Page 42 of Torn By Fate

On the carpet directly in front of my door, there was a rectangular package. Plain brown paper, no markings, no label, roughly the size of a shoebox.

A package for me.

A package I didn’t order.

I scanned both ends of the corridor again but found it as empty as it had been when I peeked through the peephole. Whoever had delivered this package was already gone.

I picked it up. The weight was slightly heavier than I had expected, and whatever was inside shifted with a dull thud when I tilted the box. It didn’t sound fragile or delicate. It was dense and thick.

Hmm.

I stepped back inside and closed the door, locking the deadbolt with a quiet click. I left the box on the desk and walked back to the nightstand to set down my gun, , safe but always within reach.

I folded my arms over my chest and looked back at the carefully wrapped box, curiosity burning through my veins. I wasn’t sure if I should open it or not. It could be dangerous, or…

Well, damn it. I was too curious for my own good.

Before I could question my choices, I strode back to the desk, picked up the package, and tore the brown paper away. It was a plain cardboard box. There was no tape, and the flaps were simply folded shut, easy to open.

Maybe I should have been smarter.

Unfortunately, my choices lately have been questionable.

Because I opened the box.

The smell hit me first, copper and vaguely chemical, as if it was trying to mask the rot.

And then I saw it.

A hand.

A severed hand.

Real and human.

Oh God—

I blinked in utter shock, my heart leaping to my throat, and I tasted the bitter bile of nausea on my tongue.

It was severed cleanly at the wrist, the stump still bloodied, the fingers curled slightly inward as though still reaching for something it would never grasp again.

The skin was waxy, the nails trimmed and clean. A man’s hand. Large. The pinky finger bore a silver ring I somewhat recognized but couldn’t exactly place where I remembered it from.

The hand looked fresh. Hours old, perhaps. The flesh hadn’t even begun to discolor yet.

Oh my God.

Horror coursed through my body as realization finally dawned on me.

I dropped the box. It hit the carpet with a muffled thump, and the hand slid free, landing on the rug, fingers splayed open in grotesque invitation.

A thin smear of dark blood trailed from the severed wrist.

My stomach churned violently, and I swallowed back the urge to retch.

It wasn’t from the evidence of this perceived violence… I had seen worse, after all. But from the intentionality of it.

This wasn’t an accident or collateral damage.