I'd started rating my deliveries using a simple system: "Would this kill a normal person?" So far, the answer had been "yes" more times than I was comfortable admitting. But this next one? This one felt personal.
NEW DROP. CLIENT: ???. DESTINATION: COORDINATES ONLY. PACKAGE TYPE: ANCHORED.
That last part worried me.
"Anchored?" I muttered. "What the hell does that mean?"
No answer, of course. Just that same cryptic tone the app always took, like it knew more than it let on—which was definitely true.
Still, the coordinates pointed to a quiet part of the city, tucked between a scrapyard and an overgrown cemetery. Naturally. Where else would a cursed package want to go?
It was just after sunset when I arrived. The streetlights here didn't flicker—they just refused to turn on. My moped sputtered as if it didn't want to be here, either. I parked by a rusted sign that read FORGOTTEN ROW and double-checked the coordinates. They matched.
Ahead of me stood a house.
Or what had once been a house. It leaned sideways like it was drunk, roof sagging like it had given up. Vines clung to the siding like they were trying to pull it underground. Windows: broken. Door: missing. Front steps: crumbling like stale cookies.
And yet… the porch light was on.
No switch, no bulb. Just light. Glowing. Pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.
"Great," I muttered. "Haunted AND sentient. My favorite."
I grabbed the package from the moped. This one felt heavier than the others. Dense. Not in weight—just… gravity. Like it didn't want to be moved. The box looked normal enough: brown cardboard, tied with dull red string.
But the second I crossed onto the cracked walkway, everything changed.
The air thickened. My ears popped. The world behind me—city noise, faint traffic, distant sirens—all vanished. Silence fell like a curtain.
The front door creaked open. Not all the way. Just enough to say: come in.
"Yep," I said. "This is going to suck."
The inside of the house was impossibly huge.
The entryway led into a vast hallway that seemed to stretch on forever. Doors lined the walls—different shapes, sizes, materials. One looked like it belonged to a vault. Another was painted bright pink and covered in stickers. One had no doorknob at all—just a keyhole that whispered.
Yeah. It whispered.
I turned to leave.
The front door was gone.
Not closed. Not moved. Just—gone.
"Okay then," I whispered, gripping the package. "Let's play 'Find the Client.'"
As I walked deeper, the hallway twisted. Sometimes it sloped up. Sometimes it dipped down. One moment the walls were brick, the next, wood paneling. At one point, the floor turned into shag carpet that squished beneath my boots like soggy bread.
I passed mirrors that reflected different versions of me—older, younger, laughing, bleeding. One mirror showed me holding the package upside down, blood dripping from the corners. That one I smashed with my elbow.
It laughed.
Somewhere behind a door, a baby cried.
"Stop it," I said, to no one. "Just stop being creepy for five minutes."
The house did not oblige.
After what felt like hours, I reached a spiral staircase. It wound downward into a pulsing red glow. I descended slowly, hand trailing the banister—which turned warm and sticky halfway down. I wiped it off, gagged, and kept going.
At the bottom: a library.
Thousands of books filled the shelves, but none had titles. Just blank spines. A small reading lamp hovered midair, casting light onto a single desk. And on that desk… was a photograph.
Of me.
Holding the package.
Behind me in the photo was a shadow. Tall. Thin. Watching.
I flipped it over.
DO NOT DELIVER.
I stared. Then glanced at the box in my hands.
It vibrated. Once. Like a heartbeat.
"Cool cool cool," I muttered. "Definitely not a cursed soul trap. Definitely."
I turned to leave—and slammed into a door that hadn't been there before.
It opened on its own.
Behind it: a room filled with floating furniture, and in the center… a woman.
She was suspended in midair, eyes closed, long hair drifting like seaweed. Around her floated objects: spoons, socks, a watering can, a deck of cards frozen mid-shuffle. Her skin was pale blue, and her mouth was sewn shut with golden thread.
The box in my hands throbbed violently.
I stepped forward. Her eyes snapped open.
They glowed.
"You are not the first," she said, without moving her lips. The words echoed in my head.
"Great," I said. "Telepathy. Just what I needed today."
"The package anchors memory," she continued. "The house collects what is forgotten. I am what remains."
"That sounds like a really depressing Hallmark card."
"You must choose: deliver it… or keep it. If you deliver, you will forget. If you keep it… the road will find you."
I blinked. "That's… super vague."
"All memory carries weight."
"Lady, I haven't slept in two days. Just tell me what's in the box."
She smiled. Sadly. "You already know."
I looked down.
The box was unwrapped. I didn't remember doing it.
Inside: a photograph. Me. My mom. A woman I barely remembered. Holding me as a baby, in front of a house I couldn't name. A date on the back: the day she vanished.
I dropped it.
The woman's voice softened: "Some things are meant to be forgotten. Others… are taken."
The package pulsed. My phone buzzed.
FINAL DELIVERY. CLIENT: THE FORGOTTEN.
"Choose," she said. "Keep what was stolen. Or let it go."
I stared at the photo. My hands shook. Part of me wanted to scream. Part of me wanted to hold on forever.
But I knew this wasn't just about me. The house… the woman… they were stuck here. Anchored by grief.
I stepped forward. Placed the box on the floating table.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
The woman closed her eyes.
The box evaporated in a flash of golden light.
The floating objects fell. The room dimmed. The woman faded away, leaving only silence.
My phone buzzed: DELIVERY COMPLETE. MEMORY CLEARED.
But when I checked my photos, the picture was still there. Just… a little blurrier. Like a dream I couldn't quite recall.
The house rumbled. A door appeared.
I left.
Outside, it was dawn. My moped waited, faithful and slightly judgmental. I got on.
The app chirped: NEXT CLIENT: LOST AND FOUND (HELL EDITION).
I groaned.
"Seriously?"
And rode into the rising sun.