I saw the truck from the window.

  At first—just a shadow, too long for an ordinary car. Then slow, hesitant movement along the street, as if the driver wasn't sure he'd turned the right way. I stepped closer to the glass and understood at once: it was for me.

  The truck was enormous.

  Obscenely large for our quiet street, where houses stand close together and all traffic has long been memorized. It moved slowly, almost cautiously, and at one point it seemed to me that there was simply no room left on the road for anything else.

  I threw on a jacket and went outside.

  The day was sunny, calm, even cozy—one of those October days when autumn tries to be friendly. People had already begun decorating their houses. Pumpkins appeared on porches—large and small, real and decorative. Some were placed alone, others arranged into whole compositions: with dry branches, bundles of hay, corn cobs. Autumn never arrived all at once here—it was announced first.

  Against that backdrop, the huge truck looked alien.

  It stopped across from my house.

  Four men got out.

  Large, silent, wearing identical work jackets. They moved in sync, without speaking—like people long used to working together.

  I was about to say there must be some mistake when they opened the cargo hold.

  Inside there was nothing.

  Except one thing.

  A massive wooden crate, knocked together from planks and plywood. Rough, heavy, clearly made not for moving, but for storage. About the size of a small car. I wasn't sure the truck bed could have held anything else besides it.

  The men began pulling the crate out slowly, carefully, as if they knew rushing wasn't an option.

  "Wait," I said, stepping closer. "This is a mistake. I didn't order anything. Especially... this."

  One of them looked at the delivery papers and turned the sheet toward me.

  First name.

  Last name.

  Address.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Phone number.

  All mine.

  "Do you want to refuse delivery?" he asked calmly.

  I looked at the crate.

  Then at the house.

  Then at the neighboring lot.

  There were unusually many people at Phil's place. Several stood by the gate; someone was already walking into the yard. Probably there for the plants. I didn't see Phil himself.

  "No," I said finally. "I'm not refusing."

  They unloaded the crate onto the lawn in front of the house. It settled there as if it had always been meant to stand exactly there. It wouldn't have fit through the front door anyway.

  I signed.

  "Who is it from?" I asked.

  "We weren't told," they said. "We don't know."

  The truck drove away slowly, the same way it had arrived.

  I was left alone.

  In front of my house.

  With a massive wooden crate on the lawn.

  I stood there, staring at it, not stepping closer.

  It looked heavy and stubborn. Not temporary. Not accidental. The kind of thing that isn't delivered casually and not left "for later." I walked around it. The boards were new, solid; the bolts sunk deep. Nothing gave way. Even with tools, I wouldn't have managed it alone.

  My phone vibrated.

  Frederica.

  We'd studied together; later she went off on expeditions—to photograph, document, travel to places people don't go casually. We hardly kept in touch, and she never wrote without a reason.

  Molly, this is from us.

  Sorry for not warning you.

  We'll come in two weeks and explain everything.

  Please, just keep it for us.

  I reread the message and put the phone away.

  No words. What nerve.

  Does she even understand what kind of monster she's sent me? How am I supposed to "keep" this? What is it—keys? Documents? It's a huge wooden crate the size of a car! And I don't even know what's inside!!!!!

  Outrageous.

  I dialed Frederica's number. There were no rings—her phone was off. I tried several more times. Nothing.

  I was furious.

  What if I hadn't been home? What if I'd gone away for a long time? What was she even thinking?

  I was very angry with Frederica.

  I went inside and shut the door behind me.

  Inside, it was warm and far too calm. The house lived its ordinary life—as if nothing strange had happened. That irritated me. I went to the kitchen, stopped by the table, then returned to the door. The thought was the same: two weeks was a long time. Too long for something you couldn't even bring into the house.

  I typed a reply:

  Call me.

  The phone stayed silent.

  I thought about how Frederica always did this—acted first, explained later. Usually it worked. Usually. I tried to imagine what might be inside the crate, and every option seemed either too simple or too bizarre.

  Suddenly my left shoulder began aching again—dull, pulling, as if something were stuck there. I lay down on the couch without even taking my clothes off, just to rest for a minute. Closed my eyes.

  And fell asleep.

  At first it seemed to me that I wasn't sleeping.

  A large dog was running around the room—something like a Rottweiler. Heavy, black, with glossy fur. It circled the couch, snorted, breathed loudly, and then suddenly began licking my legs—insistently, almost intrusively. I tried to push it away, but my body wouldn't obey.

  Then the dog disappeared.

  In its place stood the plumber.

  The same one.

  He walked through the house, peering into corners, muttering to himself as if checking whether everything was in order. I couldn't make out the words. He passed the couch without looking at me, then stopped by the window, pulled a wrench from his pocket, and suddenly hurled it outside.

  The wrench struck the crate.

  A dull crack sounded.

  The crate burst open.

  Inside was a charred tree stump.

  Black, split, as if it had survived a fire.

  And at that very moment I felt a heavy weight on my chest.

  A huge black raven was sitting on me.

  In its beak was a piece of fresh meat—dark, wet. It looked at me with one eye, let out a short croak, beat its wings, and flew off. The air slammed like a blow.

  I screamed—and woke up.

  My heart was pounding, my mouth dry. The room was the same. The couch. The wall. Silence. But the feeling of the dream wouldn't leave—as if it hadn't ended, only stepped aside.

  I got up and went out into the yard. Evening breathed with freshness. It was quiet; only birds chirped softly in the bushes.

  The crate was still there.

  Leaving it outside was impossible.

  Opening it—too.

  I looked at the house. Then at the street. Then toward Phil's place.

  There were no people there anymore.

  His old car was parked by the house. Which meant he was probably home.

  I closed the gate and went toward him.

  I needed help.