The Misdelivered Package

I pulled the van up to the house and frowned before I’d even shifted into park.

“Airbnb? Surely nobody lives here- I’ve never seen anybody here…” It came out louder than I meant, but talking to myself is part of the job now.

The place looked…wrong. Grass trimmed just enough to not scream “empty,” but the fence posts leaned like they’d given up. Porch light burning at two in the afternoon. No curtains- just that hollow look of a place between owners.

Movement behind the screen door. My brain filed it under human, but my gut wasn’t happy. I gave the default smile- quick, polite, gone before it could be mistaken for an invitation.

Checked the label again. Something about it scratched at the back of my mind. Keys in my left hand, pepper spray in my right. Old habits.

The walk up was slow, weaving between fence posts that looked ready to fall. Scanner beeped when I hit the barcode, but it wasn’t the normal beep. Shorter. Sharper. I looked down- my address flashed on the screen for a heartbeat before it snapped back to this one.

My mouth went dry.

Reset the scanner. Nothing in history. No glitch report.

The guy hadn’t moved, just…stood there. Smile hovering like it was hooked in place.

“Uh- I've got a package for you,” I said, keeping it business-short. He opened the screen just enough to take it. Cold fingers brushed mine. His smile widened.

“Thank you.” Perfect pronunciation, but no life in it. Like reading a script in phonics class.

I stepped back, matching his smile with one of my own, the kind that says transaction over. “Have a good one,” I said, already turning.

Could feel him watching.

Back in the van, keys in the ignition, I didn’t start it. Grabbed my phone and called the office.

“Hey, can you look up the package I just scanned for [address]?”

Pause. “Nothing’s pulling up.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” My eyes flicked to the side mirror. Door shut now. No movement.

“It’s not in the system, Dee. Are you sure you scanned it?”

“I- yeah. I’m looking at the house right now.”

The phone squealed and then...dead air.

Hands sweating. Just go. Next stop. Turn the key-

From somewhere in the van, close enough I could swear it was right behind me: “Thank you.”

Exact same tone.

I whipped around so fast my seatbelt locked. Nothing. Just the smell of home- my detergent, my coffee- so sharp it almost hurt.

Threw it in gear and drove like hell until the scanner’s next cheerful beep felt like oxygen.

Never saw the man again.

A week later, a plain brown box was sitting on my porch. No label. No return address. Inside: my mailbox key.

I never lost it.

Disclaimer:

Fiction, inspired by real unnerving moments from life as a mail carrier. All names, addresses, and events are altered. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidence, not confession.