You ever had that feeling? Coming home from work, fishing your keys out, and suddenly—something in the hallway's watching the back of your head.
You whip around. The motion-sensor light clicks on. Empty corridor. You let out a breath, laugh at yourself for being paranoid.
But have you thought about it? What if, in that split second you turned back around, whatever it was slipped through your door?
---
My name's Lin Yuan. Last summer I worked three months at a delivery station on the east side of town. The place sat on an old street lined with sycamore trees, their canopies blocking out the sky so thick it felt gloomy even in broad daylight.
The station manager was a woman in her forties, surname Wang. Everyone called her Sister Wang. She was easygoing enough. Day one, she laid out the rules.
"Damaged parcels go separate. Perishables that don't get picked up, call and remind them. Anything unclaimed after three months—" she pointed at a metal shelf by the dispatch counter, "—goes there. Mark it 'unclaimed' in the system. End of the month, return to sender."
I glanced at the shelf. Dust caked on top. Clearly hadn't been used in a long time.
"Also," Sister Wang added, "never open an unclaimed package."
She said it casually, like "remember to turn off the lights when you leave." I nodded, didn't think much of it.
That was the summer after my junior year. Days at the delivery station, nights tutoring a middle schooler in math. Tight schedule, but solid.
The work wasn't complicated. Scan, sort, shelve, call. Repeat a few hundred times a day. Could do it with my eyes closed.
The metal shelf stayed empty. Until late July.
---
That afternoon, a storm hit. The shop was dead. I was reorganizing stock when I heard the delivery truck honking outside.
New shipment. I pushed the handcart out to receive it, came back half-soaked. Unloaded, started scanning and shelving. When I got to the last package, I froze.
Shipping date on the label: January 17th.
January. More than six months ago.
I flipped it over to check the recipient info. Name: Chen Suyun. Address: one of the old apartment complexes on our street. Phone number: disconnected.
By regulation, this package should've been returned to sender long ago. No idea why it was still sitting here.
I took it to Sister Wang.
"Sister Wang, there's a package from January. Phone's dead. How is it still here?"
She was eating lunch. Leaned over, glanced at it, frowned. "January? That's not right. I did inventory last month and didn't see this. Put it on the unclaimed shelf. It goes back end of the month."
I placed the package on the metal shelf. The shelf was in the corner, next to a broken AC unit, buried in dust. When I set the package down, it scraped off a patch of grime, exposing rusted metal underneath.
That should've been the end of it. Hundreds of packages came through the station every day. One unclaimed box was nothing.
But before clocking out, I walked past the shelf again. The package sat there, quiet. And a thought surfaced in my mind—
A package sitting for half a year. What the hell was inside it?
Once the thought took root, it wouldn't let go. I stood in front of the shelf, hesitating. Figured it was going back at the end of the month anyway. Opening it wouldn't kill anyone. Besides, if it was something valuable, the sender might not even accept the return. Better to check first.
I gave myself a pile of excuses, then took the package down.
---
Wrapped tight. Layers of packing tape. I sliced through with a box cutter. Inside, stuffed with foam padding. I pulled the foam apart—
A metal box.
Palm-sized, rectangular. Finished in dark red lacquer, edges worn. Looked like an antique. The lid was engraved with a pattern. I leaned in. A ring, with a smaller ring inside it. Crude lines. No idea what it meant.
I opened the box.
A lock of hair.
Black hair, about the length of a palm. Tied with a red string. Coiled neatly at the bottom of the box. Beneath the hair, a slip of paper, folded twice.
I unfolded it. One line. Handwritten. The strokes were crooked, like a child's scrawl—
Recipient: Lin Yuan. Address: No. 147 Gulou East Street, Delivery Station.
I stared at those words. Read them again, and again, making sure my eyes weren't playing tricks. Lin Yuan. That was my name.
But I didn't know anyone named Chen Suyun. And No. 147 Gulou East Street—that was the station's address. Not my home.
This package had been addressed to the delivery station from the start. And the recipient was me.
Yet the shipping label said Chen Suyun.
I turned the metal box over in my hands. Nothing else. The hair was just hair—plain black strands. No smell. Dry to the touch, like it had been sitting for a long time.
My head was spinning, but I wasn't scared. Not yet. I figured it might be a prank. Or something a former worker left behind.
I put the hair back in the box. Stuffed the box back in the package. Retaped it. Left it on the shelf.
Then I went home.
---
Next morning. Unlocked the door, flipped on the lights. Walked into the sorting area—
I stopped.
The shelf. The package. Gone.
Two seconds of blank shock. First thought: Sister Wang came in early and took it. Then I remembered—she was off today. She'd told me yesterday.
I grabbed my phone to text her. Typed half a sentence, deleted it. What if she didn't take it? If I reported a missing package and the inventory didn't balance, that'd be my problem.
Forget it. Just an unclaimed package. Maybe another coworker handled it.
I pushed it aside, got to work. Light morning. I managed fine on my own. Around ten, a new shipment arrived. Driver dumped a few big bags on the floor and left. I crouched down to sort.
About twenty scans in—
My hands stopped.
A package. Not big. Rectangular. Shoe-box sized. Gray shipping bag. Label date: January 17th.
Recipient: Chen Suyun. Phone: disconnected.
The package had been resealed. Tape wrapped perfectly straight, edges pressed crisp, like someone measured with a ruler. I recognized this package. Yesterday, I'd drawn a mark on the tape with a marker, so I'd know it when it was time to return it. The mark was still there.
My hands started shaking.
I stared at it for a long time. Didn't open it again. Put it back on the shelf, then called Sister Wang.
"Sister Wang, that unclaimed package—the one from January—did you move it?"
"What unclaimed package?" Her voice sounded impatient. Background noise, loud. Sounded like a market. "I'm off today. Not at the shop."
"The one I told you about yesterday. Half a year old. Recipient named Chen Suyun."
"Oh, that one. I didn't touch it. Why?"
"Nothing." I paused. Didn't mention the package reappearing. "Just checking."
Hung up. Went back to the shelf. The station's roll-up door was open. Bright sun outside. Someone walking a dog. A delivery guy zipped past on his scooter, honked. Everything looked the same as always.
But the package sat on the shelf, quiet as ever. Like it had never left.
---
The station had security cameras. After hesitating, I decided to check last night's footage. The monitor was in a small back room. I pulled up the recording and fast-forwarded through it.
From 11 p.m. to 4 a.m., nothing unusual. At 4:15 a.m., the screen flickered. Not static interference—more like something passed in front of the lens, fast. Less than a second.
When the picture cleared, the package was back on the shelf.
I rewatched that part three times. Before the flicker: shelf empty. After: package there. No one entered the station. The roll-up door stayed locked. Front and back doors untouched.
I shut off the monitor. Sat in the back room for a while. Heart pounding, but my head was weirdly clear. I told myself the camera must've glitched. Or maybe I never put the package back on the shelf yesterday. Maybe I left it somewhere else, and some coworker came in this morning and moved it.
But I knew I put it on that shelf. I remembered clearly. Because when I set it down, it scraped off the dust, exposing the rust beneath. Now the package sat in that exact spot, right over the clean mark.
I thought for a long time. Then I made a decision.
I was going to open it again.
Brave? Stupid? Maybe a bit of both. Could be that stubborn "I need to figure this out" part of me. Could be that I just didn't believe in this stuff, deep down. Broad daylight. People walking past outside. What was I afraid of?
I grabbed the box cutter. Sliced the package open.
---
Foam padding. Metal box. Same as yesterday. Opened the box. Hair still there. Red string. Neatly coiled. Paper note still there. Folded twice.
I unfolded it.
The words had changed.
Yesterday: "Recipient: Lin Yuan. Address: No. 147 Gulou East Street, Delivery Station."
Today, different words. Same crooked handwriting. Same child's scrawl. But the message had changed:
"You looked. Now it's yours."
Just that one line. Nothing else. I stared at those words for a long time. Something stirred in my chest—a primal alertness. That feeling of being watched. Like swimming in deep water and something brushes your ankle.
I shut the box. Sealed the package. Put it back on the shelf. Then I pulled up the system to search for "Chen Suyun."
No record. The recipient's information had never been entered. Normally, when you scan a tracking number, the system auto-captures the recipient's name and phone. But when I looked up this number—recipient field: blank. Phone field: blank. Logistics showed only one entry: January 17th. Picked up by "Unknown Point of Origin."
No sender location. No transit hub. No delivery record. This package had been at this station from day one. Never moved.
I messaged Sister Wang. Asked if she knew where the package came from. She replied: "What package? I'll look when I'm back at work tomorrow."
---
Went home that night. Showered. Lay in bed, tossing. Couldn't stop thinking about that metal box. The lock of hair. The words on the paper. I told myself: Tomorrow, Sister Wang comes in. I'll tell her everything. Then it gets returned, end of story. Not my problem.
Fell asleep near dawn.
Seven-thirty alarm. Washed up, headed out. Biked to the station. Sister Wang was already there, rolling up the door.
"Which package were you talking about yesterday?" she asked, mid-roll.
"The one that's been sitting—"
Before I could finish, brakes screeched outside. The company truck. The driver leaned out the window and shouted, "You guys got another unclaimed one?"
I froze. Turned toward the truck.
The driver held a package—shoebox-sized, gray shipping bag, label facing out. Even from a few steps away, I could see my name on it. Not the station's address. My rental apartment's address.
No. 142 Gulou East Street, Room 303.
My home address.
I took the package. Felt the outside of the bag through my fingers. Didn't open it right away. Checked the shipping label first. Sender's name: also mine. Shipping date: yesterday.
I didn't send anything.
"What's wrong?" Sister Wang walked over. Looked at the box. Looked at my face. "You don't look good. Getting sick?"
"Fine." I gripped the package. Felt something hard inside. Same size. Same shape. Exactly like the metal box I'd held yesterday.
Sister Wang gave me a look but didn't push it. Went back inside. I stood in the doorway. Late June sun, already blazing. The asphalt was going soft in the heat. Air heavy with gasoline and dust.
I tore open the package.
Metal box. Lock of hair. A slip of paper.
The paper read: "Day One."
---
I took a deep breath. Stowed everything. Walked inside. Sister Wang was sorting the previous day's sign-in sheets. Didn't look up. "Where's that unclaimed package?"
I looked at the shelf.
Empty.
"Gone," I said.
"Gone?" She raised her head.
"That January package. I put it there yesterday. I'm sure of it."
Sister Wang looked at me. A strange expression crossed her face. She set down the papers. Walked over to the shelf. Inspected it. Bent down and searched the floor.
"You sure you put it here?"
"Positive."
"That's strange." She dusted off her hands. "But the security camera's old anyway. Breaks all the time. Look, it's just an unclaimed package. I'll flag it in the system, let the company handle it. You stay out of it."
I didn't know what to say. Her reaction was too casual. That was what bothered me. A package sitting for half a year, appearing and disappearing on its own—anyone would find that weird. But her tone made it sound like a routine clerical error. Same level as a scanning mistake or a crooked shipping label.
I didn't press. Partly because I had no idea what was happening myself. Partly because something in my gut said: don't drag anyone else into this.
Those words on the paper—"You looked. Now it's yours."—stuck in my head like a fishbone. Couldn't swallow it. Couldn't spit it out.
---
That night. Got home. Knew something was wrong the second I stepped through the door.
A package. Sitting on the doormat. Same size as the one this morning. Same gray shipping bag.
Old building. No elevator. Third floor. Old-style security door. Only two ways this package got here—someone delivered it, or something else did.
I bent down. Picked it up. Opened it.
Metal box. Hair. Paper.
Paper said: "Day Two."
I barely slept that night. Turned every light in the apartment on. Sat on the living room couch. Three metal boxes lined up in front of me.
The hair in each was different. First box: longest strands. Second: slightly shorter. Third: shorter still. Not cut from the same person—at least not from the same haircut.
I examined the hair closely. Tiny white dots at the roots. Like follicles.
These weren't cut. They were pulled out.
I put the boxes in a drawer. Sat on the couch until dawn.
---
Day Three: no package. Day Four: nothing. I thought it was over. Felt the weight lift off my chest.
Day Five, morning—
Another one at the door.
"Day Five."
Day Six. Day Seven. Day Eight. Every single day. Never missed. Always the same: a metal box, a lock of hair, a slip of paper with the date. The hair got shorter and shorter. Like someone's scalp was being stripped clean, strand by strand.
I stopped opening them. Packages piled up by the door. Seven or eight of them. Gray bags stacked on each other. Looked like a heap of trash. The neighbor lady asked me when she walked by: "Lin, you been doing a lot of shopping lately?"
I didn't know how to answer.
---
Day Nine. No package at the door. I exhaled. Thought it was finally over. But that afternoon, at the station, a coworker handed me a package.
"Lin Yuan. Yours. Just came in."
I took it. Watched his back as he walked away. Slowly tore open the shipping bag.
Metal box. Hair. Paper.
This time, the paper didn't say "Day Nine."
It said an address.
No. 159 Gulou East Street.
I stared at it. Brain buzzing. 159. Same street. Six doors down.
I didn't want to go. But I knew—if I didn't, the packages would never stop. The hair would keep coming until it drove me insane.
---
After work, I didn't go straight home. Walked down Gulou East Street. Past the station. Past the convenience store. Past a steamed bun shop. Stopped at No. 159.
Old residential building. Six floors. Faded yellow paint peeling off the exterior. Security door at the entrance, half-open. I stood outside and peered in. Dark hallway. Walls plastered with flyers. The water meter box on the first floor, rusted to hell.
I pushed the door open. Went in.
The motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were dead. Dark as a tomb. I climbed by the glow of my phone screen. Third floor. Caught a smell. Faint. Like burnt joss paper. Mixed with old mothballs. Unsettling.
Door 301. Shut tight. A faded "Fu" character pasted on it—the red paper nearly bleached white, edges curling. I stood there, unsure whether to knock or leave. The window at the end of the hall was open. Light rain starting. Drops hitting the awning—tap, tap, tap. A car rumbled past in the distance.
I was about to turn and go when 301's door swung open from the inside.
---
An old woman. Sixties maybe. Dark blue cotton jacket. Gray hair. Deep wrinkles. She didn't look surprised to see me. Smiled instead—calm, almost serene. Like she'd been expecting me.
"You must be Xiao Lin," she said.
A chill shot down my spine. Like an electric current. I'd never met this woman. But she knew my name. Spoke it like greeting an old friend.
I stood frozen. Didn't know whether to step in or sprint. The hallway motion light flickered on. Yellow glow on her face. Her expression was gentle. Almost grandmotherly.
But I noticed her eyes. They weren't looking at me.
They were looking at something behind me.
I spun around. Hallway. Empty. Nothing there.
"Come in, sit down." She stepped aside. "It's raining. Don't get soaked."
I should've left. Any normal person would've turned and run. But I didn't. Because I needed to know what the hell was going on. The packages. The hair. The notes. They'd led me here. If I walked away now, I'd never sleep soundly again.
I followed her inside.
---
Old-fashioned decor. Small living room. Wooden couch. Crocheted white cloth on the coffee table. In the corner, an antique sewing machine under a blue cover.
What grabbed me: the row of photo frames by the TV. Six or seven of them. All the same little girl. Maybe six or seven years old. Pigtails. Smiling at the camera. Different angles. Different backgrounds—a park, a living room, a school gate. But all the same girl.
I stared at those photos. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. An old woman with this many pictures of the same child—that wasn't normal. Unless—
"That's my granddaughter." The old woman's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Her name's Susu."
Susu. Chen Suyun. My heart jolted. Nearly blurted it out. I forced myself to stay calm. Sat on the couch like nothing was wrong.
She came out with two cups of water. Handed me one. Set the other on the table. Sat on a small stool across from me. Same serene smile.
"You're here because you've been receiving things, aren't you?"
My fingers tightened around the cup.
"You know?"
"I know." She looked down at her cup. Voice dropping to a murmur. "That hair. It's Susu's."
The air thickened. The living room fell silent. Outside, rain hammered harder. Wind rattled the window. I sat there, a bone-deep cold crawling up from my feet.
"Why send it to me?" I asked.
She didn't answer directly. Stood up. Walked to the sewing machine. Pulled open the bottom drawer. Took something out. Handed it to me.
A red jewelry box. Palm-sized. Velvet worn pale.
I took it. Opened it.
A lock of hair.
Exactly like the ones in the metal boxes. Black hair. Palm-length. Tied with red string. The only difference—no white follicles at the roots. This was cut, not pulled.
"From Susu's first haircut. She was six." The old woman sat back down. Voice slow. "Back in our hometown, when a child gets their first haircut, you keep the hair. Tie it with red string. Keeps them safe."
"Then why—"
"My son and his wife work in Guangdong. Susu lived here with me." She cut me off. Eyes drifting to the photo frames. Gaze went hollow. "January this year. Right before the New Year. They said they'd come take her to Guangdong to celebrate. Susu was so happy. Counted the days. But that day—"
Her voice snapped. The room was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking.
"That afternoon. She was playing downstairs. I was cooking upstairs. When the food was ready, I called her. No answer. I went down. Searched the whole complex. Couldn't find her. Police came. Pulled security footage. Saw a woman leading her out the neighborhood gate."
"Susu disappeared." Her voice was flat, but each word scraped out of her throat. Fingers twisting the edge of her shirt. Knuckles bone-white. "Half a year. We've searched. Nothing. No sign of her. Alive or dead."
She lifted her head. Eyes dry. Like she'd run out of tears long ago.
"I tried everything. Back home, there's a method. Use the missing person's hair as a guide. It can find them. But I messed up. The hair got sent to the wrong place—to your delivery station. Some mistake with the label."
"You sent the metal box?" I asked.
She nodded. The movement was slow. Heavy. Like it drained her. "After I sent it, the ritual master told me—if the hair gets lost, it means it found its own path. It'll find the person it's meant to find."
She looked at me. Something sparked in those dry eyes. Not kindness. Something else. Something feverish.
"The hair found you. You're the one. You can help me find Susu."
My mouth opened. No sound came out. Rain hammering outside. The whole room filled with the noise. But I heard her next three words, clear as a bell—
"Smell it."
She pointed at the jewelry box in my hands.
"Smell that hair."
---
I lowered my head. Brought the box close to my nose.
A scent crept into my nostrils. Faint. Rust. No—not rust. Blood. Old blood. Dried for so long the iron had gone sour. Mixed with earth and rotting vegetation. Like something seeping up from deep, deep underground.
I jerked my head up.
The old woman was watching me. Her face had transformed. No longer a grieving grandmother. Something I can't describe. The corners of her mouth tilted up, but her eyes weren't smiling. Her pupils reflected the fluorescent light overhead. Too bright. Not like an old person's eyes at all.
"You smell it, don't you?"
Her voice had changed. Light. Sharp. Tinged with an excitement that made my skin crawl.
"That's Susu's scent."
---
I think that was the fastest I've ever run in my life.
I threw down the jewelry box. Yanked open the door. Stumbled down the stairs. Hit the first floor, my foot slipped—knee slammed into the steps. Pain shot through me, sucked in a breath, but I didn't stop. Scrambled up and ran. All the way to the street. Into the glow of the streetlamps.
Rain had stopped. Empty street. Puddles gleaming under the lights. I stood outside the convenience store, gasping. Soaked in rain and sweat.
Knee still hurting. Looked down. Pants torn. Skin scraped off. Blood running down my shin, mixing with rainwater. Socks and shoes stained red.
---
Got home. Locked every lock. Turned on every light. Sat on the bed. Stared at the door.
No package that night.
Sat on the bed till dawn. Drifted off near sunrise. Dreams—all hair. Black hair. Squeezing through the cracks in the door. Dripping from the ceiling. Spreading out from under the bed. Wrapping around my ankles. Tighter and tighter. I tried to scream. No sound. Like my throat was stuffed with something. I reached in. Pulled out a clump of hair. Soaked in blood.
Woke up screaming.
Cold sweat. Soaked through the back of my shirt. Checked my phone. 7:15 a.m. Sunlight outside. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking—I'm done. Quitting. Going back to school. None of this has anything to do with me. Some kid I don't know. Some old woman I don't know. Why the hell should I get tangled in this?
Grabbed my phone. Texted Sister Wang. Said I quit. Keep the pay. Said I wasn't feeling well. Not coming in. Tossed the phone aside. Rolled over. Tried to sleep.
The phone rang.
Unknown number. Local.
I answered.
Someone on the line. No words. Just breathing. Soft. Slow. Like someone listening through a layer of something. I said hello. Twice. No response. Ready to hang up—
A voice came through.
Small. Distant. Like a signal leaking out of an old radio. Crackling with static.
"Big brother. Come find me."
A child's voice. A little girl.
Call ended.
My hand shook on the phone. I tried to convince myself it was a wrong number. A scam call. Any reasonable explanation. But I couldn't. Because I recognized that voice. Never heard it before in my life, but I knew—
It was the girl in the photos.
It was Susu.
---
Didn't leave the apartment that day. Pulled all the curtains. Dead-bolted the door twice. Sat in the living room. Staring at my phone. No calls until noon. Thought it was finally over. Headed to the kitchen to boil noodles.
Doorbell rang.
I froze.
"Lin Yuan? You home?"
Landlord's voice. I exhaled. Opened the door. Landlord Zhang. Forties. Standing there with a package in his hand.
"Someone dropped this off for you downstairs. Gave it to me. You've been buying a lot lately."
He handed me the package.
I don't remember taking it. Don't remember him leaving. Just me. Standing in the doorway. Package in my hands. Heart slamming against my ribs.
Small package. Gray shipping bag. Same as all the others.
But this time—a corner of the bag was torn. Something poked through the hole.
A tiny strand of hair. Black. Damp from the rain. Stuck to the plastic.
I didn't open it. Set it down by the door. Put on my shoes. Grabbed my keys. Went out.
I was going to find someone. Sister Wang.
---
*To be continued...*