Midnight Delivery

The street was always quiet at midnight. The kind of quiet that made Alex’s shift feel heavier, as if the world itself was holding its breath. He’d just finished stocking shelves at the corner convenience store and was walking home, headphones in, hood up, trying not to think about how empty the town felt at this hour.

That’s when he saw the van again.

It was sleek and black, no company logos, no license plate that he could make out in the dim glow of the streetlights. It glided to a stop in front of a small yellow house, its headlights cutting off instantly, leaving it swallowed by shadow. The driver stepped out—tall, dressed in a crisp, old-fashioned courier’s uniform. Without a word, he placed a small brown parcel on the doorstep, rang the bell once, and vanished back into the van.

Alex blinked. He’d seen this van before, at least twice this week. Always at midnight. Always dropping off a package.

The porch light flicked on, but no one came out. The van slipped away as silently as it arrived, disappearing around the corner like smoke.

Alex couldn’t shake it. He told himself it wasn’t his business, but curiosity clawed at him.

The next night, he left work early and waited. Same time. Same van. Same routine.

Only this time, the van stopped in front of his building.

Alex froze as the courier stepped out, carrying a parcel. The man’s face was shadowed beneath the brim of his cap. He didn’t look at Alex. He just placed the package on the stoop, rang the bell, and turned back to the van.

Alex approached cautiously. The package had his name on it, written in neat, blocky handwriting. No return address. The shipping label was strange—no date, no company logo, just a single number: 08/17/2028.

Alex’s stomach dropped. That was three years from now.

He crouched and picked it up. The package was heavier than expected, but silent. He looked up to ask the courier what this was about, but the van was already gone, tires whispering against the wet asphalt.

Inside his apartment, Alex sat the package on the table and just stared at it. His instincts screamed not to open it. But he had to know.

The tape peeled away smoothly, almost like it hadn’t been sealed at all.

Inside were three items:

A small brass key, old and worn.

A delicate silver necklace with a heart-shaped charm.

And a Polaroid photo.

Alex’s breath caught when he saw the picture. It was him, sitting on the floor, shirt torn, blood smeared across his forehead. His expression was one of shock—fear, maybe even resignation.

The timestamp in the corner read 08/17/2028.

The same date as the label.

Alex dropped the photo and stumbled back.

The next day, he tried to brush it off as an elaborate prank. Maybe one of his friends was screwing with him. He texted a few people, but nobody admitted to it. In fact, they all seemed unsettled by the story.

Over the following nights, he kept watch from his window. The van continued its rounds. Always at midnight, always a single package. He noticed something else, too: the recipients never seemed happy about their deliveries. One neighbor picked hers up, froze on the porch, and burst into tears. Another left his box untouched for two days, then smashed it to pieces in his driveway.

Alex’s paranoia grew. He carried the key in his pocket everywhere he went, unsure why. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the package wasn’t a warning but a message.

A week later, Alex spotted the van parked on a side street. He decided to follow it.

The van moved methodically through the neighborhood, stopping only at certain houses. The courier never spoke, never made eye contact. Alex trailed him for nearly an hour, weaving through dark streets, until the van suddenly sped up. By the time Alex turned the corner, it was gone.

That night, another package appeared at his door.

Inside was a newspaper clipping dated 08/18/2028. The headline read: LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD AFTER BREAK-IN. There was no name, but the photo was unmistakably his apartment building.

His hands shook as he turned the page over. Scrawled in block letters:

“YOU CAN’T CHANGE IT.”

Sleep became impossible. Alex quit his job. He spent his days researching the strange deliveries, scouring the internet for clues. But every search ended in dead ends, whispers of urban legends, and conspiracy threads that spiraled into nonsense.

On the night of August 16, 2025—a full three years before the date on the package—Alex sat by his window with a baseball bat in his lap, convinced something was coming for him.

At midnight sharp, the van rolled up.

Alex’s heart thundered. The courier stepped out, his silhouette familiar and calm. This time, he didn’t carry a package. He simply walked to Alex’s door and knocked once.

Alex hesitated, then opened it.

Up close, the courier’s face was strangely blank, his eyes almost reflective. He handed Alex a single envelope. Inside was a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. A warehouse across town.

“Why are you doing this?” Alex asked, voice shaking.

The courier didn’t answer. He just tipped his hat and left.

Alex’s gut screamed not to go, but something stronger—a desperate need for answers—drove him to the warehouse.

It was empty except for rows of shelves stacked with identical brown parcels. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Each one labeled with dates years in the future. He ran his hands along the shelves, scanning names.

His name was on dozens of boxes.

In the center of the warehouse was a desk with a single open folder. Inside were grainy security camera photos: him, entering this warehouse. Him, clutching the necklace. Him, bleeding.

Alex stumbled back. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the space.

The courier stepped out of the shadows.

“You wanted to know,” the man said softly, though his lips barely moved.

Alex gripped the bat tighter. “What is this place? Who are you?”

The courier tilted his head. “Delivery.”

“Delivery of what?”

“Destiny,” the courier replied. His voice was cold, mechanical, yet oddly… familiar.

Alex’s mind raced. He glanced at a nearby mirror leaning against the wall—and froze.

The courier’s face was his own. Older, harder, eyes dimmed like burnt-out stars.

Alex stumbled backward, heart hammering.

“This is impossible,” he whispered.

“It’s inevitable,” his older self replied. “We don’t change fate. We deliver it.”

Alex ran. He tore out of the warehouse and down the street, but in his pocket, the brass key burned against his thigh like a brand. He knew where it fit now—he’d seen the door in the warehouse, locked and waiting.

And deep down, he understood. The package wasn’t a warning. It was a schedule.

Tomorrow night, at midnight, the delivery wouldn’t come to his doorstep.

He would be the delivery.