The Last Delivery (short story)

Title: The Last Delivery

The sun hung low as Rachel tightened her grip on the cool steering wheel of her beat-up delivery van. The urban sprawl of Southbridge had turned desolate in the late hours, the faint flicker of streetlights casting long shadows that danced in and out of view. She glanced at the GPS; her final stop promised a generous tip, but something felt off.

With heavy traffic gone, the roads were almost eerily quiet. She approached the address—a small, dilapidated house squatting at the end of a long driveway overgrown with weeds. The brick exterior was fading, akin to a forgotten memory, and the steps creaked as she made her way toward the door.

Rachel's heart raced as she raised her hand to knock, feeling a strange pull from the silence inside. No lights, no sounds—the air was thick with a tension she couldn't quite place. Just as she was about to turn back, she steeled herself. A job was a job, after all. She rapped lightly on the door.

Silence.

She knocked again, louder this time, feeling a chill creep down her spine. It wasn’t until she was about to walk away that the door opened, creaking on its hinges. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway—a man, pale and gaunt with hollow eyes.

“Delivery?” he asked, his voice a rasp that echoed in the stillness.

“Uh, yeah. From Morrison’s Grocery,” Rachel replied, forcing a smile as she held up the brown paper bag. She tried to suppress the urge to step back, but the man didn’t seem threatening; just oddly out of place, like a ghost lingering in a faded photograph.

“Come in,” he said, movement almost robotic.

Rachel hesitated. “I can just leave it here—”

“Please. I need to check the order.” He stepped aside, revealing a dimly lit living room cluttered with what looked like old newspapers and stacks of dusty books.

Against her better judgment, Rachel stepped inside. Instantly, a musty odor enveloped her, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The man closed the door behind her, and her heart thudded louder.

“Uh, is anyone else here?” she asked, glancing around. There was no sign of life, no television or music to break the thick air of isolation.

“No one,” he said, and she noticed a twitch in the corner of his mouth. “Just… me.”

She could hear her own heartbeat, a deafening drum that seemed to echo in the emptiness. “I just need a signature,” she muttered, forcing herself to stay calm. She fished out her tablet, but he didn’t move to help.

“Sign here,” she said, placing the device on the nearest table, trying to focus on the task. But as he leaned over, she caught a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye—a dark doorway down a narrow hallway.

“Do you… live here alone?” she asked suddenly, trying to keep her voice steady.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at the bag in her hands, seemingly focused on it, his eyes darting back and forth, almost feverish. The awkward silence stretched out, painful and heavy.

Rachel felt a wave of unease wash over her. “Look, I really should go—”

“Just wait,” he interrupted, stepping closer than she was comfortable with.

That’s when she heard it—a faint noise, barely discernible. A whimper? No, a muffled voice. Her skin prickled as she glanced toward the hallway, realization sinking in. “What’s down there?”

He didn’t answer, his expression faltering. That commotion grew louder, more frantic, and adrenaline kicked in.

“Let me out,” Rachel demanded, suddenly feeling trapped in a nightmare. She tried to back away, but he moved forward and blocked her path.

“Please, you can’t leave…” he said, his voice almost pleading. “I wasn’t supposed to let anyone in.”

Panic surged. Rachel grabbed her tablet off the table, ready to find a way out, her instincts screaming at her to run. “Get away from me!” she shouted, pushing past him and racing toward the door.

As she fumbled with the doorknob, frantic hands on either side, she felt him reach for her. “Please, don't—”

With a violent shove, she burst out into the cold night air, breathless and terrified. She jumped into the van, fumbling the keys but managing to start the engine. As she sped down the overgrown driveway, she dared a glance in the rearview mirror.

The man stood on the porch, a shadow against the fading light, arms hanging limply at his sides. And in that moment, she felt something shift—the weight of dread hanging thick in the air. Someone was downstairs.

But maybe the worst part hadn’t struck yet—the nagging thought that lingered at the back of her mind: what if he hadn’t been the only one in that house?

As Rachel drove away, the echoes of the unspoken questions chased her into the night.