If dread had a sound, it was the hum of my moped as I coasted down a road that didn't exist on any GPS.
The app showed nothing but static. No map, no route, no reassuring ping. Just a blank screen and the text: DELIVER TO CLIENT: RESTRICTED. PACKAGE: LIVING. WARNING: DO NOT LET IT FOLLOW.
Awesome.
The box in my satchel pulsed like a heartbeat. Sometimes it whispered. Once, it growled. I'd duct-taped it shut just to feel slightly better about not being mauled mid-delivery. The Manager's voice echoed in my mind:
"It will find you. Do not let it speak."
What did that even mean? Was the box going to give a TED Talk?
The sky overhead was a deep charcoal, despite it being morning. Clouds didn't move right. They flickered, like bad animation. The houses on either side of the street were familiar and wrong at the same time—driveways that led to brick walls, porches with no doors, windows that blinked. Like eyes.
I stopped at the addressless property near the end of the cul-de-sac. There was no mailbox. No number. Just a house that looked like it had once been a house but had long since forgotten how to pretend.
The walls breathed.
Literally.
Inhale. Exhale. The siding expanded and contracted with a fleshy wheeze. The roof twitched.
And I, professional courier of cursed things, was apparently the brave idiot meant to knock on the door.
I crept up the squishy path, shoes sinking half an inch with each step. The front door had no handle, but it opened when I got close. Not swung open. Opened. Like a mouth. The hallway beyond pulsed with pinkish light. I didn't want to go in.
The package rattled against my hip.
"You go first," I muttered.
No response. Great. The box was brave, but not helpful.
I stepped inside.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me. The house groaned, satisfied. The walls shimmered, not with wallpaper, but with membranes. This place was alive. And it knew me.
The floor squelched as I moved.
My flashlight flickered and died.
"Cool, yes. Let's add darkness. Love that."
From deeper in the house came a voice—a whisper, stretched long like a phonograph winding down.
"Raaaay..."
I froze.
That wasn't my imagination. That was my name.
The package thumped in my bag, violently.
"Stop it," I hissed, slapping it.
It hissed back.
Great. Now we were bickering.
I followed the voice. I didn't want to. But my feet did. The hallway twisted the further I went. Stairs melted into ramps. Pictures on the walls changed with every blink—a family portrait of eyeless people, a child hugging a snake, a delivery guy who looked like me being eaten by a sofa.
Okay. Maybe time to quit.
I turned around.
There was no behind.
The hallway was infinite in both directions now. The house shifted around me. It was playing with its food.
"This is fine," I muttered. "I've survived worse. Probably. Maybe."
From behind a door came a loud knocking.
I hesitated, then opened it.
Inside was a room made entirely of mouths. Every surface. Lips, teeth, tongues, chattering nonsense.
"WRONG PACKAGE," said the mouths.
"I didn't even ask anything!"
The mouths laughed. Licked.
I slammed the door and kept going.
Eventually, I reached the heart of the house. A literal beating heart. Suspended in midair. Beneath it: a pedestal.
A note was etched into the pedestal:
"DELIVER HERE. DO NOT LISTEN. DO NOT BELIEVE. DO NOT TURN AROUND."
I placed the package.
The second it touched the surface, the house screamed.
The walls shook. Lights burst. The floor convulsed. I collapsed to my knees.
And the package—the one I was told not to let speak—spoke.
"You were never meant to escape."
I covered my ears. "Shut up! Shut up!"
"You left her behind. You always do."
Lina.
My sister's name.
"That's not true," I said. "I remembered her. I chose to remember."
"But you left her again. You always leave."
The walls curled inward.
"You don't belong anywhere, Ray. Not with the living. Not with the lost. Not with the dead."
I screamed back, raw.
"Then where do I belong?!"
Silence.
Then, quietly:
"You belong here."
The house lunged.
I woke up gasping.
Outside. On my moped. The package was gone. My phone chimed:
DELIVERY COMPLETE.
But something had followed me.
In my mirror: a shadow. Clinging. Not quite gone.
I twisted the throttle and sped off.
I didn't stop until I saw streetlights again. People. Something resembling normal.
But I knew the truth now.
The house hadn't just been alive. It had seen me. And something inside had stuck.
I parked and walked toward my apartment.
Inside the lobby, a man waited.
Thin. Pale. Wearing a DropDead Express uniform.
His badge read: Ray Alvarez.
He smiled.
"Hey, partner. Took you long enough. Ready for shift two?"
I blinked.
"I'm Ray Alvarez."
He tilted his head. "No. I'm pretty sure I am."
From behind him, the elevator dinged open. Inside: darkness.
The kind that breathes.