creeeepy stoooory.....

here's the beginning of a story!
it's creepy!

and...unnerving...stuff like that

anyway, happy reading!

43 Lyndon Street

Timothy Anderson hurried out the door on a sunny Thursday morning. Thursday’s were his favorite, because he didn’t work on Friday’s. Timothy loaded the truck with the packages for the day and, grabbing a printout of his route for the day, hopped in his truck and started off.

Timothy worked for a package delivery company, a well paying job. And it helped that he knew this city like the back and front of his hand by the time he was 10. He was hired immediately after his trial day, since he returned from delivering an entire truckload in only 4 hours. His ever-present smile and cheery attitude lit up the buildings he delivered to, despite the fact that he was in and out like a flash.

This day was like no others. Drive, stop, deliver, and drive some more. It was an average sort of day, the sort that made Timothy want to yawn. Nothing of interest happened on his route.

At least, not until he went to 43 Lyndon Street, to deliver the last package for the day.

The building looked like any other building. Brick building, with wooden window and door frames. Kind of old, but it still stood, and looked pretty sturdy, after all.

Timothy walked to the door. The sign on the door said “Please enter, Receptionists desk just inside.” So he did just that.

But there was no receptionist behind the desk. Looking at his watch, he noted that the lunch hour was upon him. A perfect explanation for the lack of people. He thought to himself, “What kind of business leaves the building unlocked and everything?” Out loud, to himself, for lack of anyone else to talk to, he muttered, “Ah, but it’s not my place to question. I’m just the delivery boy.”

I’ve never delivered here before, have I? he thought, walking about and calling, hoping at least someone was still there. No, not here. But I’ve been here. He knew it, deep down, but he could not recall exactly. No matter, he need only deliver his package and be on his way.

But no one answered his calls. He noticed that no sound permeated the old building. He turned down one of the hallways past the foyer, still calling out.

A sound, that he hadn’t noticed earlier, but that must have been going this entire time, caught his ear. Naturally, he turned toward the sound. “Hello? Is anyone here? Package!” The sound escaped from a white doorway at the end of the hall. Timothy murmurs, “Is that a copier?” His hand reached out, gripping the cold metal handle, and turning.

“Hello?” The copier machine overpowered his voice. But it wouldn’t have mattered, for no one was inside the room. That is, unless they were hiding under the papers strewn all over the floor.

“Is anyone here? Looks like your copier’s on the fritz!” Still, no response came to his ears. The copier continued spitting papers, in a frantic manner. The papers he could see were alternating black and white, face up and face down. What in the world were they copying?

Pushing through the papers, he walked to the copier, noticing as he did so that something thick is in it, like a big book. Also, something dark oozed from the top of it. Oil, perhaps?

A shredder beside the copier was also running, though it was quiet, overpowered by the sound of the copier. The same type of dark something spattered the top of the shredder. But this time, he could see, and smell, what it was.

Blood.

He stood, stunned at the sight, for several minutes, before daring to reach to the copier and open the top. The sight before him made him feel sick.

An arm, soaked in blood, and ragged on the shoulder end, was set on the copying screen. The image being copied was that of the massive pool of blood oozing from the severed appendage.

His stomach heaved, and he vomited on the paper spitting from the machine. Wiping his mouth, his shaky hand reached to the shredder lid. He was afraid of what he would find, and afraid that if he didn’t look now, it would haunt him forever.

The lid came off with ease, dripping warm blood. Taking a deep breath and swallowing, he tilted the edge of the container towards him.

The sound of sloshing liquid came to his ears, and the sight of a shredded person came to his eyes. A horrified scream tore from his lips, and he stumbled back, unconsciously. The container unbalanced, tilting towards him, and toppled, spilling blood all over the copies of a severed arm and pool of blood. Another scream, and he collapsed, in a dead faint.

The last thought his mind imagined, before fainting, was this: This is the last time I come here.