The Breathing Package

I stared at the brown paper package on the table, cold sweat trickling down my spine. There was no sender's information, no shipping label—just my name scrawled in dark red ink. What was even more eerie was that the package pulsed slightly, like a living heart, as if something trapped inside was struggling to get out.​

Three days ago, I found a 1987 edition of Insect Encyclopedia at a used bookstore. Tucked between its yellowed pages was half a photograph. In the picture, a man in a white lab coat wore a butterfly mask. Behind him, glass cabinets were filled with amber, each piece encasing a woman with a distorted face. That very night, this package appeared on my doorstep.​

"Must be a prank." I grabbed a box cutter and slit the tape. The stench of rotting flesh mixed with formaldehyde hit my nostrils. Inside the foam padding lay an object wrapped in medical gauze, black slime seeping through the gaps. When I nervously unwrapped the gauze, a melting wax head rolled out, and in its empty eye socket sat a rusted butterfly brooch—the exact same one pinned to the man's collar in the photograph.​

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A video from an unknown number popped up. The footage shook violently, revealing a cobweb-covered basement. The camera panned over rows of glass jars filled with human tissues at various stages of preservation. Finally, it froze on a yellowed newspaper clipping. The headline made my blood run cold: 1987 Butterfly Manor Serial Disappearances: Seven Women Missing Without a Trace.​

"Want the truth?" A text message followed. "Be at Butterfly Manor at 10 PM tomorrow. Don't call the police, or you'll end up as an exhibit too."​

Butterfly Manor had been abandoned for thirty years. My GPS showed no roads leading to that area. My palms grew sweaty as I gripped the steering wheel, and a black SUV tailed me relentlessly, its license plate obscured by mud. When I turned onto the mountain road, my phone lost signal completely, and the dashboard needles spun wildly.​

The manor's iron gates were rusted through, groaning as I pushed them open. The courtyard was filled with oleander bushes, their petals stained with spots resembling dried blood. Inside the main hall, heavy velvet curtains blocked most of the light. Moonbeams seeped through the cracks, illuminating walls covered in butterfly specimens—each wing intricately pieced together from human skin.​

A dragging sound echoed from the second floor. I held my breath and crept up the stairs, the putrid smell growing stronger. A door at the corner stood ajar, emitting an otherworldly blue glow. When I pushed it open, my stomach churned at the sight: Dozens of glass jars filled with formaldehyde, the floating bodies missing their back skin. On the blackboard, scrawled equations covered the surface, and at the bottom, a large red butterfly symbol was painted.​

"Welcome to the laboratory." A raspy voice sounded behind me. I turned to see a man wearing a butterfly mask, a bone saw dripping slime in his hand. "You thought that old book was just a coincidence? It's the key to the truth. In 1987, I was researching the fusion of human skin and butterfly wings. Those women volunteered to be my subjects..."​

As the masked man advanced, I caught a glimpse of the photograph sticking out of his lab coat pocket—the same one from the encyclopedia. "You're the experimenter from back then?" I stepped back, my spine pressing against the cold lab table. "Those weren't disappearances. They were murders!"​

"Murders?" The man cackled, and the sound of grinding bones came from beneath his mask. "Their skin lives on in the butterfly wings. Now it's your turn. The patterns on your back are perfect for my collection." He raised the bone saw, its jagged teeth glowing an unnatural green.​

Just then, police sirens shattered the tension outside. The masked man's expression turned panicked. He grabbed the glass jar with the wax head and hurled it at me. I dodged, and the jar exploded on the floor, the slime eating away at the wall, leaving black marks. Seizing the opportunity, I snatched a scalpel from the table and stabbed his shoulder. The man stumbled back, half of his mask falling off to reveal a decaying face.​

"Police! Freeze!" The door burst open, and armed SWAT officers rushed in. The masked man let out a scream, crashed through the window, and vanished into the night. I collapsed to the ground, watching as the police uncovered more horrifying evidence in the basement. Meanwhile, the Insect Encyclopedia had vanished from my backpack without a trace.​

A week later, another package arrived. Inside was a perfect butterfly specimen, its wings forming the pattern of my name. A note at the bottom read: The game has just begun. Who will be the next exhibit? Outside the window, a swarm of butterflies fluttered by. In the moonlight, their wings reflected the faint outlines of distorted faces.​