The Package

****

So, it all started about a month ago, when I was supposed to receive a package — a book. In my city this book was nowhere to be found, and I really wanted to read it, so I asked a friend from another city (let’s call her Dasha) to send it to me. I’ve probably received packages only once or twice in my whole life, so I was really looking forward to it.

And then, on Friday, I think already toward evening, someone knocked on the door. Rhythmically: knock-knock… knock-knock… knock-knock. I got alert immediately. First, I wasn’t expecting anyone, and people usually don’t come to us without warning. Second, what kind of artistic knocking competition was this? And third, why knock at all when there’s a doorbell? I look through the peephole — some guy. I ask, “Who is it?” In response, something was muttered indistinctly; I only made out the word “package.” Of course, I got excited and opened the door. Wow, I thought, that was fast. You all know how our postal service works.

But it wasn’t a guy, as I first thought — it was an adult man, just skinny, holding a rather large box, with a pen in his breast pocket, wearing a cap pulled down over his eyes. I pulled the door partly closed behind me and stepped out onto the landing: I don’t like letting strangers into my apartment. You can sign for it on the railing just fine. The man hands me a pen and a form, like, receive it and sign here. I took the pen, looked at the form, and thought: wait a minute, why is the box so big? I was supposed to get one book, and this thing could fit a whole series. Better not risk it. Once I signed without looking and it turned out to be a mistake. I had to run around later, arguing with the post office. Do I need that?

I asked him to let me look at the box. It was taped up, with a label — just as it should be. I look: my address, the sender’s details also seem right. But it felt kind of heavy. I shook it: something inside rolled around. And sort of… rustled. Like it was scratching. I shook it again — the scratching got stronger. And it felt as if under my fingers the cardboard was being pressed from the inside. I looked up: the courier was silent, standing there like a statue, motionless. I couldn’t see his eyes… That’s when I got scared. I live alone, the landing is half-dark — the bulbs are always barely glowing — and inside that package is who knows what…

“This must be a mistake,” I said, and pushed the box back toward him. “I was supposed to be sent a book, and that’s definitely not a book.”

He took the box and muttered again:

“Bu-bu-bu, package.”

His voice was monotonous, low. Damn it, I thought, what if he’s some kind of maniac? I should have asked for documents — instead I let my guard down and opened the door wide…

“Go away,” I said. “Write that I wasn’t home. I’ll come to the post office later and pick it up.”

And while I’m saying this, I see the box jerk in his hands. A proper jerk — not something you can dismiss as a hallucination.

I probably cleared half the stair landing in one leap, like a ballerina, and slammed the door shut. My knees were buckling, my breath caught, my hands shaking, my heart pounding. I sat down right under the door. I wanted to look through the peephole — did he leave or not? But it was scary. Even through the door it was scary.

And then, right above my head: knock-knock… knock-knock… knock-knock…

“Go away!” I screeched. “Or I’ll call the police!”

And he goes:

“Bu-bu-bu, package.”

I reached for the phone (it’s on a little table next to the door), pressed some buttons at random, and shouted:

“I’m calling the police!”

My phone beeps when dialing, so he should have heard it. I sat there listening: silence. Then I noticed something in my hand. I look down: the pen. I forgot to give it back. The way I flung that pen away — better than a cockroach. I sat there, shaking, listening: silence. And then suddenly the phone rang! I nearly had a heart attack. But it turned out to be a friend (not Dasha, another one). She asked what was wrong with my voice, and I told her some nonsense about some idiot banging on my door and scaring me half to death. Anyway, we talked normally, I felt better, and when I hung up, I finally looked through the peephole. Thank God, no one there. I felt such relief. So it really was just some psycho, I thought — I’d already started thinking about all kinds of supernatural crap. And you can stuff anything into a box: a cat, a rat. Brrr. Poor animal… The only strange thing was the addresses. How did he know Dasha’s address?

The next day, just in case, I went to our post office and asked if they had an employee like that. Of course, I didn’t know his name, I just described him by appearance. No, they had no skinny, short men like that. In general, for a few days I kept looking around, didn’t go outside after dark, screwed in a bright bulb on the landing, invited a friend to stay over — then more or less calmed down.

And then, a week later, toward evening, I hear: knock-knock… knock-knock… knock-knock.

I almost had a stroke. I turned on my computer, put on headphones, blasted music at full volume — almost went deaf. I didn’t go near the door. And since then, every single day, every evening — knocking. That same stupid rhythm. The creepiest thing is that when someone else is home — peace and quiet. But I don’t have many friends; you can’t invite someone to sleep over every night. People are already looking at me suspiciously. Like, you’ve lived alone for years, and now suddenly you’re scared?

Somehow I learned not to pay attention. At least I stopped drinking valerian and motherwort by the liter and no longer jumped up in the middle of the night. That pen (by the way, the most ordinary, cheap one) I picked up almost with tongs and threw away. The real package even arrived — also with a courier. They rang the doorbell, it was a normal, smiling woman, and the packaging was appropriate. Still, I said I wouldn’t open the door and would pick it up at the post office myself. I shook and listened to the package for half an hour before opening it. And I didn’t even want to look at that damn book anymore…

And still, you know, I think I’m going to lose my mind soon. About a week ago, in broad daylight, out on the street, strangers started approaching me. Empty eyes, grabbing my sleeve, saying in a dull voice:

“A package has arrived for you.”

And they point with a finger.

I look — about ten steps away stands that damn man in the cap, like a pillar. When the sun shines, you can see he casts no shadow. In his hands the box is twitching — each time more crumpled, torn, the tape sticking out in shreds. It’s wet underneath, and something dark is dripping from it onto the asphalt.

I grab the passerby by the shoulder and shout:

“Who’s standing there?”

And they seem to wake up, recoil. Some even swear at me — like, what’s wrong with you, idiot, attacking people? There’s no one there, what are you getting in our faces for, crazy woman?

I look — and the “courier” with his cursed package is gone without a trace…