Wrong Address

Just a little scene for fun. Happy Flash Fiction Friday!

The box had been delivered the morning before and tonight when Bart returned home from work it still sat there on his porch, oozing some viscous fluid. He toed it carefully, not wanting anything to transfer to his shoe, but he could see no label on it anywhere. He tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside. He sighed, not wanting to knock for fear of waking the baby. Bart shuffled the mail to his other hand, balancing his briefcase and the fat stack of bills and junk, while he searched his pockets for his keys. The key slid into the lock with a click and he stepped into the unusually darkened living room. He tripped, hearing the familiar sound of a plastic toy skitter across the floor as he fought to keep his balance.

“Fuck!” he said loudly as he dropped the mail and his keys, just barely keeping his two fingers wrapped around the handle of his briefcase and the laptop within. Bart took a moment, steadying himself with a hand against the wall and allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. “Honey? You home? Why are all the lights out?” he said as he walked along the wall, moving toward the light switch. As his fingers touched the plastic switch another hand grasp his own, the fingers cold and strong, holding him tightly in place.

“Don’t,” said a voice. Bart flinched, the grip around his hand only tightening.

“Honey, is that you?” he asked, trying to make out the shape in the dark. What little light was filtering in the windows from the moon outside seemed to miss this form entirely, leaving it a black mass in his field of vision.

“Step away from the switch.” The hand on his slid to his wrist, tightened once more, and pulled him further into the room. Bart’s heart jumped, his pulse rising and sweat beading to the surface of his skin.

“What’s going on?”

“The package, outside, who delivered it?” the voice said, feminine and firm, but equally foreign. Whoever this was, it was not Bart’s wife. Bart jerked his hand and pulled a step backwards, hoping to break the vise like grip on his wrist. Instead a second-hand caught him by the throat, on the edge of choking him, his air came only with more effort. “The package, who delivered it?” the voice asked once more, the hand on his throat clenching only briefly. A threat, or a promise, of violence to come.

“I don’t know, it was just there! It’s just been sitting there!” Bart brought his hands up, wrapping his own fingers around the wrist at his throat, but unable to break free. “What have you done with my wife, my baby? Where are they?”

“Did anyone open the package?”

“I don’t, I don’t think so. I ask my wife to get rid of it while I was at work, but it’s still there. That awful goo, we didn’t want to have anything to do with it.” The hand released his throat and as he breathed deeply in relief a tightly balled fist struck him in the stomach, doubling him over and gasping for air.

“Good,” the voice said, then he heard the door open and close. Bart pulled himself to his feet, running to the door, but by the time he reached it she was gone. The package was nowhere to be seen.

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