The Past Doesn’t Forget

Paul’s headlights skimmed over a package awaiting him on the front stoop, as he pulled into his drive. The wipers kept perfect time with the increased pounding of his heart. He watched, as the flashing red light of a drone disappeared over his rooftop.

This was not the first package Paul had received. Over the last 30 days, he had received 4, the anonymous text he received earlier that morning, let him know however, this would be the last.

For the past month, Paul had been receiving prank calls. Innocent enough, at first. Crazy laughing and breathing just before hanging up. However, they had become more threatening, as the month went on — graphic, violent language — verbal, physical threats. One morning, as he made his way to the mailbox, he found a dead squirrel sprawled over his porch light, the innards left inside the box.

Each box held a clue to the identity of the sender, one a little more mysterious than the first, creating a puzzle of sorts.

The first box was a matchbox car, an old GTO, like the one his older brother owned, when they were younger. Paul totaled that car one night while driving impaired. He promised his brother he would repair it, but his brother died of an accidental overdose the following weekend. Paul felt responsible, and never really forgave himself, neither did his parents.