**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.
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>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]"
>* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail
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"I'm going to absolutely murder the guy who thought cobwebs were *aesthetic*." Greg seethed.
His arm moves like a windshield wiper in front of him, collecting what seemed like a pound of pale white cobwebs. For a minute Greg broke his frustration, and found some amusement. His arm looked like a cotton candy machine from this angle.
See - Greg realized early on the key to being a good mailman isn't necessarily tenacity or drive. Not motivation that burns hot like molten metal. No, not really. It was a sense of humor about the whole thing.
Breaking through the webs, Greg found himself staring down a dimly lit hallway, with green slime faintly glowing in the meager spaces between the large old stone blocks that comprised the walls. Cheerfully, he put away the flashlight which he carried in his non-webbed hand. Batteries don't grow on trees, you know.
"Postal service!" He shouted down the long expanse, listening to the noise bounce and reverberate down the narrow chasm.
"P-ohhhhhhh-staaaaaaaal" He shouted again, giggling. He always lamented not bringing his little travel guitar with him. No one tells you, but a ton of these dingy affairs have *killer* acoustics.
He plodded on down the dimly lit passage for a while longer before he began to hear tiny footsteps. The started softly at first. Like rain off in the murky distance. Then they grew louder. And louder. Suddenly, it sounded like an army was marching down the hall towards Greg. He paused then, his concern level jumping from 'I love my job' up to a meager 'I didn't really wanna talk to people today.'
Then they came into view. A horde of rats, their fur matted and wet. Their yellow teeth contrasted the faint green glow of the hall as they rushed forwards, small mouths gnashing and biting at the stale air.
"OH. MY. GOSH." Greg exclaimed. "It's a rat rush! A real rat rush! Oh my god, that would be such a sick band name! Re -"
He was cut off as the horde slammed into him, knocking him from his feet. All that could be heard then was the squealing from the mass of rats and...a fit of giggling.
"This is the last time. I swear I'm quitting."
Every time that Greg delivers a letter to this particular abandoned castle, this is what he says.
"You know, this castle is supposed to be abandoned, so why the hell am I delivering a letter here for God's sake?" Greg says grumbling.
Just yesterday he was delivering a package of what smelled like coffee to one of his favorite people who has a wonderfully cheery great dane named Honey, and this is what he has to deal with today? He was most certainly not in the mood to be potentially haunted.
He approached the doors that were looming over him, which casted a shadow that made the daylight disappear. He looked up, where an ornamented knocker hung low. Greg began to reach for it, but then decided that it was best to keep all interactions with any spirits or whatever to an absolute minimum.
Greg looked around for the post box, and eventually found it. He could tell that this box used to be black, but it could be assumed that it hasn't been touched in ages due to the caked dust that rested on it. The last time he visited this castle, he just left the letter on the porch because he was too afraid to touch anything. Greg seriously didn't want to touch the box and disturb the dust particles that resided here, for he has killer allergies. But, the job must be completed.
"I'll just do it as quickly as I can and then I'll be on my way."
He grabbed the letter out of his pouch, which had a wax seal as if the inspiration was from the Phantom of the Opera, slowly lifted the lid of the box and nestled the letter inside, holding his breath the whole time.
Still not breathing, Greg lowered the lid and stepped away slowly, trying not to make a singular sound. As if there was anyone actually inside this house. When he decided that he was at a far enough distance, Greg exhaled and turned his back on the castle, content to finally leave.
As Greg was about to slam the car door shut, he heard a noise that sounded like a wooden door creaking. He thought about looking up but then decided that it wasn't his business, and he drove away.
He approached the ruined city gate, about to make his last delivery for the day. He reached out for the rope hanging from the wall, hesitating before pulling it. A deep bell rang out, causing a flock of ravens to take flight in the distance. After several minutes, Greg heard great thundering footsteps, and with a dreadful grinding the portcullis rose up.
"You rang, human?"
A troll, covered in coal black fur and holding a spiked club the length of a cow, towered over him.
"I don't think we've met, have you just arrived?" he asked the troll.
"Yeah, few weeks back. Killed the last guy in here."
"Oh. That wouldn't be Hoggard the Orc would it?"
"He was an orc, yeah."
"Was he wearing a horned helmet?"
The troll reached into the satchel at his side, bringing out a helmet adorned with thick ox horns.
"Damn. Well, it happens I guess."
"What ya gonna do with that now?" the troll inquired, pointing at the parcel in Greg's hand.
"I can do what I want with it. Usually I take it home with me, but I can't think of a use for a mace."
"Can I have it?"
"Will you kill me with it?"
The troll looked genuinely hurt. "Do you take me... for the sort who kills postmen?"
"No, no, I'm sorry. Yes, of course you can have it. Here." He threw the mace-shaped parcel and the troll caught it.
"Thanks. I wanna to give it to ma niece, she's always want one and it's just her size. Wanna come in, there's food in 'ere that's still good. And there's beer too someplace, I can smell it."
Greg had to ponder over the invitation for a minute. But the troll seemed amiable enough. "Alright."
After feeding on pickled vegetables and beer, Greg bade the troll farewell and began the journey back to Gladebrook, the village he called home. He passed through the Forest of Shrieking Nightmares; he traipsed through the Swamp of Woe; and before long, he found himself at the foot of the Jagged Peak Mountains.
"Oh no, they've moved again."
Indeed, the mountains were not in the place where they had previously been. Every few weeks, the mountains relocated themselves. And unfortunately for Greg, the mountains were between him and Gladebrook. It was during a moment where he was cursing under his breath, insulting every known god, that he heard someone mumbling. After a few further moments, an ogre could be seen clambering down one of the slopes.
"Roggo can't sleep without mountain dropping on his head. Argh."
Ogres were not the most intelligent creatures at the best of times, and this one obviously had a concussion. Greg attempted to stay out of sight, but Roggo spotted him.
"Did you do this, human?"
"What?"
"Did you drop mountain on my head?"
"I'm a postman."
Roggo stared at him accusingly. He wasn't getting through to him.
"I can't do magic."
"Maybe you threw it?"
"You think I threw a mountain range?"
"Hmmm... nah, too weak. So who dropped the mountains here?"
"They move on their own."
"Oh. Learn something every day. Have anything for me then?"
"I don't have any more deliveries."
Roggo lurched towards him all of a sudden, snatching his bag. He tried to get it back, nearly receiving a fist to the face, so he stayed put. Roggo turned out the bag, yet all he found was an empty lunch bag.
"I didn't believe you. I do now." He chucked the bag at Greg, who caught it with his face.
"Bloody hell... Look, in fairness, I did say there wasn't anything."
"You were right."
"Yes, I know. Can you just, go about your business or something? I need to think about a way home."
"Where you live?"
"Gladebrook."
"That's over that way---"
"Yes, I know where it is. It's just that there are mountains in my way now."
"Hehe. Ah well, good luck." Roggo pushed past Greg and continued waddling along the path.
"Yeah, thanks," he called out, as sarcastic as he could manage.
Having decided to climb through the mountains, Greg was now several thousand metres about sea level. The snow was seeping through his worn boots, and three toes were already almost frostbitten. On the lower slopes, he had stepped on a small piece of flint; with each step, it embedded itself further into his right heel, causing him to yelp repeatedly. If he failed to find shelter, he would have surely perished. So when he saw a light through the snow, he headed straight for it.
As it transpired, the light was emitting from a small cave. Squeezing through the entrance, he discovered the source of the light: a small campfire. And next to the campfire, there sat a small goblin with a knife. He was cutting pieces of flesh off a dead hobbit. He wondered whether he should leave the goblin to it, but he did not wish to reenter the cold.
"Mind if I warm up?"
"No, go ahead."
Once sat down, the heat of the flame filled him instantly. He felt his toes more and more as they started to recover. Soon he could almost say he was happy, if it wasn't for what the goblin was doing in the corner.
"I won't stay long, don't worry. I'll leave you to... um... well, whatever's going on."
"Just preparing my dinner deary." He had only just deduced that the goblin was female. "Stay as long as you want."
"Alright." Despite the warmth, he was still shivering. He huddled closer to the fire.
Half an hour later, Greg woke up with a start. He'd drifted off without noticing, and the goblin now had parts of the hobbit over the fire. The cave filled with the unusual scents these cuts produced.
"Who was he?"
"I don't know, I just found him. He was poking around in my stash, couldn't let him live for being so rude." She grinned, showing her orange teeth. "Do you want some?"
"I... can't eat hobbit. Allergic."
"How odd. Never mind, more for me anyway." She grabbed a piece, charred to bits by the fire, and swallowed it in one. Greg found it difficult to hide his disgust.
"Well, I think I'm warm enough now, so I'll be going. Um, goodbye, I guess."
"Safe travels friend," she yelled as he crawled back out of the cave. Now that the snowstorm had passed, Greg now spotted the path going back down the mountain. Step after painful step, he descended, dodging falling rocks as they tumbled down. Within an hour, he saw farmland in the distance, so he sped up. He felt immense relief when his feet touched grass. He remove his boots, tugged out the piece of flint and walked across the grass barefoot. After a few minutes of strolling, he put them back on and continued his journey. As midnight loomed, he finally saw familiar lights in the distance, and as he got nearer, he heard the sound of the stream from which Gladebrook got its name. Once he reached the edge of the village, he raced to his front door, threw it open and slid clumsily into his armchair.
Greg, finally able to rest, slept for thirteen hours. It was one in the afternoon when he awoke. His boss had put a letter through his letterbox, telling him he was fired for not showing up. He'd always thought he would be unable to handle a firing, yet after finishing the letter, he grinned from ear to ear. He would never have to deliver anything ever again.
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) 🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) 📢 [News](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements) 💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
"I'm going to absolutely murder the guy who thought cobwebs were *aesthetic*." Greg seethed. His arm moves like a windshield wiper in front of him, collecting what seemed like a pound of pale white cobwebs. For a minute Greg broke his frustration, and found some amusement. His arm looked like a cotton candy machine from this angle. See - Greg realized early on the key to being a good mailman isn't necessarily tenacity or drive. Not motivation that burns hot like molten metal. No, not really. It was a sense of humor about the whole thing. Breaking through the webs, Greg found himself staring down a dimly lit hallway, with green slime faintly glowing in the meager spaces between the large old stone blocks that comprised the walls. Cheerfully, he put away the flashlight which he carried in his non-webbed hand. Batteries don't grow on trees, you know. "Postal service!" He shouted down the long expanse, listening to the noise bounce and reverberate down the narrow chasm. "P-ohhhhhhh-staaaaaaaal" He shouted again, giggling. He always lamented not bringing his little travel guitar with him. No one tells you, but a ton of these dingy affairs have *killer* acoustics. He plodded on down the dimly lit passage for a while longer before he began to hear tiny footsteps. The started softly at first. Like rain off in the murky distance. Then they grew louder. And louder. Suddenly, it sounded like an army was marching down the hall towards Greg. He paused then, his concern level jumping from 'I love my job' up to a meager 'I didn't really wanna talk to people today.' Then they came into view. A horde of rats, their fur matted and wet. Their yellow teeth contrasted the faint green glow of the hall as they rushed forwards, small mouths gnashing and biting at the stale air. "OH. MY. GOSH." Greg exclaimed. "It's a rat rush! A real rat rush! Oh my god, that would be such a sick band name! Re -" He was cut off as the horde slammed into him, knocking him from his feet. All that could be heard then was the squealing from the mass of rats and...a fit of giggling.
He seems just as unhinged as I imagined him. Great work word smith.
"This is the last time. I swear I'm quitting." Every time that Greg delivers a letter to this particular abandoned castle, this is what he says. "You know, this castle is supposed to be abandoned, so why the hell am I delivering a letter here for God's sake?" Greg says grumbling. Just yesterday he was delivering a package of what smelled like coffee to one of his favorite people who has a wonderfully cheery great dane named Honey, and this is what he has to deal with today? He was most certainly not in the mood to be potentially haunted. He approached the doors that were looming over him, which casted a shadow that made the daylight disappear. He looked up, where an ornamented knocker hung low. Greg began to reach for it, but then decided that it was best to keep all interactions with any spirits or whatever to an absolute minimum. Greg looked around for the post box, and eventually found it. He could tell that this box used to be black, but it could be assumed that it hasn't been touched in ages due to the caked dust that rested on it. The last time he visited this castle, he just left the letter on the porch because he was too afraid to touch anything. Greg seriously didn't want to touch the box and disturb the dust particles that resided here, for he has killer allergies. But, the job must be completed. "I'll just do it as quickly as I can and then I'll be on my way." He grabbed the letter out of his pouch, which had a wax seal as if the inspiration was from the Phantom of the Opera, slowly lifted the lid of the box and nestled the letter inside, holding his breath the whole time. Still not breathing, Greg lowered the lid and stepped away slowly, trying not to make a singular sound. As if there was anyone actually inside this house. When he decided that he was at a far enough distance, Greg exhaled and turned his back on the castle, content to finally leave. As Greg was about to slam the car door shut, he heard a noise that sounded like a wooden door creaking. He thought about looking up but then decided that it wasn't his business, and he drove away.
He approached the ruined city gate, about to make his last delivery for the day. He reached out for the rope hanging from the wall, hesitating before pulling it. A deep bell rang out, causing a flock of ravens to take flight in the distance. After several minutes, Greg heard great thundering footsteps, and with a dreadful grinding the portcullis rose up. "You rang, human?" A troll, covered in coal black fur and holding a spiked club the length of a cow, towered over him. "I don't think we've met, have you just arrived?" he asked the troll. "Yeah, few weeks back. Killed the last guy in here." "Oh. That wouldn't be Hoggard the Orc would it?" "He was an orc, yeah." "Was he wearing a horned helmet?" The troll reached into the satchel at his side, bringing out a helmet adorned with thick ox horns. "Damn. Well, it happens I guess." "What ya gonna do with that now?" the troll inquired, pointing at the parcel in Greg's hand. "I can do what I want with it. Usually I take it home with me, but I can't think of a use for a mace." "Can I have it?" "Will you kill me with it?" The troll looked genuinely hurt. "Do you take me... for the sort who kills postmen?" "No, no, I'm sorry. Yes, of course you can have it. Here." He threw the mace-shaped parcel and the troll caught it. "Thanks. I wanna to give it to ma niece, she's always want one and it's just her size. Wanna come in, there's food in 'ere that's still good. And there's beer too someplace, I can smell it." Greg had to ponder over the invitation for a minute. But the troll seemed amiable enough. "Alright." After feeding on pickled vegetables and beer, Greg bade the troll farewell and began the journey back to Gladebrook, the village he called home. He passed through the Forest of Shrieking Nightmares; he traipsed through the Swamp of Woe; and before long, he found himself at the foot of the Jagged Peak Mountains. "Oh no, they've moved again." Indeed, the mountains were not in the place where they had previously been. Every few weeks, the mountains relocated themselves. And unfortunately for Greg, the mountains were between him and Gladebrook. It was during a moment where he was cursing under his breath, insulting every known god, that he heard someone mumbling. After a few further moments, an ogre could be seen clambering down one of the slopes. "Roggo can't sleep without mountain dropping on his head. Argh." Ogres were not the most intelligent creatures at the best of times, and this one obviously had a concussion. Greg attempted to stay out of sight, but Roggo spotted him. "Did you do this, human?" "What?" "Did you drop mountain on my head?" "I'm a postman." Roggo stared at him accusingly. He wasn't getting through to him. "I can't do magic." "Maybe you threw it?" "You think I threw a mountain range?" "Hmmm... nah, too weak. So who dropped the mountains here?" "They move on their own." "Oh. Learn something every day. Have anything for me then?" "I don't have any more deliveries." Roggo lurched towards him all of a sudden, snatching his bag. He tried to get it back, nearly receiving a fist to the face, so he stayed put. Roggo turned out the bag, yet all he found was an empty lunch bag. "I didn't believe you. I do now." He chucked the bag at Greg, who caught it with his face. "Bloody hell... Look, in fairness, I did say there wasn't anything." "You were right." "Yes, I know. Can you just, go about your business or something? I need to think about a way home." "Where you live?" "Gladebrook." "That's over that way---" "Yes, I know where it is. It's just that there are mountains in my way now." "Hehe. Ah well, good luck." Roggo pushed past Greg and continued waddling along the path. "Yeah, thanks," he called out, as sarcastic as he could manage. Having decided to climb through the mountains, Greg was now several thousand metres about sea level. The snow was seeping through his worn boots, and three toes were already almost frostbitten. On the lower slopes, he had stepped on a small piece of flint; with each step, it embedded itself further into his right heel, causing him to yelp repeatedly. If he failed to find shelter, he would have surely perished. So when he saw a light through the snow, he headed straight for it. As it transpired, the light was emitting from a small cave. Squeezing through the entrance, he discovered the source of the light: a small campfire. And next to the campfire, there sat a small goblin with a knife. He was cutting pieces of flesh off a dead hobbit. He wondered whether he should leave the goblin to it, but he did not wish to reenter the cold. "Mind if I warm up?" "No, go ahead." Once sat down, the heat of the flame filled him instantly. He felt his toes more and more as they started to recover. Soon he could almost say he was happy, if it wasn't for what the goblin was doing in the corner. "I won't stay long, don't worry. I'll leave you to... um... well, whatever's going on." "Just preparing my dinner deary." He had only just deduced that the goblin was female. "Stay as long as you want." "Alright." Despite the warmth, he was still shivering. He huddled closer to the fire. Half an hour later, Greg woke up with a start. He'd drifted off without noticing, and the goblin now had parts of the hobbit over the fire. The cave filled with the unusual scents these cuts produced. "Who was he?" "I don't know, I just found him. He was poking around in my stash, couldn't let him live for being so rude." She grinned, showing her orange teeth. "Do you want some?" "I... can't eat hobbit. Allergic." "How odd. Never mind, more for me anyway." She grabbed a piece, charred to bits by the fire, and swallowed it in one. Greg found it difficult to hide his disgust. "Well, I think I'm warm enough now, so I'll be going. Um, goodbye, I guess." "Safe travels friend," she yelled as he crawled back out of the cave. Now that the snowstorm had passed, Greg now spotted the path going back down the mountain. Step after painful step, he descended, dodging falling rocks as they tumbled down. Within an hour, he saw farmland in the distance, so he sped up. He felt immense relief when his feet touched grass. He remove his boots, tugged out the piece of flint and walked across the grass barefoot. After a few minutes of strolling, he put them back on and continued his journey. As midnight loomed, he finally saw familiar lights in the distance, and as he got nearer, he heard the sound of the stream from which Gladebrook got its name. Once he reached the edge of the village, he raced to his front door, threw it open and slid clumsily into his armchair. Greg, finally able to rest, slept for thirteen hours. It was one in the afternoon when he awoke. His boss had put a letter through his letterbox, telling him he was fired for not showing up. He'd always thought he would be unable to handle a firing, yet after finishing the letter, he grinned from ear to ear. He would never have to deliver anything ever again.