One day just before Christmas, I come to the conclusion that my house is haunted by the ghost of a very, very angry postal worker.

For several months, the mailman neglects to take my outgoing mail. I chalk this up to any number of things, until the day I mention it to my next door neighbor, who replies:  I’d be furious if he did that to me. I haven’t had that problem.

It has to be true, because if she had that – or any other – problem, I’d know.

Have you left mail out for him recently? I ask.

Yes, she says. A couple times a week, at least.

I get mad, and complain in person at the post office, which doesn’t solve the problem, so I start calling every time it happens – which, being December, is near daily.

A supervisor helpfully suggests that perhaps I’m not using the flag on the box. That’s true, I say, because the box has no flag. Neither does my neighbor’s box, and she doesn’t have that problem. For eight years,  I didn’t either. Not until a couple months ago.

The supervisor says he’ll send the mailman back for my mail every day that he misses it.

I vent about this on Twitter.

Some guy in Europe replies.

No, I have no idea who this guy is. This is one of the things I love about Twitter: Suddenly, randomly, someone you’ve never met before can deliver your perfect punchline or helpful thought or provide some arcane piece of information that you can’t figure out how to Google.

So I reply. Anyone who’s willing to listen to my theories about Beetlejuice-like postal workers, I’m willing to talk to – at least briefly.

He counsels patience.

The next day, someone decides to – quite legally – park in front of my mailbox, despite the half mile of adjacent, legal, empty curb they could have chosen instead. I explode, and vent on Twitter again. I leave an irate note on the car’s windshield, which I start to sort-of regret a half hour later when the tow-truck arrives to cart off the apparently broken-down vehicle.

It looked fine to me.

A day or so later, EuroTweeter checks in again. How’s my Christmas going?

I vent some more about the post office, and then regale him with enthralling tales of my office-cleaning.

The fact that he – or anyone, for that matter – is interested in any of it, is a red flag of the type that even I can see. I check his profile.

I can’t work out where he currently lives, and much of his tweeting appears to be in Swedish, which is another big red flag: The Foreigner is fluent in Swedish,too. This guy isn’t The Foreigner, and I have nothing against Sweden (in fact, I’m a big fan of IKEA), but in the absence of any additional information, any parallels I can draw to past, failed relationships are of critical importance.

I inquire how his holidays are going, and he says fine, not too busy. He’s not really very social, he says. Presumably he meant to add, in person.

I ask where he’s from and he suggests I follow him back if I want to know more. I don’t really, but I think, what harm could it do? I follow lots of people on Twitter, and vice versa.

He direct messages me the next day. He’s very glad to “see” me again on Twitter.

I feel very uneasy, like I was offered a walk to a well-lit bus stop on a major street and ended up being driven in a stranger’s car on a very dark road.

EuroTweeter messages me privately again the next day. There’s nothing odd about the messages, just hello and where he’s from and so on. But I can’t shake the feeling and although I consider any number of responses, public and private, I decide the best response is none.

Mid-December, I get an email from The Lawyer. It’s a link to a book about the significance of the written word to Jews throughout history, exactly the kind of nerdy thing my father and I can be found reading and discussing via skype. The Lawyer suggests that this might make a good Hanukah gift for my father.

I’m pretty sure he’s not going to bill me for this email, sent at 11:26 pm on a Saturday night.

I don’t think this is the time to explain to him that I’m only half-Jewish, and the wrong half at that, something my father has recently discussed at great length with his rabbi, and I imagine will continue to discuss because I don’t think either of them has moved much from their original opinions on the matter.

My father’s case would presumably not be bolstered by the fact that we exchange Christmas gifts, anyway. And although he lights candles each year on his Menorah, I didn’t manage to accomplish even that much this past Hanukah – after failing to find the right kind of candles at three different supermarkets, I gave up.

I can, and do, critique every bagel I eat, often at great length. I’m great with guilt, too.

That must count for something.

I wonder about the fact that every time I’ve spoken with The Lawyer recently, he inquires about my father. He hasn’t asked for my dad’s email address.

I wonder if that’s some sort of conflict of interest.

I finally settle on a reply email that simply thanks him for the information, and wishes him happy holidays. I do mention that I’m having a lovely holiday season, particularly as a lot of people have been taking me out for post-divorce celebratory drinks.

I receive no reply.