The Box

The box had been sitting there for two full days.

I stared at the abandoned parcel on the sidewalk by my apartment door, taking a long drag off my cigarette. It wasn’t a package for anyone specific because there was no label. It didn’t seem to interest anyone who walked by my apartment on a daily basis, either. The box, wrapped in brown paper, had seemed to just appear on its own two days ago, and had been staring up at my apartment window ever since.

I live on a relatively busy street in a city, so the resilience of this little box was very impressive. I’ve definitely had a few packages stolen off of my porch, but this box had been peering towards my living room for two days now, untouched. It graciously stood guard over the cigarette butts that didn’t make it to my trash cans.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, snuffing my cigarette under my shoe and putting the box under my arm. It wasn’t heavy – in fact, it almost felt empty. I stepped into my apartment and gingerly set the box down on my table. I don’t know what I expected – for it to bite me, maybe? I stared at the box for a few moments before a truck rushing by my apartment shocked me out of it.

“You’re insane, Marco. It’s just a box,” I said to myself.

I went about my night normally after that – I worked on some of my master’s thesis, I cooked a gourmet dinner of pasta and frozen meatballs, and even took nice, long shower. But something about that box stuck with me. It felt like it was waiting for me, sitting on my table in anticipation.

As darkness creeped over my apartment, I tossed and turned. The black lines at the edges of my walls began to blur and shift, and the passing headlights of the cars outside gave me a moment of relief that my walls weren’t actually writhing. Every time a car drove by and the silence broke, though, I felt like I could hear small whispers buzzing throughout the apartment. Through my bedroom door, the box stared at me from the kitchen table.

The next morning as I woke, I glanced in my bathroom mirror and wasn’t very surprised by how awful I looked. Matted, kinky hair; deep circles beneath bright red eyelids; dry, cracked lips. Sitting in the hot shower for a while helped, but not as much as I’d hoped it would.

Passing by the box on the table, I picked at the brown paper wrapping aimlessly. It began to give way under my fingers – maybe I could just open it quickly, and nobody would notice…I wouldn’t notice…

A violent scream interrupted my thoughts and the brown paper ripped away as I jumped. The corner of the box was exposed now, and my ears were ringing.

Outside, something whispered. She’s outside.

I felt sick.

Fumbling with my door handle, I stepped outside to the front porch facing the road. In front of me – total carnage.

I felt sick.

A woman was lying in the middle of the road, at this point just a puddle of blood and bones. A single pink running shoe had launched itself to land in front of my front stairs. I felt compelled to pick it up, so I did, running my fingers across the black logo. Against the telephone pole across the street was a large moving van, blood speckling its windshield. Several people had stopped to attempt to help, crowding the van.

Nobody bothered with the woman on the road – she was long gone. Her dark ponytail fanned out behind her head, her lips chapped and stained red. Her hands were splayed out by her sides, her palms towards the sky almost as if she were asking why or how this happened. Her blue eyes stared vacantly upwards, frozen in an expression of fear and confusion and dried tears streaked her still-pink cheeks. How awful it must be to lie there, ignored in your last moments.

Yes, I heard, and her eyes flashed to look at me.

I felt sick.

I ran back inside and slammed my door. I realized I was still holding the pink shoe. I put it on top of the box on my table, then ran to my kitchen sink to throw up. Rinsing the bile down the drain, I went back to my living room window to peek outside.

It was dark. Everyone was gone – the only evidence I wasn’t hallucinating the whole thing was the large, ominous dark stain on the side of the road. Had I lost that much time? Was I…losing time? I turned to look at the box and the hairs on the back of my neck stood. I should open it, I think. I feel like…I should open the box.

“No,” I said out loud. To who, I have no idea. I sat on the couch and pulled a blanket around myself. It was July and eighty degrees outside, but I was shivering. My head felt cloudy, and my stomach turned.

Openopenopenopenopenopen.

The whispering from last night was back. It kept repeating itself over and over again: “open.” I stared at the box on the table. The pink shoe rested on top, a few tiny droplets of blood dotting the back of the sole. My ears kept ringing as I stared at the small box wrapped in brown paper.

“No,” I said again, my voice cracking. My head kept swirling and the edges of my vision began to turn black. The ringing got louder, but not loud enough to drown out the violent whispers that filled my small apartment.

Openopenopenopenopenopen.

“No!” I yelled, louder this time, beating my fists on the sides of my head to try to get the voices to stop. The chills shook my body and my heart was racing at this point. What is happening to me? What is in that box?

The whispers stopped and the ringing began to fade.

What…is in…that box?

-----

Two knocks, hard and fast, on the outside of the door echoed through the empty apartment. It cut through the silence sharply. Two more loud, booming knocks and then a piercing crack of splintering wood as the door was kicked in.

Officer Jones surveyed the apartment. Small and well-kept, there wasn’t anything that jumped out to him. The neighbors had called to complain about violent screams that started around 3 am, and lasted over an hour, straight through. Their exact words were, “It sounds like someone is being tortured down there.” But from what Officer Jones and his partner Officer Gaines could see, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The small clock in the living room read 4:33 am.

“Marco? Mr. Rodriguez, your neighbors called us. Are you home?” Officer Jones called out softly. He noticed a woman’s pink shoe on the kitchen table – this stuck out to him because the neighbors had said a male in his 20s lived here. Glancing around the kitchen, Officer Jones didn’t see anything too strange – a few mugs in the sink, an apple with a single bite taken left on the counter.

“You take the bedroom,” Jones said to his partner, “I’ll take the bathroom.” Officer Gaines nodded and turned left, as Officer Jones turned right to the bathroom. The door was ajar, and he could see the sink, complete with a toothbrush and toothpaste in a cup off to the side.

Jones nudged the door open with his hand, and took in a sharp breath. A young man with dark, matted hair sat on the floor of the shower. His arms were slack at his sides, his palms facing the ceiling as if to ask, why? His dark eyes were bloodshot and aimed up at the ceiling, the eyelids bright red and tears stains streaking his face. His legs were crossed in a position that almost made it seem as though he was relaxed.

Officer Jones called for his partner and rushed forward to check for a pulse, but there was nothing. The body wasn’t stiff, so the young man hadn’t been dead long. Jones radioed for backup and EMS to officially declare the man dead. Officer Jones had seen a lot of violent crime scenes over his years as an officer – he had never seen one like this. No visible cause of death, and a deliberately positioned body.

“This is one hell of a case for those detectives to figure out,” Jones said.

“One of the strangest I’ve seen,” Officer Gaines replied, nodding in agreement.

Officer Gaines and Officer Jones waited for EMS to arrive, and made sure to clear out of the bathroom as soon as they did. Officer Jones waited patiently in the living room while the paramedics made the call. Glancing around, he took in some of the pictures sitting on the walls; the young man’s graduation from college, some pictures of an engagement party, some photos with older people that Jones assumed to be his parents. Jones wondered what happened to him – had he been in pain? Was this random, or foul play?

As Officer Jones paced the living room, his boot knocked against something beside the couch. Tucked between an end table and the couch was a small package. It was wrapped in brown paper, and it looked like it had been ripped open in a hurry – the paper was haphazardly resting on the end table beside it. The box inside had been opened, and a small paper with what looked to be a hastily scribbled note was resting in the bottom.

Officer Jones leaned down and squinted at the note, attempting to read it but not wanting to touch it in case it was evidence.

“What’s that? A package?” Gaines asked, peering over Jones’ shoulder.

“No, its empty. It looks like…a note?” he replied. “Its just an empty box with a note in the bottom.”

“Well, what’s it say?”

“All it says is ‘burn the box.’”