The Midnight Delivery

Tariq worked the night shift at the courier office, delivering parcels to sleepy neighborhoods while the city slumbered. The office was quiet, filled only with the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional beeping of scanners. He enjoyed the solitude; the rhythm of driving through empty streets allowed him to think, plan, and forget the noise of his day-to-day life. That night, he had finished the usual deliveries when a supervisor handed him one last package. It was small, wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address, and simply labeled: “Do Not Open Until Midnight.” Tariq frowned. The office clock read 11:45 PM, and curiosity stirred in him. He had been trained not to tamper with parcels, but the label felt strangely personal, almost like a warning.

Driving through the rain-slicked streets, he thought about ignoring it, but something about the package pressed on his mind. The city was nearly empty, streetlights reflecting off puddles as his tires cut through the wet asphalt. He parked near his apartment building, glancing at the package once more. Its weight was slightly heavier than expected, and the paper crinkled oddly under his fingers. He carried it upstairs and set it on the kitchen table, watching it as the minutes ticked closer to midnight. The apartment was quiet, the hum of the refrigerator the only other sound. Tariq tried to shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over him, but the label’s warning echoed in his thoughts.

At exactly midnight, he hesitated before opening it. Slowly, he peeled the paper back, revealing a small, intricately carved wooden box. The craftsmanship was beautiful, delicate, yet unnerving. He lifted the lid, expecting a harmless trinket or perhaps a note explaining the unusual timing. Instead, he found a single black feather resting on a velvet cushion. The moment his fingers brushed it, a cold gust swept through the apartment, despite all windows being closed. The lights flickered, and the air felt heavy, like a storm trapped indoors. Tariq’s heart pounded. The feather seemed almost to pulse under his touch, and an inexplicable whisper brushed against his ear, soft and distant: “Do you see me?”

He spun around. The room was empty, perfectly ordinary. The shadows in the corners shifted slightly, though he told himself it was just the flickering lights. Still, an instinctive chill ran down his spine. He set the box down, trying to calm his racing thoughts, but the whisper came again, closer this time, almost forming words. “You opened it…” The voice was layered, distorted, and not fully human. Tariq’s pulse accelerated as he realized he was no longer entirely alone.

Suddenly, the lights went out completely. Darkness swallowed the apartment, thick and tangible. The feather lifted slightly from the box, hovering midair as if drawn by an invisible hand. The whispering became a chorus of voices, surrounding him from every angle, repeating his name. Tariq backed away, stumbling into the wall, heart hammering in his chest. His instincts screamed to flee, but he felt rooted, held in place by the strange energy radiating from the box.

When the lights returned moments later, the feather lay motionless inside the box. The apartment was silent once more. Tariq’s hands shook, and sweat coated his forehead. He closed the lid firmly, pressing it into the table as if doing so could seal away the presence he had felt. He knew he would never leave it open again, never doubt the warning on the package. Some things, he realized, were not meant to be touched, and some packages carried more than just objects—they carried consequences that could linger long after midnight had passed.