The Bloody Package

It seemed like any ordinary day, so why did everything feel so off? I mean, it was a small, old town, so everything felt off at all times, but this was different. I walked to the barber’s shop just two blocks from the apartment building I was moving into tomorrow. You know, scouting the place out. I had been in town many times before since I lived in the next town over, and it always felt eerie to me. I opened the door to the barber shop as the welcoming bell on it rung its friendly chime. “Georgio! You made it!” Proclamation from the shop owner rings out a cheery tune as he approaches me. He’s a tall Italian man with a large and sturdy build about him. He looks intimidating at first, but that quickly goes away once he starts talking to you. “How are ya, my boy? Settlin’ in to your new place nicely, eh?” he asks. “Yes, Alberto,” I reply, “I’ve been doing quite well. As for the new place, I’m still waiting on a few boxes to finally get started on settling in.” This man grins from ear to ear like no other, “That’s great to hear, Georgio! Once you’re settled in you can start up work here in the shop! Didn’t go to a barber training school the past year for nothing, my boy,” he said. He offered me a job about a year and a half ago because he said the shop needed more people like me. He recommended me to a school in the big city a couple hours away from town where I had spent the last year in training. Now that I had graduated from there, I could finally start working with Alberto as my mentor.

“Alberto…” I say, slight worry in my tone. “How do you go about this town without feeling like you’re being watched?” I ask. “My boy, of course you’re being watched! It’s a little town, everyone knows everyone! Once someone they are not familiar with comes to town, they keep an eye on them to see if they are friendly or not. Introduce yourself to people around town and that feeling of being watched will be gone in a month or so.” He assures me this with a slap on the back, enough to make me stumble, and that deep, hearty laugh of his. “You have nothing to worry about, son. You’ll do great!” We talk about lots of different things until it’s almost nightfall. “Arrivederci! Spero di vederti domani!” He shouts as I’ve left the shop after saying my farewells. Alberto has always been such a nice man, though I can’t understand half of what he says. I really should look into learning italian…

I buzz into my apartment complex since I don’t have my key yet. The grumpy-faced landlady comes to unlock the gate for me with a scowl, “I told you, we have a curfew,” she says, voice gravelly from only what I can assume is years of a bad smoking habit. I look at the clock, which reads 11:37. “No one stays out past 10 o’clock. I’ll let you in this one time, so don’t make this a habit.” She warns. I don’t understand the reason for the curfew, but I guess it’s best to comply with the rules of the town for now. I head up the crickety stairs to my apartment. They really need to replace them stairs, they feel like they’re gonna give out any minute.

When I get to my door, there’s a strange package… looks very old fashioned, like those paper wrapped packages they had in the late 1800’s to early 1900’s. Finished with a bow of twine and everything. It’s strange… I never ordered anything, especially to this address. Is it a “welcome to the neighborhood” gift? If it is, why right then? Nobody knew me yet and I was with Alberto for hours. Looking closer, the package is definitely addressed to me, written in cut out pieces of magazine letters. To George Ornay… that’s me, alright. Who the hell is it from though? There’s no return address at all. I pick up the hefty package, surprisingly heavy for its size. There’s a strange feeling of something thick and wet on the bottom… looking at my hand, bright red paints it all. Maybe it was paint that spilled in the box? Oh great, gonna have to clean that up now. Gretchen is gonna kill me if she finds that on her carpet. Just a bright red square rests in front of my door.

I bring the package in and set it on the table after laying down some paper towels beneath it. I wash my hands and watch the red roll off my hands, coming off a little too easy for paint. Maybe because it was still wet? That might be why. I grab the box cutter that is sitting on the countertop, unsheathing the sharp blade, careful to not cut myself. I start untying the bow, ripping the paper off, and seeing how saturated the box is in paint. I cut the tape that keeps the box sealed, which unleashes a terrible odor. Scrunching my nose at the resentful source, I cover my mouth and nose with the collar of my sweater. I peep inside the box and fall backwards with horror and disgust. That wasn’t paint… it was blood. Blood is what had seeped through the box. Bright crimson blood had filled the floor of the package. It’s source… it was a head. A head is what supplied the contents of the box, a head that had my face… I think I know why there was a curfew now, why there was that feeling of someone watching me. I understood it all now… the legend was true. The town legend of the dopelkiller. If you stayed out too late, a package would show up with something horrible in it. As this realization was dawning on me, next thing I knew, everything went black. A hooded figure standing behind me, scythe in hand, as my head fell heavily on the ground. Rolling to the door as my body soon followed after…