Pull

As Jackson wiped the condensation from the window and peered out into the street, it was as if the jet black clouds hanging in the sky above the restaurant were being squeezed dry.

“This is intense,” he remarked, not even looking back at Izzie.

Izzie, focused on loading the cash register for the morning shift, casually returned, “I just hope the basement pump actually works this time.”

Reaching up to pull the string on the bright neon “open” sign situated above his head, Jackson said, “No one’s coming out in this; we might as well close early.”

Thunk!

Out of nowhere, a spray of dirty street water splashed across the window, and a medium-sized box wrapped in brown paper landed at the door of the restaurant.

Jackson cocked his head, then strode to the door to grab the package, but when he turned to look down the street, there was no trace of a delivery driver — no car, no bike, no person; simply an empty street under a blinding downpour.

“Neither rain nor sleet?” Izzie suggested as she made her way to Jackson, who appeared rather puzzled by the unusual delivery.

“I guess,” Jackson replied.

“Who’s it for?”

He wiped away a layer of gunk from the rain-soaked wrapping. “Jackson Fuller…no return address.”

“Any enemies I should know about?” Izzie asked as she took a comically large step backward.

Jackson shrugged.

“Aside from my time in the Yakuza, no — but just to be safe, I think I’ll hold off.”

“You’re not gonna open it?”

“Uh, no,” Jackson shot back. “This is the part in the movie where the red-shirt gets blown up, and CSI comes in to figure out who did it.”

“Well, the register’s loaded for tomorrow, so I’m gonna head out.”

Flipping up the hood of her raincoat, and beginning to unfurl her bedazzled umbrella as she opened the front door, Izzie turned back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. I’m opening,” Jackson said.

Izzie smiled, “Cool.” After offering a brief wave goodbye, she closed the door behind her and disappeared into the wind and rain.

Immidiately, Jackson turned to look at the box. Something about it made him deeply uncomfortable. It wasn’t simply the fact that it seemingly came out of nowhere, nor was it the fact that the sender offered no return address. There was something about the brown paper-wrapped box that set off a sense of dread inside him.

Later that evening, as Jackson prepared dinner and went about his evening routine, that sense of dread only grew.

The box, which Jackson placed delicately on the kitchen counter, seemed almost to posses its own mental gravity, pulling Jackson’s attention to it any time his mind wandered away from the strange delivery for even a moment.

It was during one of these occasions when he noticed something creeping out from underneath the package.

A liquid.

Dark red…almost black.

It traveled from under the corner of the rain-soaked box, and lazily made its way along the grout to the edge of the counter.

Jackson couldn’t move. He was alone with the package; the world around him melted away until only he and it existed. “I should call the cops,” he thought — but he was no longer fully himself. The gravitational effect of the brown paper-wrapped box had captured him.

Without conscious thought, Jackson placed his hands on the parcel, and began peeling back the outer layers of paper. Underneath, a cardboard box sealed with multiple layers of packing tape.

He raced to a nearby drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. The second he punctured the box, a foul smell plumed from the inside. Jackson gagged, and pulled his shirt up over his nose.

Jackson’s better judgement was being crushed by an overwhelming urge to discover what was inside the box. The liquid, the sickening odor — all signs screamed for him to run in the opposite direction. Whatever this was, it wasn’t anything good.

But Jackson was far beyond the point of no return. Curiosity had wrapped him up tightly.

As soon as his hands tore into the semi-sliced tape, and cracked open the flaps of the box, Jackson froze, eyes cast in horror.

“No…” he whispered to himself. “No, no, no.”

All his brain could process was that what he was seeing was…not. It was the opposite of possible. It was outside of his reality.

But there it was. He was looking at…himself — a severed head whose face was a mirror image of his own.

Mouth agape and breathing locked, Jackson’s eyes spotted a small note taped to the interior of the box next to the decomposing head. His hand shook violently as he reached into the parcel to peel the small, folded paper from the cardboard.

“Tick tock,” the note read in smooth ink. “Do you want to end up in this box again?”

At the bottom of the page, the note concluded: “Then follow my instructions this time.”