Video Forty-Seven

The only way Mark could keep track of how many people he’d seen get eaten on the corner of Maple and 8th was by counting the video files he’d stored.

There were forty-four, each two or three minutes long, since his mother bought him the camera. It was an expensive DSLR she brought home a week after he'd last seen his father. It still had the pawn ticket on it, and Mark couldn't quite do the math on how many extra shifts she'd have to pull to make up for it. What he knew for sure, though, was she was about to be home even less than usual. It was almost enough to make him give it back. Almost.

He crouched on his bed and looked down on the northwest corner of Maple and 8th from his second-story window. His eyes barely poked above the frame. His left hand gripped the camera, lens against the glass next to his face. His right hand whipped his butterfly knife open and closed, clink-whir-clink, blind and efficient.

"Balisong," his father had called it, his drunk tongue sticking the consonants to the roof of his mouth. He'd smelled like cinnamon mints floating on hospital antiseptic. "Don't tell your mother." He flipped it open with an expert hand. Mark watched, transfixed. His father knew everything.

During the day, the corner was a gray collision of street, sidewalk, and brick storefront. Traffic never stopped there—8th crossed Maple and ended a half-block west of the corner—and pedestrians would jaywalk to avoid that corner. They blindly crossed the boulevard through a rage of horns and cursing drivers, never blinking at the noise. Like they didn't hear a decibel of it.

At night, the double doors of the bar just north of the corner's shadows spat everyone out to lurch and stumble across and down the street. Most of the storefronts had apartments above them, and the renters had mostly learned to sleep through the noise the drunks made. They scattered in all directions, using all of the street and sidewalk to get home. Except the corner of Maple and 8th, where the streetlight always went out just before the bar closed.

No one ever purposefully went near that corner.

That streetlight threw a yellow glow on the wall behind Mark. It flickered, then died. His alarm clock cast the only light left in the room, and it made his Hulk posters and Calvin and Hobbes books look cold, the shadows in his room colder. Kid's stuff, he thought. He shivered.

Given the heat of the day, their corner never warmed up the way it should have in the thick of August. He used to wonder if that was why his father was gone. Mark would have understood, to an extent—he himself couldn't stop complaining about either sweating through his clothes during the day or not being able to feel his toes at night. But his father had always seemed to him to be tougher, able to withstand more than he ever could. They'd camped, he'd chopped kindling and built fires, and even last year, when Mark was eleven, his father had still handled the metal cup of hot chocolate for him until he'd blown it cool enough to drink.

"Careful, now," he'd said to Mark. "Can't bring you home with any scars. Not permanent ones, anyway." He'd winked and tipped his beer upside down over his mouth, exaggerating his enjoyment of the last few drops.

Mark had smiled, drank from his mug.

A stumbling drunk left the bar and stepped toward Maple and 8th, then stopped. On a shaky heel, he one-eightied and headed the other direction. He leaned against a wall and heaved. Mark heard the splatter hit the pavement, saw it splash the drunk's shoes, watched the drunk stumble up the block and around the corner.

The first night with the camera, Mark had taken pictures of the bar's patrons from his window, the flash off. He imagined himself trying to catch his father down there, maybe returning to the scene of the crime like on all the TV shows. Without the flash, he couldn't pick up much of anything, but in the shadow on the corner—he didn't know what to call it. He'd never seen anything like it.

Mark looked over the camera at the corner with his own eyes, saw the blank absence of light under the streetlamp. Another drunk left the bar, teetered, turned toward the corner.

Mark hit the RECORD button, dropped the knife, and slammed his window open. The drunk looked up. Mark clicked the flash on and the bright LED whitewashed the street in soft light. The drunk shielded his eyes with his hand and lurched forward, slurred at Mark.

"What—"

Mark watched it happen over the top of the camera. Without the view screen, the drunk looked as though he'd fallen hips-first toward the shadows and then was swallowed by the darkness under the streetlight. No screams, no blood. He was there, about to ask what the hell that bright light in the window was, and then he wasn't. Mark recorded for a few seconds longer, then the streetlight buzzed back to life and wiped the alarm clock's glow off his walls. He breathed hard, his heartbeat slammed against his chest. He closed his eyes.

Forty-five.

When the adrenaline subsided, he shut his window, quieter this time, glad his mother was out pulling an all-nighter at the diner she ran. If she was home and heard, he would have had to explain himself. She'd ask about the camera, and he'd have to show her. And that wouldn't do.

Mark made sure the file saved, but didn’t watch. No need. He already knew it wasn’t his father, who might go to that bar, might slip out at closing time, might sneak back into the house and wake him up like he used to with another gift he shouldn't tell his mother about.

Like the butterfly knife. An eighteen-inch police-issue flashlight heavy enough to smash the cantaloupe in the kitchen that Mark couldn't let remain round and perfect with all the power of the flashlight in his hand.

Mark's dad had laughed. "Still works, too, I bet." He'd grabbed a smashed piece of melon and chewed it down. "Tasty."

And the prize of the lot: the collapsible baton. Illegal, deadly.

"No fruit smashing with this one. This one is for serious business," he'd said.

"Serious business?"

"Only when you need to make something dead." He'd looked Mark in the eyes, grabbed his cheeks with rough hands. "Promise me. Only when it's you or him."

Mark had nodded, felt the weight of the moment press down on his insides. His father had planted a wood-smoked kiss on his forehead and left him alone in his darkened bedroom.

The memory hurt. He picked the knife back up, watched the streetlight, absently flipped the blade open and closed. Looked at the rest of his father's gifts sitting on his bed. When the streetlight went out again, he'd be ready.

After the first few days without his father, Mark had put the knife and the baton and the flashlight in a box in his closet and tried to forget they were there. It sounded weak when he said it out loud, but in his head, it made perfect sense: looking at those things would make him think about his dad, and thinking about his dad hurt.

Until he'd thought about the bar, and his dad coming out of it. He'd shone the camera down and made the first video, some blurry-faced woman whose impaired balance tipped her into the darkness forever. Mark had caught it on accident. He'd forgotten he was recording and watched the shadows envelop the woman, then stared slack-mouthed at the space where she'd been, tried to understand.

Then he watched the video and screamed. His mother had run into the room, turned the camera off, and when Mark tried to tell her—

"Shh," she'd said. "Just a bad dream."

She'd stayed until the next morning, but he didn't sleep. She tried to call in sick to work.

"I'll be okay, go," he said. "It's fine. I'll sleep."

But he didn't. He watched again. Screamed again, but not as long or loud. He definitely hadn't been dreaming the night before, and that confirmation set a new fear in him: how many more were there? And that led to a much bigger question, much more important to Mark, one that continuing to record might answer.

The shock wore off after the first few videos, but there was always fear. He couldn't get rid of that. He never watched the screen while he recorded, because he was afraid he'd shake too bad to get anything worthwhile. And because it was easier to identify the faces leaving the bar without the camera in the way.

He never saw his father, though. Plenty of people he didn't know, a few he recognized from the neighborhood, but never his dad. Only one option, he thought. His dad certainly wouldn't have just up and left him. That meant he'd been taken by the thing on the corner already. Mark could keep watching, keep waiting, but deep in the most sacred places a twelve-year-old boy kept hidden and safe, he felt his father was already gone.

So, Mark studied.

It had habits. Clockwork, almost. One right when the bar was closing, another a few minutes later. Then Mark went to bed, because there usually wasn't enough traffic on the road to justify watching once the last of the drunks trickled home. When the streetlight was on, and during the day—when the light washed the shadows away—it slept. But when the streetlight went out, it fed.

He thought he might be able to match the way he saw the shadow move to the—thing? Monster? Abomination?—whatever it was he saw in the videos. They never quite matched up, though. Hitting it would be tough. He'd have to have the camera going, the view screen in front of him to see what he was aiming at. And he wasn't strong, he knew. That presented another question. If he hit it with the knife or the baton, would he do any damage?

Maybe, if his science classes made any sense. Centrifugal force. Only one way to find out, and since every night he didn't try was another night he let someone else die—

He wrapped the knife handle tight to the end of the baton, blade open, with several layers of duct tape. Tried it out—whipped his wrist out and the club extended lightning quick. Collapsed it, and then again—swung it like a hammer this time, and the knife's weight and momentum at the end of the extended baton kept his arm swinging down and through his target space. He taped the flashlight to the base of the baton, wrapping that in several layers as well, so that in one hand he'd have his weapon and his light. Together, the assembled parts were heavy. A real tool with a real purpose.

If it could be hurt, that would do it.

Serious business.

He put on his jacket and gloves, armor against the cold, and picked up the weapon. The camera hung around his neck on a strap long enough that he could hold it in front of his face and still see around it, so that he didn't have to take his eye off the real world.

He shut the door on his comic books and model trains. Then out the front, down the stairs and out into the street. He could imagine his mother telling him two in the morning was no time for a child to be roaming the streets, summertime or not. If she'd been home, she'd probably say something like that. But she wasn't, and neither was anyone else to tell him what to do.

Mark didn't feel like a child anymore.

He stuck to the shadows in the corners the sidewalks and buildings made, semi-invisible to drinkers focused on staying upright, and slunk his way to the corner opposite the streetlight. It flickered and died again.

Mark took a step forward and someone walked out of the bar. Keys jingled, the lock turned, and the man looked right at him. The owner, Mark assumed. He'd seen the man leave every night.

They froze and stared at each other. Mark knew he was caught, but couldn't put together a reasonable answer to a non-slurred interrogation. The owner usually walked directly away from the shadows, turning the corner at the end of the block opposite Maple and 8th, but tonight—

He took a few steps in Mark's direction, a question forming on his lips, and then his hips swiveled and he walked toward the thing on the corner.

Mark hit RECORD and walked into the street, focused the lens at the back of the shadow under the broken streetlight. The man walked right into it, without slowing. Mark flipped the LED on and watched, one eye on the screen, the other on the man walking into the darkness.

It was over quickly. Mark heard breathing, fabric on concrete, a taught stretching like chicken skin being pulled from its meat. And then the corner was still.

Forty-six.

And he'd missed his chance. The man was gone, the shadows were deeper than they were just a moment ago, and the second feeding of the night was over.

Mark stopped in the middle of the street and lit the flashlight, combined it with the LED on the camera. He should have been able to see the corner of the building, the junction of sidewalk and wall. Instead, the light shone into the darkness, not terminating on anything, just dissipating like he was pointing the light into the sky.

He cursed once, twice, louder the second time, both words unpracticed and awkward in his young mouth. He looked down at the view screen and played the video:

The man. Darkness. The man half-shadowed, then barely visible, and then—teeth. All around him, sharp and jagged, lining gums rimmed by scaled lips. A fang-lined wormhole in the night. Long scissor-blade bones on either side of the mouth open wide, sharp edges to the street, hooks on the ends. So that the meat can't wriggle free. The scissor-bone teeth mangle the man, fold him in jagged sections. His mouth forms what would have been an "Oomph" of lost air if he could make a sound. The hooks drag the man in deep, and he is bent at dead and broken angles. He disappears slowly, his hands and feet hiding the top of his head. Then darkness.

Mark stopped the video and shivered. The thing was much bigger up close.

He didn't notice that the streetlight hadn't clicked back on. The shadow swelled under the post and reached a tendril toward him. He shivered again, finally looked up, and saw it reaching.

He thumbed the record button and started screaming.

He heard someone shout, "Shut the fuck up, it's two in the morning!"

He didn't. He aimed the camera at the corner, strode forward with purpose, and whipped the knife-end of the baton at the thing he saw in the view screen.

And missed. It retreated, flattened out, then shot toward him. He swung again, and the blade bounced off the thing’s scaled lips. Mark dropped the weapon and it clattered on the asphalt.

The thing blasted out a hot breath tainted with rot. Mark choked on the smell, tried to back up, but a snake-like tongue whipped around his ankle.

He screamed again, this time in fury, and fell to his right, reaching out for his weapon. He wrapped his hand around it and came up again, grinning. The camera kept running.

Mark reared back with his weapon to strike again, tensed his shoulder and then unleashed all the strength he had. The blade hit the thing between two fangs and ripped a gash open. Hot blood splashed. Mark swung again, hitting one of the scaled lips, more blood, and he kept hacking—

"Mark?"

From behind him. Familiar as cinnamon and antiseptic.

Mark turned around. The movement drew his attack up short and the knife broke on the street. The blade bounced up, tumbled, splashed the camera's LED light around the darkness in hard circles. Stuck in his forearm. He didn't notice.

There was his father, not dead.

The man’s face was bruised and his cast-and-slung arm half obscured the detective's badge crooked on the chain around his neck.

An immense joy flooded Mark’s throat and he drew a breath to speak—then didn't feel anything at all when the thing on the corner pulled him in and closed its scissor-blade teeth and broke him in half.

END.

“Video Forty-Seven” was originally featured in macabre-museum.com in 2019

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Eli Ryder lives in Coastal Texas, where he teaches college English and is trying to kick a mean donut habit. He stole his M.F.A. from UC Riverside’s low residency program in Palm Desert, CA, and his horror fiction and criticism have appeared in numerous venues online and in print.

Find him: Twitter

Night Shadows

Emily shut the door, locked it, and waved at Mr. and Mrs. Becker from the window. They pulled out of the driveway in Mr. Becker’s midlife crisis car, a sporty-looking burnt orange coupe that didn’t fit the kids and was even a little uncomfortable for adults. Emily’s legs had folded strangely in it, knocking the gear shift and the door and the dash. If Emily had a car like that, she’d never choose that color, like fruit left to rot. No. She’d go red. Dark, the color of cranberries and garnets and lipstick left on collars. 

Grayson and Tara were in the living room, each set up on a tablet with noise-cancelling headphones. Emily’d been the Beckers’ weekend sitter since Grayson was only a few weeks old. The Beckers went out often enough that Emily was able to cover what was left of her spring tuition after scholarships and grants kicked in. Dodging student loans was worth the sacrifice of the Friday and Saturday nights. Something her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—hadn’t been able to understand.

“What about us?” Trevor had said, one too many times.

“What about me?” she said. His lower lip protruded in a pout. She remembered when that face made her insides quiver, made it impossible not to catch his lip in her teeth. If she did that now, she’d rip it off. “Are you going to start compensating me for my time?”

“You’re not some whore.”

“Sex worker,” she said. She hoped her voice was as cold as she was trying to make it. “They’re called sex workers now.”

She’d thought that fighting with Trevor would bring the passion out of her, that the screaming until their neighbors knocked on the walls would translate into hours making up with the same heat. Indifference doused whatever flames had been there. The more they fought, the less she cared.

“Do you guys want pizza?” Emily asked, after she got the kids’ attention.

Tara—much too old for five—made a face. “Doesn’t that have gluten in it?”

Grayson popped his thumb out of his mouth. “I wike gwuten.”

“Mommy says gluten is ruining her life,” Tara said.

Emily rolled her eyes. “Is pepperoni okay?”

Tara thought for a moment. “No tomatoes. Mommy says night shadows are bad for my digestions.”

“Nightshades.”

“Those are bad, too.”

“What about pesto?” Emily tried to keep the irritation from her face.

“That’s the green one?”

“Gween!” Grayson said.

“Okay,” Tara said, like she was accepting defeat. “I’ll eat pesto.”

Emily shook her head and punched in her order on the app. Cheese and pepperoni on one half, artichoke and olives on the other, pesto instead of marinara on the whole thing. She ordered the large, enough that she could take home leftovers and still pocket some of the pizza change. The kids were quiet on the couch. She probably should have put away their tablets and played a game with them or something, but she was tired and the appeal of silence was too great. Instead she went upstairs and pulled out their pajamas and laid them on the beds. It was all part of the routine. Dinner, bath, PJs, bedtime. She usually put the kids to sleep thirty minutes early to allow a little extra time to herself. She would rifle through the medicine cabinets, drink whatever was open at the wet bar, slip on Mrs. Becker’s coats with nothing underneath and wonder who would come through the door. Who would find her and unwrap her like a present.

No one, Emily remembered. Throat tight and stomach sore. There would be no one, after all.

There had been no absence of passion, no cold indifference. It had been molten from start to finish. Mr. Becker had come home early one evening, Mrs. Becker off on an emergency C-section. The kids were asleep upstairs. He’d offered her a drink, said she’d might as well round out the hour. He’d been charming and clever. They’d sat at either ends of the couch, but after a few tumblers of gin and tonic, she was tracing patterns with her toes on his off-white linen pants and he was brushing his fingers against her calves. When they collided, Emily was sure they would melt the couch or set the whole house on fire.

She hadn’t been attracted to him when she first started sitting for them. And, of course, she had Trevor, she wasn’t looking. She hadn’t dared to glance at all. But there’d been a shift in her and Trevor’s relationship, something she couldn’t quite place. She felt tangled up in him, like a feral animal about to be caught up in a trap. Mr. Becker felt like freedom. He felt like a mistake she needed to make. She’d gone home that first night and slept in the curve of Trevor’s body, trying not to think of Mr. Becker’s mouth and hands and heat. Making promises to herself that it was the last time, it was the only time.

Empty promises.

The doorbell rang. Tara shouted for her to come down. Emily put the toothbrushes and toothpaste on the counter and came downstairs. She grabbed the cash stuck to the fridge, pocketed one of the twenties, and opened the door.

“That will be seventeen fifty-three.”

Emily looked up sharply.

It was Trevor. Black hat, “Pizza Palace” embroidered on it in white letters. Insulated zippered pouch, half open. He stared at her for a minute, his eyes adjusting to the light.

“Is this his house?” His voice was low, venomous. Trevor was never one for screaming. It always hurt most when he was quiet.

The truth bunched on Emily’s tongue and rattled against her teeth. She pushed the door open wider, so he could see the kids. Relief battled with disdain for control of his features. “How long have you been—,” she said, gesturing to the hat, to the car.

“Since I had to cover the rent on my own.”

Emily took a breath, counted to five. She wasn’t going to have this fight again. Instead she took a twenty and a five and put it on top of the box. She thought about the other twenty buried in her pocket. If things were bad enough that Trevor needed to deliver pizzas to cover the rent, on top of his research job and school, twenty dollars might be the difference between a decent meal or someone’s left over crusts for dinner. She slid her hand into her back pocket, felt the crisp edge. She left it there.

The last time she’d looked at Trevor like this she’d been sealing up the last of her boxes. His eyes were red-rimmed, with either emotion or exhaustion. She could have gotten away with it. But she’d seen his earnest smile and felt his fingers tighten around hers and she couldn’t keep it in. The worst part? He’d forgiven her. He’d asked her to stay.

“Keep the change.” She reached for the pizza box.

That’s when the lights went out.

Not just in the house, but on the street. On Trevor’s car. On the tablets. On Emily’s phone. Tara screamed. Grayson let out mewling whimpers. Emily dropped the pizza onto the floor. She settled between the kids, put her arms around them, whispering reassuring things. Tara took shuddering breaths. Grayson sucked his thumb vigorously.

“What the hell?” Trevor pulled a flashlight—always the boy scout—from his pocket and flicked it on and off, to no avail. “Do you have any candles?”

“Door on the left, in the bathroom. There are matches in the top drawer.”

Trevor shuffled in that direction. She heard him bump against the side table and swear. Her eyes were starting to adjust to the light. The stars looked so bright in the blanket of darkness, like they’d been waiting for all the lights to go out so they could let themselves be known.

She hummed softly, stroking Tara’s head. She heard the strike of a match, and waited for the light.

That’s not what she saw.

In the still open doorway, a shape blocked out the starlight. It growled low, like the rumble of an engine. Emily wasn’t even sure she was seeing anything until Trevor stepped out of the bathroom and the candlelight reflected in its big eyes. They weren’t that dark, rich red, like the stories promised. They were blue, blue, blue like a sunny sky and Mr. Becker’s eyes in the half-light and flight-sized bottles of Bombay Sapphire lined up on the night stand.

Trevor was quick. He grabbed Tara from beneath her arm and tore up the stairs. Emily didn’t have time to shout and stop him. There was nothing she could do, except to clutch Grayson and follow. Trevor shut the door to the master bedroom behind them. Locked the door with a quick flick—so like Mr. Becker—and started sliding furniture in front of the door. Tara sat on the bed and held the candle, too scared to cry. Emily didn’t know how to quantify what was happening. Grayson quivered in Emily’s arms. Put his head down on her shoulder. She flinched. She’d forgotten he was there. She put him down on the bed next to his sister. He whined in protest. She silenced him with a sharp look.

“What the hell is that?” Trevor said.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think this will be enough?”

Emily looked at the shapes of the furniture they had arranged in front of the door, Trevor wide eyed and eager for her approval. She never expected him to be in this bedroom, of all places. The room in which she’d diffused their relationship like a bomb, cutting all the wires with tongue and teeth and someone else’s husband.

“No,” she said.

She moved to the window. She’d climbed down the trellis before, but it wasn’t easy. It would be impossible with the kids, too loud, too slow. They wouldn’t be able to do it without catching the shadow’s attention. Even if they managed it, then what? How far could she and Trevor run holding the children, before it caught up to them?

The second step from the top creaked. The shadow moved without weight, without consequence, save for the scrape of nails against the wood floors. A metallic timbre that sent shivers up Emily’s spine.

“It’s here,” Emily whispered.

Trevor blew out the candle. Tara started to cry. Emily silenced her with the palm of her hand, but it was too late.

The door cracked down the center. Wood fragments clattered on the floor. Grayson climbed up her torso, buried his face in her neck. He didn’t have that sweet baby smell anymore, but she knew the pattern of his breathing and the way he fit into the curve of her hip. It’s what started the affair, after all. Those late nights when Mrs. Becker had come home from date night and gone straight to bed and Mr. Becker had seen Emily lay the baby down in the crib with such tenderness. It was instinctual, he’d said later, to want the woman who cared for his children. There was a time when she thought it could be more than that. But it was just wanting. Just bodies, no hearts or heads involved.

Trevor reached for her hand.

The shadow moved slowly, with enough force that the furniture squealed out of the way. Trevor tried to lead her into the bathroom, but what good would that do? It was here. It had seen them. It was too late for any of that.

It reached a claw out into the moonlight. Long and notched and sharp. Pointed at her, pointed at Grayson. Its growl was low and mechanical, like a spoon caught in a disposal.

Emily held her breath.

She had to be selfish, but maybe selfish was all she had. She’d spent so much time looking after herself and piecing together scraps to make herself whole. She had to be selfish to survive. She had to be selfish to live. And maybe that’s what it had all been about. Being selfish when it came to love or lust. It wasn’t at all about the little velvet box she’d found indiscriminately tucked inside a lonely sock in Trevor’s drawer. It wasn’t about the fact that she didn’t know the function of love or commitment or how two people made themselves into the shape of forever. All she knew of forever was empty bottles of Jameson and her mother’s teeth on the floor. Broken and bloody and unfixable.

She threw Grayson into the shadow. Whatever Trevor said to her then was lost to the screams, to that wet ripping sound. She dropped down the trellis and onto the grass, running and running until she was bathed in a warm circle of electric lights a block or so away. Far enough that the sounds of the street overwhelmed the cries. Only then did she spare a glance back, to the trail of red that lead out the door and away. She harbored a moment of hope. Maybe the shadow had stepped into the pizza on its way out and smeared marinara down its path. She remembered, then, that they’d ordered pesto. 

Later, when Emily saw the sun rise from a dive bar on some distant shoreline—so far that she couldn’t be found, but not far enough to avoid the headlines—she caught the segment on the morning news. Rolling blackouts. A brutal murder. No mention of the shadow, except to say: the babysitter slaughtered the children and the pizza delivery man. Monster, they said. Let us count her teeth.

The End

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Megan Eccles writes dark, speculative fiction for young adults. She holds a BA in Music from the University of San Diego and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of California Riverside—Palm Desert. She lives in the foothills of San Diego with her husband, four sons, dogs, and various farm animals. When she’s not writing or rehoming rattlesnakes, she pairs lipstick to her favorite books on instagram and plays Dungeons & Dragons with her boys. She has been accused of owning too many books, but it simply isn't true. 

Find her: Bookstagram | Instagram | Twitter | Website

The Unboxing

In the news feed, scrolling. Push the screen down. Watch it slide. Pictures slip away. Familiar faces. People I know. Have known. Slide. Press the heart. Like the post.

Slide. Repeat. Slide. Repeat.

A vase I looked at online the other day. The blue one. A purple one I hadn’t considered, not until now. Both are reasonable prices. Squares in the corner. More to see. Slide to the left. To the right. A lamp. A small bookcase. A spatula. A set of measuring cups.

Stuff I need.

“Read this one, Mommy, please.” Cindy, seven years old, appears next to me.

My eyes break from the phone, move to her, to her big smile, to the book she holds. Something flashes on the screen, though.

“Mom!” she protests, crawling onto the sofa, sitting next to me, the book in her hands. I can’t say no. Not to that face.

My screen flashes brighter.

“Just a second.” I look away. A video in my feed plays. A woman with long, blonde hair gently curled, full makeup, false eyelashes, injected lips, acrylic nails.

Everything about her: perfect.

She holds a pale pink box. About twice the size of a pair of shoes. The words Best Self Box are printed on top; purple and green floral designs curl around the sides.

She lifts the box so we can see. The lid is sealed. A gold sticker. Edging her long nail under, she peels it back.

“Read the book!” Cindy says.

“Of course.” I pause the video. What was I thinking? Why does this matter? But even when I put down my phone, take the book in my hands, I see that long fingernail, under the seal, teasing….

What’s inside the box?

I’m doing the right thing. Reading to my child. What’s more important than that?

I should avoid watching unboxing videos in front of Cindy, anyway, just in case. A small percentage of unboxings are Red. I can’t imagine the Red ones would be so easily clickable; but, even so: chance I don’t want to take.

Cindy shouldn’t see that.

I scoop her into my lap, open the first page. A story about a young girl who goes for a night ride on a flying pony named Veronica. One we’ve read a million times. When we get to the end, pony wings falling gently closed around the pink-haired body, shedding glitter into a field of roses, Cindy reads the final lines with me.

“Until next time, when together we fly, fly, fly!"

I close the book.

“Read it again!” she says.

I read it again.

“We fly, fly, fly!”

“Read it again!”

“We’ll read it again tomorrow, honey. Time for bed.”

Aiden emerges from his study, takes Cindy’s hand, walks her upstairs to help brush her teeth and start the bath water.

“I’ll be right up!” I call after them, and stay with my phone on the sofa, where the video of the unboxing is on the screen, waiting.

I press play.

The blond woman smiles at me.

“I’m so excited to share this month’s Best Self Box with you all today.” She lifts the lid, teasingly slow. The underside is printed with dark pink script that reads, Treat yourself… to your very best life! Inside the box, the contents are wrapped in pale green tissue, small packages sealed with gold stickers.

“Now, I’m sure you are all going to be blown away by this month’s selections. That’s what I’ve been told. A little bit of this, a little bit of that—everything you didn’t know you needed to make your month of May extra, extra special with a selection of indispensable things.” She smiles wide into the camera, lips stretching; not a single line forms around her mouth. Opening the tissue, she pulls out the first item from the box. “Oh, my goodness!” She reveals a water bottle. Aluminum. Slender. With a green silicone sleeve. “Can you believe this?” She turns the bottle around and upside down, running manicured nails over its surface, unscrewing the lid, screwing it back on. “An incredible bottle to stow your liquids for the gym, around town. Hey, why not the beach? Can’t you just imagine yourself there?” She stares at the bottle, transfixed. Then she pulls out the next item. From the tissue emerges a tube of scented hand cream. “Isn’t this luxurious?” She pops the lid, applies some product to her fingertips, rubs it into her hands. “It’s just… amazing. It’s just perfect for moisturizing on the go and has this gorgeous floral aroma. And I know you can’t smell it where you’re sitting—of course you can’t—but the scent is just…let me tell you it is everything.”

Watching her graceful hands hold the tube, I can’t help but remember a similar product I used to buy. Pink packaging. When I was younger and first married to Aiden, before we had Cindy. How I splurged on the tube, took it home, rubbed the lotion into my neck and chest before bedtime. Aiden turned to me under the sheets, pulling me into him. You just smell so, so good.

The next item rises from the box. She peels back the tissue to uncover a mercury glass candleholder, gold with touches of purple, and lets out a gasp.

“Would you look at the craftsmanship. Absolutely stunning.”

I can’t help but agree—it’s a lovely color.

She brings the candle to her nose, inhales deeply.

“Lavender!”

I think of the bedroom I share with Aiden, lights turned off, a couple of candles like this one, flickering. The scent of that lotion on my breasts when he comes to me, heaving.

The next item: a set of leather coasters.

Picture the elegance of your next cocktail party!

Next: a tube of blue mascara.

Imagine your lashes bigger and better than they have ever been.

A beach blanket.

Large enough for you and your lover.

A gold necklace with a cactus-shaped pendant.

Playful and stylish.

A pair of tortoise shell sunglasses.

You’ll be so elegant in these gorgeous sunnies.

And the final item. This one she lifts slowly. It’s wrapped in pale purple tissue, distinct from the other packaging.

I wait, bated breath.

The tissue slips away, revealing silvery fabric. A slight blue sheen. The movement of the fabric like ocean waves, like moonlight whispering.

“I’m speechless. Isn’t this just incredible?” She stands, shaking out the garment, giving us a full view. She slips the silver caftan around her body, arms sliding into wide sleeves. The material hangs to mid-calf length. When she spins, flecks of glitter catch the light, the outline of her figure peeking through the translucent fabric.

I imagine the delicate garment cascading over my own skin. Imagine my blue eyelashes batting. A champagne glass on the leather coaster nearby, waiting in the flickering candlelight.

“Can you believe it?” she says. “This will be my most versatile item of the spring and will certainly take me well into summer. The possibilities for a piece like this—they’re endless, ladies. Wear it to the beach over a swimsuit, wear it over a black cocktail dress out to dinner, wear it alone around the house when you want to look extra special in the evenings.” She winks at the camera as if to say, I know you’ll wear this for your man, you naughty lady, you.

She sits down and sorts through the items, displaying each one in front of her. A pile of treasures organized in a neat little row.

“And that’s it for the May edition of the Best Self Box. I’m sure you’re as amazed as I am by this curated collection of springtime goodies. You can get all this now at just thirty-nine dollars. Ladies, this is over three hundred dollars’ worth of high-quality merchandise. You didn’t even know you needed it all until today. Use the special offer code MYBESTMAY for ten percent off. That’s right. Ten percent off thirty-nine dollars. And a five-percent reduced likelihood of receiving a Red Box. You can’t turn this amazing deal down! Use the link in the comments below to make your purchase.”

My fingertip hovers over the link. The possibility of a Red Box is disturbing, but I don’t know anyone close to me who’s ever had that sort of problem. It’s so incredibly unlikely to get a Red Box. Every once in a while, there’s a mention of them in the news feed. Unboxing videos gone wrong. Warnings about unboxings. That sort of thing. But those videos seem to be taken down so, so quickly.

Treat yourself to your best you.

The words flash on the screen. Dazzling silver letters.

Aiden’s cousin’s wedding is coming up in Hawaii, isn’t it? How perfect would the caftan and sunglasses be for that? Even the blue mascara would add a lot. That pop of color would send the message that I’m still fun and with it. I’m still completely capable of having a good time at the beach. I don’t take life too seriously. And then there’s the water bottle and the beach blanket. Both utilitarian items. How could I not need those?

The sound of Cindy splashing in the bathtub.

Aiden’s laughter.

I imagine myself wearing the caftan, walking on the beach. A sophisticated, modern version of something a mermaid might wear when she grows human legs and walks alongside the ocean. The beauty of her emerging, shimmering in the moonlight, ready to meet her prince. I think of how Aiden would look at me—sparkling, fresh, new—how he might take me in his arms and….

“You coming up?” he calls from upstairs. “Cindy’s missing you at bath time!”

“I’ll be right there!”

I click “Add to Cart,” check a few boxes, acknowledge a few disclaimers. The option for a one-time purchase or a monthly subscription pops up. If you get the monthly subscription now and commit for a period of six months, you get an additional ten percent off each box. I pause. That’s a really good deal on top of the offer code I’ve already entered. The cost is now so low, a subscription wouldn’t be much of a commitment at all.

Why not? I can always cancel later.

I click “Purchase.”

Then I put my phone in my pocket, head up the stairs.

“Now, what did I miss?”

#

The next day, drizzling rain. I park the car outside Cindy’s school, wait to pick her up. About five minutes until the kids are supposed to come out the front doors. Time enough to check my feeds, get caught up.

A new email.

Subject line: Congratulations on being your best self!

Message: We here at the Best Self Box family want to thank you for your recent subscription. Your first box will arrive shortly. We hope you’ll join our family of online unboxers by live streaming your own unboxing experience and telling the world what you think about each item. Every video with over 3,000 viewers earns a free Best Self Box for Kids delivered the very next day!

A knock on the car window.

I look up. Cindy stands outside.

“Let me in, it’s raining!”

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t see you.” I unlock the door and she jumps in, shivering.

“Here, let me get the heater on. How was your day?”

“I got to draw Veronica!” she says.

“Who?” The name Veronica conjures images of the cartoon character—long, dark hair, shapely hips. I imagine a womanly silhouette beneath the silver caftan, parading across a tropical beach. Then it hits me. “Oh, the flying pony. The one from your book.”

“Fly, fly, fly!” she says.

“That’s right. So, you had art time today?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Yancy was out sick, and our substitute teacher said we could have the whole day free to do what we wanted. I colored for a bit, but then played on the computer, mostly.” Cindy pulls a drawing out of her backpack, holds up a crayon picture of a pony with wings.

“It’s beautiful, so much detail,” I say. “You’re really very talented.”

Cindy smiles proudly.

“You want to read the book again tonight?” I say.

She nods. “Or maybe you could let me just play games on your phone.”

“Maybe I will, honey. Maybe.”  

We pull into the driveway just in time to see a drone depositing a package outside the front door, placing it under the overhang where it’s protected from the drizzle. The drone flies away, nearly silent. Cindy and I rush out of the car, moving quickly to escape the rain, which has started pelting down faster, harder.

Perched on the mat by the door, the simple brown box waits.

Return address: Best Self Boxes.

My heart races.

“Can you grab that, honey?” I fuss with the keys.

“What’s in it?”

“Just some clothes and stuff for the house. Some stuff Mommy needed.”

Once we’re inside and Cindy is settled in front of the TV with a snack, I take the box upstairs. Should I really consider live streaming my unboxing? I blush at the thought. I’ve never been comfortable with that sort of thing, but the free box for Cindy would be really nice to have. She’d be so excited. I can see her now, holding it in her small hands, asking, Mom, what’s inside?  

“Mommy!” she yells from downstairs, like something’s wrong.

I shove the box into the closet. As much as I’d like to open it now, I want to have time alone to really enjoy the process. I’ll do it tomorrow, when she’s at school. When no one is home. I pocket my phone and rush down the stairs, find Cindy sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, gripping her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“I fell.” She sobs, finally moves her hands from her face as if to reveal a red bump rising, but there’s nothing.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. How did that happen?”

“I saw the drone out the window, watching me. I got scared and when I tried to move, I fell.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” I say, “Come here. Let me get some ice.”

I cradle her in my arms on the sofa, an ice pack pressed gently to her forehead.

She continues to whimper softly, holding the ice, eyes glazed while she watches cartoons.

I pull out my phone and scroll through my feeds. A few pictures of friends. A few event invitations. Some seem vaguely interesting. Then the blonde woman again, another unboxing. This time she’s opening a Best Self Box for Kids.

Cindy sits up, removes the ice pack.

“Don’t you still need that?” I say.

She shakes her head, leans against me and watches the screen on my phone, stares at the blonde woman opening a remarkable number of colorful things.

“Best Self Box for Kids!” she says. “My friend Holly just got one of those.”

“Did she like it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe we can get you one some time.”

“When? When can we get it?”

“I might be able to get you one for free.”

“When will you know?”

“Tomorrow, I think.” I’ll just have to wait and see if I can get enough views on my live feed. What did the email say, that I need three-thousand? That sounds like a lot, but you never know. Might be worth a try.

#

The next morning, when Aiden is at work and Cindy is at school, I head upstairs to a bright, sunny area of our bedroom where we have a small table and chairs near the window. I’ve taken extra care with my hair and makeup today. Gotten the lighting just right. Now I set my phone up on the table, screen facing me. I enter the appropriate hashtags to attract attention. Press record.

Then I wait for the first viewer to join. Someone does.

“Hi, everyone. I don’t normally do this sort of thing but thought it would be fun to film an unboxing video for this month’s Best Self Box. I’ll show you all the goodies inside. Hold each item up and you can see what you think. So here it goes.” I feel awkward talking to the camera, but a few more people join my live feed, which is encouraging. A couple of friends. People I know. Two or three. Then five. Six. People I don’t know. Maybe they’re just curious about the contents.

I hold up the brown shipping box.

“This is what I received yesterday on my front porch. The shipping was timely. By drone. Arrived less than twenty-four hours after ordering.” I open the cardboard flaps and reach beneath a layer of Styrofoam peanuts, pull out a pale pink box. “And here’s the actual box. Looks lovely.” I turn the lid to face the camera, so everyone can see the Best Self Box inscription.

Ten people watching now. Twelve. Fifteen.

“I’ll just carefully peel back this gold seal and… here we go.” I slowly open the lid and stare down at the wrapped parcel sitting on top before addressing the camera again. “Look how beautifully it’s all packaged. Now, the tissue on the first item is a deep, dark purple, different from the tissue shown in the unboxing video I previously watched. And I have to say, I like that there is variety. You know what you’re getting, but not exactly. There are still some surprises. I’m going to open this now.” I lift the parcel, hold it up so it’s visible to the camera. Peeling back the gold seal, I see shiny material peeking through and let out a gasp.

“It’s the silver caftan!” I pull this month’s star item out first, thrilled to watch the gossamer fabric unfurl. “The material is even more beautiful than I expected! I couldn’t really see the detail of the subtle moon pattern online, but it’s absolutely stunning in person. The same as what’s advertised, but also different and better somehow. I can’t wait to wear this! I’ve already been imagining myself wearing it on the beach with my husband.” I stand up, put the caftan on over my clothes, spin around and around in front of the camera, feeling the swish of the gauzy material wrapping me. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Three hundred people watching.

With the caftan still on, I sit back down and remove the next layer of tissue paper.

The tissue is red. A deep, saturated hue.

“Would you look at that….” My voice trails off.

It’s not red tissue, it’s white tissue that is stained red.

“Crimson,” I whisper.

Not neatly wrapped like the first package, but wadded and wet, covered with a viscous layer of ooze.

“What is going on here?”

I glance up at the camera.

“I’m not sure what….”

The tissue moves.

But that’s not possible. I’ve just jostled the table, caused the movement. I must just be seeing the tall, slender form of the aluminum water bottle, the one with the silicone sheath, moving in the box, turning on its end.

I look to the camera.

Nine hundred viewers.

One thousand.

I might get to three thousand, get that free box for Cindy. I’ve got to keep going.

Movement again. Rustling noises. I look down. The tissue undulates. Changes shape. A ghost under a sheet rising up.

Tissue falls away.

Then a tubular, intestinal arm emerges from the box, waving side to side like a feeler absorbing the scent of the room. I stare at it a moment, trying to interpret what I’m seeing. The appendage is long, slim, and pink, similar to the body of an earthworm, but much, much thicker. The texture of its skin appears wet and sticky. It keeps waving, side to side, before it points at me. The member snakes toward my body, making a horrible wet slithering noise, extending several feet from the box. The arm reaching. Fast-moving. Coming. No time to move away. The slick feel of it on my skin, my clavicle, coiling around my neck. It wraps me, squeezing.

I wheeze.

The arm tightens.

More rustling sounds, coming from the box.

Three, four, five more twisting arms wriggle loose from the tissue, moving octopus-like toward me. The awful, oozing feel of them noodling around my wrists, ankles, chest, shackling me to the chair.

All of this in a matter of seconds.

No.

I try to scream.

Can’t make a sound.

The arm squeezes tighter about my neck.

The contents of the box continue to move. At the center of it all, the head of the creature rises. Belching sickly hollow groans, it shakes loose the rest of the tissue and sends leather coasters, a mercury glass candle holder, a tube of mascara, a water bottle, a beach blanket, a cactus pendant all falling to the floor, crashing, clattering, scattering. My phone topples and falls as well, landing somewhere down there.

No more viewers.

The red face. Larger than mine. Skin painted crimson. Slick and dripping, its secretion splatters the inside of the box. It stares at me with bulbous, bloodshot eyes, opens its mouth wide. Big buck teeth, long and pointed at the tips, rush toward my face.

I try to move away, but its tubular arms hold me in place.

It sinks its teeth deep in to my right cheek, joining us together. Then ripping us apart, breaking loose a big chunk of flesh. Its arm around my neck relaxes slightly. Finding breath in my lungs, I scream. The loudest, most horrible sound I’ve ever made. The struggle knocks the chair out from under me.

Now I’m on my back, caftan spread around me like silver wings. Its slick, warm arms wrestle me against the chair, against the floor. Hovering over me, the face chews my cheek-flesh, swallows, belches loudly, blowing rotted breath at me. It dives back in for another bite, ripping away more, this time from the side of my neck, where my skin breaks so easily.

Blood. Flowing. Fast. Warm. Wet. Leaking out around me. And the pain. The eruption of it coursing through me, pulsing, stabbing, repeating.

Scream again, I tell myself. Scream.

I can’t make a sound. The attempt leaves me wheezing, choking on blood. More of it leaking. I attempt to move my limbs. Twitch. Writhe.

So, so much pain.

The thing stays at the open wound on my neck where it suckles and drinks.

I turn my head away.

My eyes rest on my phone, fallen to the ground, propped at an angle, still recording. I’m oriented toward it now.

Two thousand viewers watching my torn-apart face. My own reflection: demented, bloodied. No. Please, no. Red pouring out of me and onto the caftan, spilling across silver, soiling the pattern of moons.

The creature’s face digs into my torso next, working quickly to open me up, using its snapping jaw to sort through my insides, pull out organs, coils of intestines, chunks of meat, one at a time, displaying each part next to me, lining them up like items on a bathroom counter. Adjusting them as if they were small shampoo bottles, positioned in a row. I can see its progress on the screen, though my vision is fading.

Over three thousand viewers now tuned into the live feed.

A banner across the video, a message to me: Congratulations! You’ve earned enough points for a free Best Self Box for Kids! It will be shipped to you shortly.

The pain is everything and everywhere. Black spots. Darkness edging my vision.

One of my arms comes loose from the bindings. With all the energy I have left, I reach toward the phone. Shaky fingers. I’ve got to call someone, anyone. Someone has to help me.

I slide my finger across the screen.

Slide. Repeat. Slide. Repeat.

Cindy’s voice, somewhere far off, tells me to fly, fly, fly away. And my hand falls still. My eyes close. The weight of the creature leaves.

---

Kathryn E. McGee's horror stories have appeared in Automata Review and Gamut Magazine, and anthologies including Horror Library Vol. 6, Winter Horror Days, and Cemetery Riots. She moderates a monthly horror book club at The Last Bookstore in Los Angeles and is a member of the Horror Writers Association. Her other work includes co-authoring DTLA37: Downtown Los Angeles in Thirty-seven Stories, a non-fiction coffee table book about Downtown Los Angeles. She has an MFA in creative writing from UC Riverside Palm Desert.

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