Anxiety

Henry preferred tea in the mornings. Most would think him a coffee drinker like any other person in his profession, needing the caffeine to rouse him properly. But, Henry preferred a nice cup of black tea, plain, without any cream or sugar, as he read the morning newspaper.

It was no different this morning as he filled his tea diffuser with the leaves and poured in the hot water from the whistling kettle on the stove. He inhaled the pleasing aroma with a satisfied sigh before heading to his front door to collect the newspaper while the tea cooled ever so slightly.

Upon opening his front door, however, Henry was greeted with a small package wrapped in plain brown paper, placed precisely in the center of his morning newspaper, which had been adjusted from its usually askew placement to being exactly centered on his welcome mat, the headline featuring a murder described as “grisly” glaring at him from beneath the package. Henry stared at the package and it’s placement in mild confusion at first, before a cold sweat began at the back of his neck. He hadn’t ordered anything. His birthday had already passed and any gift-giving holidays were months away, and Henry’s friends and relatives were not the spontaneous-gift-buying sort.

After a moment to collect himself, Henry decided to inspect the package more closely and crouched down on his front porch to do so. From this distance a musty odor arose from the package, or, quite possibly the ground beneath the planks of his porch which would still be wet with morning dew, he tried to convince himself. He drew in a long breath through his nostrils to be sure. No, he decided quite anxiously, the mustiness was certainly due to the package.

Puzzling over the package, Henry stroked his beard as his eyes wandered over the morning paper. A serial killer had been ravaging his small town, one with an affinity for keeping hearts as trophies, and had apparently struck again. This time it was Thomas Kirkson, a CPA, Henry’s CPA along with half the town. Last year, he had merited Henry an audit that had cost him a pretty penny, but Thomas remained in business. Apparently, Henry hadn’t been the only unfortunate soul whose taxes had been fumbled by the bumbling accountant. Perhaps, this killer was just doling out comeuppances, Henry mused. Then he shook his head and refocused on the strange package atop his newspaper blocking the remainder of the news story.

There was no name on the package, neither a “to” nor a “from”. So how did it end up on Henry’s porch? It must have been hand-delivered, because the postal service wouldn’t deliver without an address at least, Henry realized as an uneasiness settled into the pit of his empty stomach. Henry drummed his fingers against his thigh as he stared at the musty, no-name, brown paper package sitting perfectly atop his perfectly arranged newspaper. This was placed here with intent. Joey, the paper boy, and Ron the mailman, wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to impress Henry, let alone come up onto his porch. But someone did. Henry realized he was sweating. Well, it was a rather warm morning here in the South, Henry tried to rationalize, but the queasiness in his stomach told him it was not the Southern sun making him sweat.

“Just pick it up, you damn coward,” Henry scolded himself.

With trembling fingers, Henry reached for the package, hesitated, and then snatched the package up. It was surprisingly light and the contents thudded gently from side-to-side as he jostled it. He was about to take the mystery package inside and abandon the newspaper for later when he noticed the pristine white card that had been nestled just beneath the package. And this one was addressed to Henry.

Henry gulped and stooped to retrieve the card as well. Carrying them both inside with haste, he promptly sat them down on his kitchen table next to his cup of tea, which had most likely gone cold by now, with such tremulations one might think the package and card were ticking rather than thudding gently. Despite the air conditioning inside, Henry’s sweating did not abate as he stared down at his package and card with his hands on his hips, his breath coming in short, quick gasps.

Fingertips tingling from his nerves, Henry picked up his cup of tea and took a sip, grimaced at the ruined temperature, and returned it to its saucer with a shaking hand.

Then, he began pacing. Not very long strides, but short, barely the length of his table, and his eyes were fixated on the package and card as he did so. Who would send it? Why did they not put who it was from? Why did they not simply mail the package? And if they were going to hand-deliver it, why not knock and give it to him directly? Was it a prank? Was it malicious? Who sent the damn package?

Henry stopped pacing, realized he had been chewing on his thumbnail and promptly stopped that as well, and stared at the card. The card would have the answers.

Gingerly, Henry took the card up from the table, and opened it. Inside was a typed note that read only:

From Your Admirer <3

Now, even more perplexed, Henry set the card back down beside the package and resumed his pacing. Admirer? Did he have someone’s fancy? Were they sending a benign token of affection? Were they shy and that was why they hand-delivered it with no return address?

Henry chuckled, stopped pacing, and stared at the package, now seeming small and insignificant. He had gone through all this mental torment and let his tea grow cold over some school-girl crush. It was decided, then, that he should open the package and find out what trinket his admirer thought a farmer might enjoy receiving.

With a more than upbeat attitude and hands that trembled no more, Henry ripped open the brown paper and the box beneath it, giddy as he pulled apart the brown paper inside wrapping up his new treasure. Then, he saw it. A human heart. It lie still and listless, nestled inside the brown paper. Henry’s blood went cold. His hands trembled. A cold sweat began at the back of his neck and traveled down his back. A lump formed in his throat.

That was Thomas Kirkson’s heart, Henry would know it anywhere, but why was it not where he had left it with the other hearts?