The Delivery Box That Breathed
I wasn’t expecting a package, but there it was: a large Amazon box stamped with bold red letters, “Urgent Christmas Gift.” It wasn’t addressed to me—just my house number and “Zoe.” I should’ve left it alone.
The box was warm when I picked it up, almost alive. Inside, I found a fleshy sack, pulsating like a heartbeat under wet, translucent skin. A card rested on top, handwritten in jagged letters: “Feed it before midnight.”
I laughed out loud. Someone was pranking me. I shoved the thing back into the box and set it outside. Whatever it was, it could freeze out there.
Around 11:30 PM, the scratching started. It sounded like fingernails dragging across cardboard. My phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number: “Time’s almost up.”
At 12:01, the sound stopped. Then came a wet ripping noise from the porch. I opened the door, and the box had burst apart. The sack lay split open, oozing viscous fluid. A hand—long and thin with clawed fingers—reached up from the shredded remains.
I slammed the door, locking it. My breath hitched as I heard it dragging across the floorboards outside, tapping on the walls.
At sunrise, it was gone. But another box was on my doorstep. This one read: “Replacement Zoe.”
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