The package sat on my lap, heavier than ever. My name was carved into the black wax paper, each letter sharp, like it had been etched by something with claws—and not the manicure kind. Above me, the sky boiled with storm clouds, rolling too fast, like nature itself had pressed fast-forward on the apocalypse. No buzz. No comforting app ping. Just me, the package, and the kind of silence that feels like it's waiting for a punchline. Spoiler: the punchline is probably death.
I pulled into the apartment parking lot, killed the engine, and sat there, staring at the thing. My wrist was burning again—the crescent scar pulsing faintly, like a cursed Fitbit trying to tell me I was 100% doomed. I had the urge to chuck the package into oncoming traffic, but my fingers wouldn't let go. Classic horror movie mistake? Probably. But hey, free will is overrated when your life turns into a supernatural gig economy nightmare.
Inside, I dumped it on the coffee table like it might explode—or worse, like it might ask me to sign for it. The room felt off-kilter, walls breathing like they were tired of holding it together. I rubbed my wrist, the glow stronger now, like something was knocking from the inside. You know, just normal Tuesday night stuff.
And then—boom. Memory sucker-punched me right in the brain.
I was eight. Blistering summer afternoon. Mom was in the garden, cursing at weeds like they owed her money, when she froze mid-rip. Her eyes locked onto something by the porch steps. A brown package. Plain. No label. No delivery truck. No suspicious guy in a high-vis vest. Just... there.
"Inside. Now." Her voice had that tone. The one you don't mess with unless you want slippers thrown at your head.
I obeyed... mostly. Peeked through the blinds as she tiptoed over and picked it up like it was a bomb. She disappeared into her bedroom, door slammed shut.
That night, curiosity won. Obviously. I mean, what kid wouldn't risk death by slipper for a mystery box?
I crept in. Moonlight stretched across the floor, spotlighting the package. It sat there, humming. Not like an appliance hum—more like a whisper you could feel in your bones. My eight-year-old brain, still hopeful and stupid, thought: "Maybe it's a secret birthday gift. Or a puppy!" (Spoiler: It was not a puppy.)
I peeled back the paper. Darkness. Not 'room with the lights off' darkness—this was abyss-level, swallowing the moonlight whole. And then... eyes. Something blinked from the void, lazy and knowing. A whisper slid across my skin, cold and oily:
"See..."
Pain sliced into my wrist. I jumped back, smacking into a dresser, biting down a scream. The crescent scar was there by morning. My mom never mentioned the package again. Like, at all. Total blackout. And I, being a very smart child, filed it under: Do Not Talk About Or Poke Again.
Cut to now: my phone buzzed violently on the table.
MEMORY BLEED DETECTED. MAINTAIN ROUTINE.
"Yeah, cool, love that for me," I muttered. "Definitely nothing cursed about that notification."
I stared at the package. It sat, patient, like it knew I wasn't going anywhere. Heavy wasn't even the word—it felt like it was dragging my entire past with it. I sat down across from it, elbows on knees, exhaled slowly.
"Okay," I said out loud, "Let's make a deal. If you're a flesh-eating monster, at least have the decency to do it quick. I have leftovers in the fridge I really want to eat tomorrow."
Silence.
The apartment lights flickered. Somewhere, a door creaked. And then—a knock. Three soft raps at my door. I froze, staring. My brain did cartwheels trying to logic it away. Pizza? Nope. I didn't order. Neighbor? No way, nobody here talks to each other. Murderer? Strong maybe.
"Who is it?" I called, voice cracking in a very non-heroic way.
Silence.
The knock came again—same pattern, soft but insistent. My stomach dropped to my ankles. I grabbed the package (why??) and backed into the kitchen, eyeing the door like it might sprout teeth. The scar on my wrist was practically vibrating now, a sickly glow pulsing with every heartbeat.
And then... my smart TV turned itself on. Static blared, then—boom—there I was. On screen. Live feed. Me, holding the package like an idiot, staring at the TV in horror. Behind me on screen? A shadow, tall and thin, inching closer.
I whipped around. Nothing. Back to the TV—still there, creeping, a grin stretching way too wide across its blurry face.
"NOPE." I lunged forward, yanked the TV plug out. Darkness. Quiet. Just my breathing, ragged, and the low hum of the fridge sounding way too loud.
I sat on the floor, clutching the package. My brain buzzed with questions I didn't want the answers to. What the hell was my mom mixed up in? What was this delivery service really moving around? And seriously, why the hell didn't I just become an accountant?
The scar itched, burned. My phone vibrated one last time.
NEW INSTRUCTION: WAIT. IT WILL COME TO YOU.
I laughed, short and hysterical. "Great. I'll just wait here. With my cursed Amazon Prime order and my haunted memories. Living the dream."
Somewhere deep in the building, something laughed back.
And for once? It didn't feel like a joke.