Final Delivery

The glow of the dashboard clock read 11:47 PM as Jason steered his beat-up sedan down a lonely, tree-lined road. He hated late-night shifts, especially in this part of town, where the houses were spaced far apart and the streetlights flickered ominously. Still, it was a job, and tonight’s order was his last delivery before clocking out.

The address was scrawled hastily on the receipt: 113 Widow’s Lane. Jason frowned. Widow’s Lane was notorious in town—not for its residents, but for its lack of them. The houses there were either abandoned or condemned, their windows like hollow eyes staring into nothingness.

Pulling up to 113, Jason cut the engine and stared at the house. It was a towering, decrepit Victorian structure, its once-grand facade now cloaked in peeling paint and ivy. A faint orange glow flickered from a single window on the second floor.

“Someone’s home, at least,” he muttered, grabbing the pizza box and stepping out into the cool night air.

The wooden steps creaked under his weight as he approached the door. There was no doorbell, just an antique brass knocker shaped like a gnarled hand. Jason hesitated before knocking three times. The sound echoed through the house, but no one answered.

“Hello? Pizza delivery!” he called, his voice faltering as it disappeared into the oppressive silence.

The door creaked open on its own. Jason blinked, peering into the dimly lit hallway. The air inside smelled of mildew and something metallic, like rust.

“Hello?”

A faint whisper came from deeper within the house. “Come in…”

Every instinct screamed at Jason to leave, but the thought of the $20 tip promised on the receipt kept him rooted. He stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him with a jarring finality.

The hallway led to a grand staircase and several rooms, their doors slightly ajar. Jason placed the pizza on a nearby table, hoping to make a quick exit. But curiosity tugged at him.

One room caught his eye: a dining room with a long, dust-covered table. Plates and silverware were set neatly, but each plate held only a single, withered object—a shoe, a torn wallet, a watch.

Jason’s stomach tightened. These belonged to someone.

As he backed out of the room, his foot hit something on the floor—a photo. Picking it up, he saw a blurry image of a delivery driver standing on the same porch he had just entered. His uniform bore the logo of another local pizza joint.

Sweat beaded on Jason’s brow. He turned and froze.

A figure stood at the end of the hallway.

“Hey! I just—uh—delivered your pizza,” Jason stammered, holding up his hands. The figure didn’t move. It was cloaked in shadow, its face obscured.

The flickering light overhead dimmed, and when it returned, the figure was gone.

Jason bolted for the front door, but no matter how hard he pulled, it wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at his chest as whispers filled the air, growing louder and more insistent. They weren’t coming from the house—they were coming from the walls.

“Don’t run…” one voice hissed.

“Stay…” whispered another.

Jason stumbled into another room—a parlor. A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting an eerie glow. Above the mantle hung a wall of photographs, all of delivery drivers. Their faces were wide-eyed, frozen in expressions of terror.

In the corner of the room sat the pizza he had delivered, untouched, the box lid slightly ajar. He edged closer, dread pooling in his gut. Inside was not a pizza but a note written in crimson ink:

“Congratulations. You’re the main course.”

Jason turned just as the whispers stopped. The figure was behind him now, its face still hidden, but its voice was unmistakably human.

“Welcome to your final delivery.”

The last thing Jason saw was the gnarled hand of the knocker reaching for him, pulling him into the shadows. The door to 113 Widow’s Lane creaked open once more, ready for its next visitor.