be  lonely when all your friends are dying or live far away or maybe don’t remember you at all. June  makes me thankful for my moments. 

Then there’s John. He’s the one that started all of this.  

He ships weird things all the time. There was the box that smelled like rotting meat, but  was light as a feather. Only 2 pounds; I couldn’t figure it out. Then again, the one covered in tape  all over was quite odd too. It was heavy and had a metallic odor. Bea had to help me put it away.  It cost John a pretty penny to ship that to Ohio.  

That’s the thing though, he ships things everywhere, not just places like who-freaking cares Ohio. Papua New Guinea. Nepal. The Republic of Congo. Quebec. Phoenix. I could only  assume that these packages are somewhat transactional, that he runs some sort of business. Since  I’m his go-to shipping source, I already know his name. The address he uses is a PO Box, which  made me naturally suspicious of these shipments.  

It was a Wednesday. He only comes in Wednesdays, always at one o’clock. I had brought  a tuna sandwich to lunch that day and it sat thickly in my stomach, stewing with the Dijon and  pickles I had dotted it with. What can I say, I like zest. 

The bell tinkled behind him. He had a tendency to somehow avoid making any noise until  he was already in the building. He held his package like he was holding a plate of cookies, mouth  bared widely, all yellowed teeth. Bea and I stop what we’re doing and stare at him. 

“Hi, John,” said Bea. She popped a singular almond into her mouth. 

He slowly turned his face to her with his smiling non-smile. Eyes unblinking and bulging,  he shifted his gaze off Bea and her crunching and back to me. His orthopedic brown shoes made sticking noises as he walked. He set the package on the counter gently, and it squished ever-so slightly. I put my pen down on my crossword. I was stuck on “important faculty for school.” 

I sighed. “John, I’m gonna have to ask you to repackage this. It’s…” I poked a grease  spot, which tore through the cardboard immediately. “…not going to travel well.”  

His grimace pulled up into a smile. I could hear his breathing over Bea’s chomping.  

“No queue today,” he said with great effort. His teeth had lines of age running through  them, his lips chapped and grey nose hair wiry. 

I wrinkled my nose. “I’ll need you to box this up again, John. It won’t make it.”  

“It’s going to this address.” He slid a piece of paper with thick-penned words written on  it, as he does.  

I typed it in to the computer and did my business. I resigned that I was about to break the  law. As I picked up the box to place it on the scale, it sagged inwards, producing a pungent rotting smell, similar to one of the packages before. My fingers left imprints. I wiped my hands  on my pants. 

“Alright, John,” I said, clicking through the options before a sticker popped out of my  machine. “Looks like it’s going to be $35.22 to ship to…Oshkosh, Wisconsin.”  

He nodded, bringing out a worn leather wallet printed with the phrase “Bad Mother  Fucker” on it. I once asked him if he was a Pulp Fiction fan, which he didn’t understand. Maybe  his grandson bought it as a joke for him, or something. 

I typed in all the information as usual, Bea chewed her almonds, John focused on  breathing in a whistle-tone and smiling at me. He paid quietly and left without a word. I watched  him walk down the ramp that sloped outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, then he stopped and  turned to look at me. His mouth rose again into that same wide, toothy smile before he turned  away and disappeared from sight.  

I stuck a corner of the sticker on the counter since I had to repackage this actively  disintegrating package. There were cameras everywhere and this was, most understandably,  illegal, but also understandably, couldn’t be shipped and my client was possibly senile. I decided  to take the risk even as Bea looked over her tortoise shell glasses at me.  

The box was now sinking like a microwaved butter stick, caving in and cracking from the  grease. A sense of excitement ran through me as I snapped on some bright blue gloves. Time to  find out more about John.  

Using a box cutter, I delicately sliced open the tape on top. The flaps were heavy as I  opened them, totally rotted from the oils inside. That was when the odor hit me, an irony, thick smell that sat on my tongue bitterly.  

The plastic bag inside was filled with black goop with an effervescent shimmer. It  reminded me of those commercials with a duck trapped in an oil spill. It distracted me long  enough from the rest of the package’s contents, which was surprising.  

The interior of the box was lined with some sort of cellophane. It had been punctured,  which was what allowed the box to get all greasy in the first place. The rest of it was filled with  what I could only assume were intestines.  

I threw up in the waste basket next to me. I don’t think I’ll eat tuna ever again.

Now, I haven’t seen intestines before and I skipped dissecting a frog in high school but based off the size and my rudimentary understanding of the human body these were assorted, not  one source the same. Or maybe one was the small intestine, and the other the large. I don’t really  know. 

Besides the fact that I just discovered that John was most likely a black-market organ  dealer or was into some other sort of weird shit, I was less alarmed at that idea and more  interested in what was in the bag. I poked it with a gloved finger. It responded by sloshing and  flexing, mercurial. A strange electric wave traveled up my arm. Without thought, I took off my  glove, opened up the bag, and put my hand inside. 

I woke up to Bea crunching an almond in my face, glasses fish bowling her dark blue  eyes.  

“You ok?” 

“I mean, yeah, I guess so.” My head hurt. My hand was hot. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve called the police.” She crunched another almond.  

She told me that she had heard a loud thunk and came in to me on the ground, my hand  stuck in the bag. The liquid was flexing around my hand, getting smaller and less as it went, and  by the time she was at the phone it was as if I had absorbed it. I examined my hand. Nothing  seemed out of the ordinary besides the heat. 

When the police got there, we (naturally) had to give them John’s name because of the  intestines. They didn’t seem concerned that I had to open the package. 

“So what was inside? Just the intestines?” asked the cop. He had a crew cut and a face  that looked like it had taken a few punches. Just the intestines, ha! 

“Nothing,” said Bea. I nodded. I don’t think either of us wanted to acknowledge the  goop. It surprised me when the background check they ran produced no living results. Besides  being an organ dealer, he had apparently stolen the identity of a deceased John. Fake John was  getting more interesting by the day. 

I poured a big glass of white wine for myself when I got home and drank it in less than  twenty minutes. It didn’t stop the memories. They’re not even mine.  

The first memory came while I was sitting on the edge of the tub, clipping my toe nails.  Then my brain clicked on, forcing images of me laying on a cold floor as I coughed up bile  speckled with white, round pills. I accidentally took a small chunk out of my pinky toe and bled  onto the bathmat. The next image came quickly after, I had long manicured nails and sparkly,  cubic zirconia jewelry. The scissors in my hand were gleefully cutting holes and snapping cuts  into a silk dress that I understood not to be mine. That last one came right before I went to bed,  and I won’t even describe it.  

They only come at night, which is nice, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. They make  me nauseous.  

At first I thought they were premonitions, but no, I don’t think so. You know how us  plebes have ideas of what rich people do for fun? Like hunting people and experiencing death?  That’s what I think this is, except like, way worst than trying to escape some rich madman with a big game hunting rifle on a booby trapped island. The memories makes me feel so connected and  so distant from these three people, and I barely have room for myself. 

At the moment, my evenings are the same. I come home. I drink my bottle of Pinot. I  avoid the memories of others by taking melatonin and falling asleep before they start. I sleep  dreamlessly and wake relieved. My own memories are already enough. 

Author Statement

It’s difficult for me to pinpoint when I begin taking an interest in horror because I was probably the most nervous, easily spooked child to come out of the 90’s. I loved Courage the Cowardly Dog and I vividly remember dressing as an alien and a grim reaper skeleton for Halloween. But I also refused to watch scary movies and forced my father to carry me out of a Mummy-themed haunted house because it scared me to shaky tears. 

Now, my PhD research focuses on horror. When I’m feeling stressed, I watch The Blair Witch Project and read Rosemary’s Baby. 

Creating horror over enjoying it is a different beast altogether; there’s a fine line of crafting something that taps into our primal impulses, spurning adrenaline and a reaction to look away from the abject and making something totally corny and laughable. If you’re lucky, you might just accomplish both.

Horror offers a way for me to channel the icky, tense, and complicated feelings that I find larger than a noun or adjective. There are experiences words don’t come close to touching that stories and monsters are more apt at exploring. 

“Melatonin” started as an exercise with a character that wouldn’t leave me alone. I’d just rewatched Lord of the Rings: Return of the King and was feeling plagued by the uncanny Mouth of Sauron. My brain kept circling around images of my old post office and I followed the current. I’m also currently in the throes of writing a novel and fell victim to the classic procrastination technique artists are wont to do: have something you need to accomplish? Do something else! Regardless, it released creative pressure and I had incredible fun writing it. 

My creative practice is equally as chaotic as it is organized. However, I say that as a pantser, not a planner. I tend to write down things as they come to me, whether that be in a notebook or a note on my phone. Nothing is too small to record, and I find that once a week I try to synthesize these things in a collective document. I make playlists, Pinterest boards, write down techniques I admire and study them. 

Gabrielle Zevin, author of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (not horror, but a fabulous book that made me cry) has this to say about creation: “There is a time for any fledgling artist where one’s taste exceeds one’s abilities. The only way to get through this period is to make things anyway.” I’ve written it on a small card that I have tapped above my workspace as a balm to my frustrations. 

Keep creating, even when you don’t feel like it, but especially when you do. Write ideas down on a notepad. Write artful sentences that strike you like lightening on napkins. Don’t lose it; and if we’re lucky, you’ll use that material to show us how you’re feeling. 

Elsy Pawelak is a writer living in Edinburgh whose work has been published in From Arthur’s Seat and Twin Bird Review. Her first full-length novel, Charlie, was one of four novels selected by Gutter magazine for their “finish your first novel” workshop in 2025. Currently a Creative Writing PhD researcher at the University of Strathclyde, her research focuses on unreliable narrators and nonlinear storylines in horror novels through the lens of postmodernism in relation to trauma. She loves scary movies, cats, and your birthday. 

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