Boxed In

Gusts of wind swirled the front doorstep of a quaint suburban home in the small town of Joelton. Autumn leaves were whisked away from the brick landing of the fourth house on the left of Market Drive. The home was a wholesome blue-grey, two-story contemporary farmhouse with white trimming, a large oak door, and dark blue shudders. A black drone with four articulating rotors hovered over the concrete landing, carrying a large package. It lowered the package to the ground and a unison of clicks could be heard as the drone released the box. After allowing it to settle, the drone navigated to the door, and with robotic precision, rang the doorbell. It then quickly backed itself out from under the awning and disappeared into the skyline.

Terry put the spaghetti-stained dish he was holding back down in the soapy sink before he rushed off to answer the door. Despite wiping his wet hands on his jeans, it took a moment to turn the doorknob. By the time he opened the door, he had missed seeing who had delivered the large square box before him. With a bit of hesitation, he walked up to the box and stared. It was the size of a large washing machine! He went to grab the box and was surprised when it was extremely lightweight. He then pulled it into his house and left it by the entryway while he went to grab a pair of scissors in the kitchen. When Terry returned and began finding the best place to cut brown tape that kept everything secure, he realized that there was something odd about the box itself. After checking all the sides and corners, he concluded that there was no shipping label, no address, or otherwise that showed that this truly was his box. Not knowing if the package was truly meant for him, Terry decided not to open it. Moments later, he realized that he had not ordered anything that could match the size of the box. He wondered aloud if his wife had ordered anything and not mentioned it. He decided to call the post office when they opened again the next day, if she wasn't familiar with it either. After another inquisitive glance, he made his way back to the kitchen to put the scissors away. However, when he opened the drawer, they slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor, blade side down. They missed his foot by millimeters, thankfully, because one of the blades stuck itself into the seam of the hardwood. The other blade, forced with momentum, made several snipping motions against the floor until finally coming to a stop. With such a close call, Terry was a little shaken. Regaining his composure, he pried the blade free from the hardwood and carefully placed the set back in the drawer they belonged in, next to the stove.

He took a deep breath before he returned to his post at the grey kitchen island where the sink was laid. His hands dove back into the soapy water, searching for another dish. After mindlessly washing a few dishes, he suddenly felt an odd warmth just below the knuckle of his right hand. He jerked his hands out of the water and peered at the suds before realizing there was a swirl of light red mixed with the water and bubbles. Terry turned his hand over to see a chasm of dark red that poured droplets of blood down the tips of his thumb and index finger. He watched as the crimson liquid mixed with the soapy water below with continued acrobatic twirls. The darker the dishwater turned, the more he realized that he needed to get this bandaged up right away. He pulled the plug that held the bloody, sudsy water before he left for his bathroom, where they stored a first aid kit. After cleaning and wrapping this new wound, Terry returned to the kitchen to finish his chore. He decided that he would need to cover up his fresh wrapping and put on a set of rubber dish gloves that his wife had in a nearby drawer. Gently, he pulled out what must have been the culprit of his cut, an older kitchen knife with mild rust around the handle. Terry decided that he would give it the much-needed retirement it deserved. It was in need of replacement anyway and now it was personal. Knife disposed of, he finished scrubbing the dishes and placed them in the drying rack as he went.

Satisfied with his work, he said out loud, "Laundry time."

Terry turned and started upstairs before he caught the box out of the corner of his eye. He stared at the thing for a few moments, thinking that it looked off in some way, but he couldn't figure out how. After deciding that it was nothing, he made his way upstairs and into his bedroom. Two large mounds were bunched on the bed, one of towels and the other dark clothes.

He started with the clothes first, with the thought that towels are faster, so he'd save them for last. When he came toward the end of the pile, he noticed that the wrap around his hand showed a more crimson hue than before. He settled that it may have been a deeper cut than he thought and went to the bathroom to change out the bandage. The man knelt and searched under the sink for the bandages they stored there. Moving aside cleaning supplies and extra toilet paper, he found a small package of them. While he stood back up, he walked his fingers across the top of the assorted individually wrapped bandages and found one of the larger kinds. Terry took the first wrap off, which made him notice immediately that it was starting to bruise and there was some swelling around the site of the cut. It wasn't much but a couple drops of blood hit the porcelain rim below him. After a few one-handed maneuvers, a new bandage covered the cut, and he began to wash out the mess in the sink. He wasn't sure if it was the thick iron smell or something he ate that didn't agree with him, but he was hit with an intense level of nausea. A couple rushed steps later, he found himself hunched over the toilet and flushed away parts of his lunch.

Terry stepped back over to the sink to rinse his mouth out. He cupped his hands together under the cold water and allowed them to fill over until it ran warm. Several gargles and spits later, he pulled on the lift rod and filled the sink. When the water rose high enough, he closed his eyes and dunked his face in. His body jolted with cold chills as he submerged into the warm liquid. Quickly, he found the hand towel nearby and pressed it firm against his face. Despite the rush through his body, he suddenly realized he was getting tired. That made him decided that he'd done enough chores for the day and would take a nap, if he could. It wasn't uncommon for him to have a quick nap when he got off work, so he took off for the stairs and trekked over to his favorite spot on the couch. There were some leftover pretzels on the plate he had forgotten on the end table, so he took one and chomped down on it as he sat. He surfed through the channels and settled on a home renovation show featuring two sisters that flipped houses in Seattle. He kicked his feet up and lost himself deep into the episode.

Before he knew it, he was waking up drenched in sweat and had a migraine like none he'd ever felt. He felt like he couldn't catch his breath. Like he’d always done, he placed a hand to his head to check for fever. His hand was very cool to the touch and felt great on his warm temples. It was a few minutes before he realized that the cool touch was very wet. He looked at his hand, but it had gotten dark while he was asleep and all he could make out was an inky substance. He reached over with the same hand and turned on the lamp that was on the end table. He couldn't believe it, but it was his blood covering his hand. His bandage seemed to have come off while he was out. Terry looked around to find a pool of blood on the ground, covering the legs of the nightstand, and inching under the couch.

Instantly, he rose to his feet and rushed to the kitchen. Terry had to add lightheadedness to his already lengthy list of all that was going wrong that day. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaner from under the sink before returning to the gore. Several minutes later, the mess was as clean as it could be but when looked down at himself, he too, needed attention. Returning to the bathroom, yet again, he washed his hands of the dried blood and looked over the cut site. It wasn't a very wide cut, but he guessed it could be deeper than he thought, considering there were still trickles of red from the gash. There was a ton of bruising across his hand and some of his fingers now. He dried the area well this time before adding gauze and tape over the wound, in hopes to prevent it from coming off again.

When he returned to the living room and took in his surroundings. They were different than before. It wasn't exactly dark, more that there was an absence of light. He looked across the room, outside the bay window. Where he normally would see his fenced in backyard, or the neighboring house over that, there was nothing. Terry took to the sliding back door instead and was met with what he could only describe as a wall, maybe two feet away from him. He pivoted his head left, then right, and saw that it seemed more like a box instead. Looking up confirmed it, he was enclosed top to bottom in some sort of large box. Panic set in and a rush of thoughts poured over him. Everything from conspiracy, CDC, or what he feared most, a mental break down.

He hurriedly found his phone on the kitchen island and saw a missed text from his wife, saying that she would be late home from work. Terry disregarded the message and immediately called her. It was her voicemail and he worried about leaving a message. What if he was just having an odd mental break or maybe he was still asleep, and this was just a horrible dream. He set the phone down and paced from the kitchen to the living room, racking his mind and trying to force himself awake.

Terry did this for several minutes until he looked out back again to see if he was crazy or not. When he did, he settled on crazy, because the walls were closer. He could touch it from the threshold, being only inches away from the door but something in him begged him not to. Thinking about it, it seemed like anything this wall touched, it consumed. He didn't see his lawn chairs crushed up against the house, they were just gone.

Okay, don't touch the walls, he thought to himself.

At that point, the wall had shrunk further and replaced the walls of his home. Terry turned and searched for an answer. When there wasn't one to see, he heard one. A low-pitched groan of something dragging the floor called out from in his house. He dared a few steps back into his kitchen and saw the box at what used to be the front entrance of his home. It was being pushed along as the walls pressed in. He rushed to it and snatched it away from the walls. It was still lightweight but was startlingly different in size. He couldn't be mistaken; this box was smaller. It was now about the size of a small moving box. If he held it at his waist, he could see over the top of it, and it wasn't much wider than his torso. With that realization, he placed it on the kitchen island and intently looked it over. It couldn't have been a coincidence that the box and the walls around his house were both shrinking.

Terry circled the island and landed on the drawer with the scissors he had earlier. He placed them on the counter and stressed about his decision. He wanted to open the box because he figured that there had to be answers or a solution, but his mind told him how crazy that was. The walls advanced further on him and the box. His upstairs was closed off and the sound of the television in the background vanished. He planted his feet with reassurance and snatched the scissors up. Rapidly slicing at the taped edges, he was met with success. The folded edges flapped up, free of their confinement. He bent them further out to clear his vision of what was within.

Terror and confusion struck him as he reached, pulling out the object within.

"It can't be", he screamed aloud.

His mind flashed through his memories, and he assured himself it wasn't possible. He held it with both hands, turning it over and checking every inch. It was the kitchen knife he discarded earlier that day. This didn't make sense. He set the knife down and stared at it perplexed. A realization made him jerk out of his thoughts. He stepped around the island towards their trashcan and peered in. There it was, the same knife, resting on a bed of paper towels. He reached in, pulled it out, and confirmed quickly it was one in the same. Absently, he glanced back where he placed the replica, but it and the box were gone. A dark thought washed over him, and he collapsed to his knees. The lights in his house began to flicker as the walls started in on the ceiling. With a final shock of understanding, the lights went out and with them any hope that he had felt. A vantablack ocean of nothing poured all around and into Terry.

A flurry of flashing blue and red lights splashed around the houses on Market Drive. A tearful woman sat on the landing of the beautiful two-story farmhouse, being comforted by an officer. Paramedics would later tell his wife that Terry sliced one of the palmer arteries in his hand but that he must not have thought much about the cut and ended up either taking a nap or falling unconscious on the couch. They explained further that tachycardia is common with blood loss and that he may have gone into cardiac arrest.

An all-black drone swooped down, unnoticed in the crowd, before entering the home. It flew over to the trashcan and lowered into the opening. It rose with a wraithlike version of the knife clamped in its claws. With a whoosh it exited the front door, just as they pulled out the cloth covered gurney.

Joining the clouds, the drone hovered for a few moments in place. Printed along the side of the drone was the word Reaper in all capital letters. It turned itself forty-five degrees clockwise before zipping off in a particular direction. In the distance, there were around a half dozen drones flying in all different directions. All with varying items in their clutches.

The drone flew down into a new suburban neighborhood. With another unison of clicks, dropped an item. Another doorbell was heard.