Page 8 of Tricked By Jack
I gasp as my eyes land on the motionless man who looks an awful lot like the one I saw just after exiting the club. He just stands there, completely motionless. Tall, rigid, face hidden behind a matte black gas mask.
The two round lenses stare back at me, flat and blank like insect eyes. A single cylindrical filter protrudes from the mouthpiece. He’s wearing military boots, laced tight and polished to a dull shine, worn jeans, and a leather jacket that’s zipped closed.
In his gloved hands is a matte black box, tied with a bright orange ribbon that curls in dramatic spirals at the top. The contrast between the cheerful bow and the ominous messenger makes my skin prickle with both awareness and excitement.
Shaking my head, I laugh softly to myself. It’s possible this is just some mistake. The intercom never buzzed, so maybe he’s at the wrong door. Yeah, that’s probably it.
A middle-of-the-night delivery from a company that doesn’t believe in only embracing the Halloween spirit in October. The mask and the outfit’s disturbingly hot. It works for him. So much so that I’m almost jealous he’s here for one of my neighbors.
There’s a pulse of want I can’t disguise. The silence behind the mask presses in on me, a dark weight that makes my skin prickle with hunger—like lust crawling straight out of the grave.
With that thought, I open the door. “Can I help you?” My voice sounds louder than it should in the silence of the hour. Everything feels thinner at midnight, as though the entire world’s holding its breath.
Rather than answering, he extends the box toward me. Now that the door isn’t between us, I can hear his slow, steady, and slightly mechanical breathing.
“Who sent this?” I ask, not reaching for it yet.
Silence. The mask’s filters rise and fall with measured breathing, but no voice emerges.
“What is it?” I try again.
Still nothing.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right apartment?” I ask, narrowing the door a fraction. “There are other floors—other people who might’ve actually ordered something.”
Rather than acknowledging my questions, he takes one step forward and lifts the box higher, like that movement is its own answer.
A small, clinical part of my mind catalogs the familiar markers—racing heart, flushed skin, the subtle tremor in my fingers as they brush the doorframe. But none of it registers as fear. It feels too focused, too hot, too alive.
“I can’t accept packages without knowing their source,” I say, injecting a note of authority into my voice. It’s the same tone I use with difficult clients who test boundaries.
The man remains unmoved, arm extended, box waiting. The silence stretches between us, heavy with an unspoken challenge. We’ve reached an impasse—this strange courier won’t leave until I take the package, and I can’t close the door on this mystery without resolving it.
My nipples harden under his stare, a traitorous response I hide by folding my arms. But the truth is, I like that he can pull it from me without a single word. There’s something undeniably enticing about the way his identity is hidden—like a question I shouldn’t want answered.
His loud breathing and something that almost sounds like a chuckle has me realizing I’ve been standing here like an idiot, gawking at him. Shit. I extend my hand, accepting the box while maintaining maximum distance between our bodies.
As soon as my fingers close around it, he releases his grip with a finality that feels significant.
“Thank you,” I say automatically, professional habits asserting themselves even in this bizarre encounter.
He gives no acknowledgment. Just turns around and walks to the stairwell at the opposite end of the hall.
I stand frozen in my doorway, the box cool against my palms, watching this strange messenger retreat. The boots make a distinctive sound against the hallway floor—a heavy thud followed by a slight scrape.
Only when the stairwell door opens and closes several stories below do I step back into my apartment. I secure both deadbolts, then add the chain—a precaution I rarely bother with. But something about this strange encounter makes me feel like I have to.
Thesilence that follows is thick, electric, like the apartment itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to admit that I wanted every second of what just happened.
I look down at the box in my hands, the orange bow suddenly garish against the matte black surface. Like a warning sign in nature—bright colors signaling danger, approach at your own risk.
Whatever message this package contains, it’s already breached my defenses, crossed my threshold.
With deliberate steps, I move away from the door, carrying this strange offering into the kitchen where I place it on the counter. I study its dimensions from every angle. No markings or labels. No indication of its origin or purpose.
Instead of cutting the ribbon, I carefully work at the bow, loosening it with methodical patience. The satin slides against itself, making a soft whisper as it comes undone.
With steady hands that betray none of my internal tension, I lift the lid and set it aside, aligned parallel to the box’s edge. Inside, black tissue paper forms a nest, carefully folded to cradle the single object it contains.
