The depot's fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets as Josh pushed his dead bike through the service entrance. Shadows stretched long across the concrete floor, the setting sun painting the warehouse in stripes of orange and gloom through the high windows. His shift supervisor, Mark Dawson - a lanky college kid with perpetually bloodshot eyes from late-night gaming sessions - looked up from his clipboard.
"Dude." Mark pushed his glasses up his nose, the blue light from his tablet reflecting off the lenses. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Josh wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a grimy streak. "Bike died on Sycamore. Had to push it six blocks." He jerked his thumb toward the offending vehicle. "Fully charged last night, just crapped out for no reason."
Mark whistled low. "That's the new X9 model, right? Shouldn't be having battery issues." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Weird shit always happens near Sycamore, though. Last month, Tommy's GPS went haywire there—kept telling him to turn into brick walls."
A shiver ran down Josh's spine despite the warehouse's stifling heat. He carefully unloaded his delivery bin, saving the strange parcel for last. The brown wrapping seemed darker now, the symbols more pronounced, as if they'd deepened under his scrutiny.
"You gonna tell me what's in the mystery box?" Mark grinned, but his eyes flickered with unease. "Or we doing the whole 'courier confidentiality' thing?"
Josh hesitated. The parcel felt heavier in his hands, vibrating faintly like a purring cat. "Think we should open it. No proper sender info, recipient name's just 'Josh at Midnight.' That can't be legit."
Mark's grin faded. He glanced toward Old Chen's office, where the blinds were firmly shut. "Man, you know the rules. We open packages, we get fired. Remember what happened to—"
"I know, I know." Josh ran a hand through his damp hair. "But this feels different. Like..." He struggled for words. "Like it's not just some Amazon return gone wrong."
The warehouse seemed to hold its breath around them. Somewhere in the distance, a pallet jack squeaked, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. Mark exhaled sharply and grabbed a box cutter from his back pocket.
"Five seconds," he muttered. "Just enough to peek. If it's drugs or whatever, we call the cops immediately."
The blade sliced through the aged tape with surprising resistance, like cutting through gristle rather than adhesive. A smell wafted out—not the expected cardboard scent, but something older. Burnt paper. Wet earth. And beneath it all, the coppery tang of blood.
"Holy shit," Mark whispered as Josh pulled out the contents.
A leather-bound notebook, its cover cracked with age, bore Josh's name embossed in flaking gold letters. Beneath it lay a photograph, sepia-toned at the edges like something from another century. Josh's fingers trembled as he turned it over.
"1994?" His voice cracked. "That's... not possible."
The photo showed a young man in a bomber jacket standing before a three-story brick building. Every detail—the slight crook in his nose from a childhood baseball accident, the distinctive scar through his left eyebrow—matched Josh perfectly. But the hairstyle, the clothes, even the way he held himself screamed early 90s.
Mark snatched the photo, his glasses slipping down his nose. "Dude. This is you. Like, exactly you." He flipped it over. "But this was taken the year before you were born."
Josh's mouth went dry. He opened the notebook to find page after page filled with his signature—thousands of iterations, each identical to the one on his driver's license. Not approximations, not similar—perfect replicas, down to the slight upward slant of the "J" and the exaggerated loop in the "h."
"Okay, this is officially creepy." Mark backed away a step. "We should—"
"Wait." Josh's finger hovered over the photo's background. In a third-floor window of the building, barely visible behind grimy glass, stood a figure. Tall. Thin. Wearing what might have been a long coat or robe. Though the face was blurred, Josh felt certain the figure was watching the photographer—watching him.
The warehouse lights flickered. Both men jumped.
"Power surge," Mark said too quickly. He wiped his palms on his jeans. "Look, let's just—"
A loud bang made them both whirl around. Old Chen's office door had flown open, though no one stood in the doorway. From within the darkened office came the distinct sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Josh's pulse pounded in his ears. "I think maybe we need to call the police."
Mark shook his head violently. "And say what? 'We opened a package and found a scary photo'?
They'll laugh us out of the station." He grabbed Josh's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Just put it back in the box.
"Erm...Deliver it tomorrow. Maybe it's some... elaborate prank or ? " said Josh in his mind.
The notebook fell open to a middle page. Josh's breath caught.
Amidst the sea of signatures, one line stood out in red ink: "THE FIRE REMEMBERS...
Outside, thunder rumbled despite the clear evening forecast.
Josh carefully repacked the items, his fingers numb. As he slid the photo back in, he noticed something new—a barely visible line of text at the bottom edge: "Midnight at Sycamore House. He waits."
Mark's tablet suddenly blared static at full volume, making them both jump. When the noise cut out, the screen displayed only three words in pixelated text: "DON'T TRUST CHEN."
The warehouse lights died completely, plunging them into darkness. Somewhere in the blackness, slow, deliberate footsteps approached.
Josh's voice was barely a whisper: "We're not waiting until tomorrow."