One message.
Unknown Number:
Come outside.
I stare at it.
The words don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t change. They just sit there like a command written in silk and blood, and I know — he’s here.
Not later.
Now.
I move on instinct.
Up.
To the door.
I look through the peephole.
Empty.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
I open it anyway.
The hallway is still. Quiet. Dim.
There’s no one there.
But on the ground, placed exactly centre on the doormat, is a single black box.
No label. No tape. No markings.
I pick it up with both hands.
It’s heavy. Solid. Cold, like it’s been outside longer than it should have been. I shut the door, lock it twice, deadbolt engaged, then carry it to the table like it might explode.
And maybe it already has.
Just not the way I expected.
I don’t open it right away.
I stand over it.
Watch it.
Like it might whisper something if I listen hard enough.
Because this isn’t a gift.
It’s a test.
I know it.
He knows I know it.
