Magic is cryptic AF. Worse than one of those escape rooms. The huldufólk who took Victor said we’d find him “through the door” that no key could open. It could be opened by performing “our people’s folk dance.” We tried a lot of different things, let me tell you, because we’ve got roots from everywhere—polka, hora, square dance, even flamenco. (We also tried a blowtorch to melt the ice; it weirdly didn’t work at all!) I’m actually mad that what opened that fucking door was Henry doing the YMCA. Anyway, you’re welcome. We got your boyfriend back.
Love, Neil
Go see the foliage, you said. It’ll be fun. Until the car broke down on some back road. Google maps showed a repair shop ahead. I started walking, but I went the wrong way, and when I retraced my steps, the road looked totally different. More trees. Bigger ones. Leafier. I thought I was lost again until I saw my car, almost fully swallowed by the trees. I’d only been gone a few minutes. There are so many trees between me and this supposed repair shop. I’m running for it, but I think the trees are faster than me. If you don’t see me again, treevenge my death.
~Laura
I’ve finally caved and started a Patreon account for these! Subscriptions start at $3/month for early access to postcard stories, and every subscription makes me more excited to keep writing. Hope to see you there!
You can still buy one-off postcards here.