I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head

The GPS signal blinks steadily on the screen, a tiny beacon of light in the heart of Busan. We've been tracking the letter's progress for hours now, watching as it made its way from Seoul to the bustling port city, passing through the hands of countless postal workers and delivery trucks along the way.

And now, as we sit in a nondescript van parked outside the Busan regional post office, we watch with bated breath as the signal moves once again, tracing a path through the winding streets of the city.

"It's heading for the address," one of my colleagues murmurs, his eyes glued to the screen. "The one Yuri gave us, the one she thought belonged to her brother."

We watch in tense silence as the blinking dot moves closer and closer to its destination, our hearts pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

But then, just as the signal reaches the supposed address, it stops. For a moment, we hold our collective breath, waiting for someone to claim the letter, to reveal themselves as the missing piece in this twisted puzzle. But nothing happens. The dot remains motionless, frozen in place like a tiny island of stillness in a sea of chaos.

And then, to our utter confusion, it starts moving again. But not in the direction we expected.

"It's heading back," I mutter, my brow furrowed in confusion as I watch the signal retrace its steps, winding its way through the streets of Busan once more. "Back to the regional post office."

My team exchanges bewildered glances, their faces etched with the same mixture of confusion and disbelief that I feel churning in my gut. This doesn't make any sense.

And then, with a sudden flash of realization, it hits me.

"The address," I say, my voice tight with a mixture of excitement and dread. "The letter couldn't be delivered, so it's being returned to the post office."

My colleagues exchange skeptical glances, their faces etched with the same mixture of doubt and uncertainty that I feel churning in my gut. But I know that I'm right, know that this is the only explanation that makes sense.

***

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The highway stretches out before me like an endless ribbon of asphalt, the city lights of Busan glimmering in the distance like a beacon of hope. I've been driving for hours, heading to Busan, my mind churning with the possibilities, the nagging sense that something about this case just doesn't add up.

"So," he purrs, his words dripping with false curiosity. "What's on your mind? What could possibly have you racing all the way to Busan in the middle of the night?"

I grit my teeth, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I try to focus on the road ahead. "There's something strange going on with that letter," I say, my voice tight with a mixture of excitement and dread. "It's not adding up, not following the usual patterns of a misdelivered piece of mail."

Bundy chuckles, a sound that is at once amused and sinister. "Oh, really?" he murmurs, his voice taking on a sly, insinuating tone. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

I take a deep breath, my mind racing as I try to put my thoughts into words. "Usually, when a letter is sent to the wrong address, it's the receiver who sends it back," I explain, my words coming faster now, tumbling out in a rush of pent-up frustration.

"They'll mark it as undeliverable, or write 'return to sender' on the envelope, and then it goes back through the system to the original post office."

I pause, my brow furrowed as I consider the implications of what I'm saying. "But this letter, Yuri's letter... it never even stayed at the supposed destination. It was sent back to the Busan regional post office almost immediately as if there was no delivery attempt."

Bundy is silent for a moment, and I can almost feel his dark presence looming over me, a malevolent shadow that threatens to consume me whole. "And what do you think that means?" he asks, his voice a sinister whisper that seems to echo in the depths of my mind.

I shake my head, my jaw clenched with determination as I take the exit ramp towards the heart of Busan, the post office looming ahead like a fortress of secrets and lies. "I don't know," I admit, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "But whatever it is, I have to check in person."

***

The Busan regional post office is a bustling hive of activity, a sea of people and packages moving in a carefully choreographed dance of efficiency. As I step through the doors, the cool blast of air conditioning hitting me like a physical force, I can feel the weight of the case pressing down on me, the urgency of my mission driving me forward like a man possessed.

I approach the front desk with a sense of purpose, my badge held high as I flash it at the surprised clerk. "Detective Park, Seoul Metropolitan Police," I say, my voice low and authoritative. "I need to speak with your manager immediately. It's a matter of utmost importance."

The clerk nods, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and apprehension as she hurries off to find her superior. And then, after what feels like an eternity, a man emerges from the back office, his face lined with the weariness of a long and difficult day.

"I'm Manager Kang," he says, his voice gruff but not unkind as he extends a hand in greeting. "I understand you need to speak with me about a case?"

I nod, my grip firm as I shake his hand, my eyes locking with his in a silent message of urgency. "Yes, I do. Is there somewhere we can speak privately? It's a sensitive matter, and I don't want to cause any unnecessary alarm."

Manager Kang nods, his brow furrowed with concern as he leads me back to his office, a small and cluttered space filled with stacks of papers and humming computer monitors. As we sit down across from each other, the tension in the air is palpable, a living thing that seems to crackle with electricity.

"I'm here about a specific letter," I begin, my voice low and steady as I lean forward in my chair, my elbows resting on the desk. "One that's been sent to an address here in Busan, by a woman named Kim Yuri. I've been tracking its movements, and there's something strange going on, something that doesn't add up."

Manager Kang nods, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he pulls up the records on his computer, his eyes scanning the screen with a practiced efficiency. And then, after a moment, he leans back in his chair, his expression grave as he meets my gaze.

"You're right," he says, his voice heavy with a sense of resignation. "The letter you're referring to... it's been sent to the same wrong address for almost two years now, and we've never been able to do anything about it. There's no return address, no way to contact the sender and let them know their mail isn't being delivered."

I nod, my heart sinking as I consider the implications of what he's saying. "So what happens to the letter?" I ask, my voice tight with a mixture of dread and anticipation. "How do you handle it when it comes back as undeliverable?"

Manager Kang sighs, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the desk as he considers his words carefully. "Our delivery staff, they always try to bring it to the address one more time, just in case something has changed," he explains, his voice thick with a sense of duty and responsibility. "But when it comes back again, they just bring it here, to the regional office.

We hold onto it for a while, in case the sender tries to contact us or claim it. But eventually..."

He trails off, his eyes filling with a deep sadness that sends a chill down my spine. "Eventually, if no one comes for it, we have no choice but to destroy it. It's a terrible thing, but we can't just keep holding onto unclaimed mail forever."

I nod, my mind racing with the implications of what he's telling me, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. But then, just as I'm about to thank him for his time and take my leave, Manager Kang speaks again, his voice low and hesitant.

"There's one more thing," he says, his eyes darting nervously to the door, as if afraid of being overheard. "About the letter, about all the letters that have been sent to that address over the years..."

I lean forward, my heart pounding with a sudden sense of urgency, a feeling that I'm on the brink of something big, some crucial piece of the puzzle that could change everything.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes locked with his in a silent plea for the truth.

Manager Kang takes a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he leans across the desk, his words coming out in a rush of pent-up emotion.

"The letters... they're always empty," he says, his voice cracking with a sense of disbelief and horror. "Every single one of them, for two whole years. They arrive in their envelopes, sealed and untampered with, but when we open them up... there's nothing inside. Just a blank void, as if they were never meant to carry a message at all."