I stared at the package in my hands like it was a live grenade. Because honestly? It might as well have been. Ever since the Manager's warning—"It will find you. Do not let it speak."—I'd been on high alert, watching that black wax paper like it might suddenly sprout fangs and bite my face off.
The thing was unnervingly still. Too still. Wrapped tight, not a single twitch. But my scar itched like mad every time I looked at it, and I had the creeping sensation that the package was... aware. Waiting.
I didn't have a destination this time. The app was blank—no ping, no drop-off point. Just that gnawing emptiness and a single chilling line at the bottom: Awaiting delivery instructions.
Great. Super helpful.
Hours passed. I tried to eat a bowl of instant noodles, but the moment I sat down, the package rattled—like it knew I was distracted. Nearly launched the chopsticks across the room.
"Alright, buddy," I muttered, glaring at it from across the table. "Anytime you feel like behaving like an inanimate object, that'd be fantastic."
Silence.
I thought about calling it in. But who? Ghostbusters? My mom? The Manager, who'd probably just tell me to "adapt and grow" again? Yeah, no thanks.
Then, around midnight, my apartment lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then cut out completely. Dead silence followed—a silence so heavy, I swear I could hear my own thoughts panicking.
My phone buzzed. One word: NOW.
The package vibrated violently in my hands, as if it had received the message too. Without warning, it leapt out of my grip—no joke, fully airborne—and hit the floor with a thud. I scrambled back, tripping over my chair.
"NOPE," I yelled. But the package was already unwrapping itself. Wax paper shredded like it was being torn from the inside out, strips flying in every direction.
I grabbed a broom—because apparently that's my weapon of choice now—and backed toward the door. "Listen, whatever you are, I am off duty! Take your cursed nonsense somewhere else!"
Out of the wreckage, something crawled free.
It was... hideous. About the size of a football but covered in matted fur, twitching whiskers, and eyes that gleamed like wet marbles. Rows of jagged teeth lined a snout way too big for its body. And those claws? Think salad tongs sharpened to murdery perfection.
It blinked up at me. Then, to my horror, it opened its mouth and said—in a voice like nails on a chalkboard—
"Raaaaaaayyyyy..."
I shrieked and threw the broom at it. Direct hit. The creature flew back, rolled once, and hissed, eyes narrowing like I'd just insulted its mom.
"SHUT UP!" I yelled, grabbing the nearest thing—a frying pan—and brandishing it like a sword. "No talking! NO TALKING!"
It lunged.
We crashed around the apartment in a whirlwind of chaos: me swinging wildly, it dodging with creepy agility. At one point it latched onto my leg, and I ran in circles shrieking like a malfunctioning Roomba, slamming into walls and knocking over everything I owned.
I finally managed to trap it under a laundry basket, piling books on top. My app buzzed again: CLIENT APPROACHING. DO NOT LET IT ESCAPE.
"Gee, thanks for the timely warning!" I panted, sweat pouring down my face.
A knock at the door. I cracked it open, peeking out.
It was a little old lady—five-foot-nothing, floral dress, bright pink hat. She smiled sweetly. "Oh dear, is my little Button causing trouble?"
I blinked. "Button?"
She peered inside. "Oh, there he is! Such a naughty boy."
I stared at her, then back at the basket, which was now rattling like a washing machine full of bricks. "THAT'S Button?!"
She chuckled. "Yes, he gets peckish when he travels. Here—" she handed me a dog treat shaped like a tiny skull. "Would you mind popping this in? Calms him right down."
Against every shred of common sense, I lifted the basket just a crack and tossed the treat in. Instantly, the creature—Button—went quiet. Purring, even.
The old lady stepped inside, scooped him up (he nuzzled her like a kitten, the traitor), and placed him in a carrier shaped like a miniature haunted house.
My app buzzed: 5-STAR RATING. BONUS RECEIVED.
She handed me a tip: a single, perfectly wrapped caramel. "For your trouble, dear."
"Thanks," I mumbled, still in shock.
She winked and tottered off, whistling cheerfully. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the now-quiet apartment, still clutching the broom.
My phone buzzed one last time: NEXT DROP PENDING. STAY READY.
I looked at the caramel in my hand.
It whispered: "Soon."
I dropped it and bolted for the shower.