By Hazel Zorn
He contemplated his so-called problem: his compulsive online shopping. What he loved was the manufactured mystery of it, the pristine joy of opening the door and wondering what delights each parcel would bring him. He imagined that the drivers were messengers sent to him from far-off lands acknowledging his kingship. He never remembered everything he ordered, after all, and he loved that too. They were gifts that way, gifts he was guaranteed to love.
This gift arrived at 3am, however. He was in bed, an old man who lived alone, startled awake by the false sunrise of headlights. He arose further into wakefulness, body tingling in the dark. More unusual than unsettling, he decided, after wondering at the driver’s schedule. He was excited. What else could a man of means, retired such as he was, reasonably look forward to if not this? It was only his daughter who questioned his habit.
His morning ritual began: the coffee brewed, the scissors were located, the box placed on the counter. A toaster? A microwave? He was ready to admire the delights within.
Instead, a stench greeted him when he parted the cardboard flaps. Perfume gone bad, like rotted fruit. Within folds of bloodied butcher paper sat a human ear. Then an eye opened. It’s too late for Halloween products, he thought, his gas heater working against the December weather. There was a flash of teeth. It was smiling. A severed head was smiling at him.
He felt a burning pain—after sudden pressure on the meatier part of his hand where the thumb met the rest of his palm.
Damn thing bit me!
Jumping backwards on his heels he collided with the sliding glass door to his balcony, fingers spidering at the handle. The chill outside tightened his skin. He saw the leafless Japanese maple hanging over him, his covered grill. Reality was still intact. The laws of the world still operated. But his muscles remained tense as he stood immobile.
He looked at his hand. The wound didn’t weep blood, but instead a smile rose on his skin, a large bug bite. He stood perfectly still in the dark cold and did not approach the door to his kitchen. He did not know what to do. He saw the box on the counter, tipped sideways, empty. The packing paper was strewn over the tile.
Ridiculous, to feel that the kitchen wasn’t familiar anymore. A man’s home was sacred, right? His eyes narrowed with frustration, his body reacting to an unseen pressure on the threshold. This is my house, he reassured himself.
He entered his kitchen, shivering, his hand throbbing. After he clicked on the lights, he received a message. Words were not spoken aloud to him. They unrolled within his brain, discordant at first, off-tune with the rest of his thoughts. You may come in. You may not mention me to another soul.
* * *
After a few minutes, he took out his phone. Sipped his coffee.
* * *
After a few hours, he broke down the box, cleaned up. I should get a refund, he decided, before realizing he didn’t know how to get one. No return label, no company logo. He thumbed his screen, swiping and tapping, demanding that the smartphone accommodate his internal desires. Someone would hear about this. The credit card company, his email, the delivery service—whoever was responsible.
And then, an unexpected text.
>Are you satisfied?
Odd, to feel caressed and enveloped by mere words. He let out a mollified grunt. No name, no identifying information. A string of numbers. Spam? He glanced at the box, and somehow knew it wasn’t. His hands deadened with cold. The screen turned black. Confusing him, a little green circle bounced up and down. The message was gone. “Hello?” He finally tapped the speaker.
His daughter’s voice, tinny and bit chopped, implored him: “Dad? Can you hear me now? What’s wrong?”
* * *
His daughter promised to visit soon, and he nearly forgot the whole thing until the next day. A second box arrived in the form of two long tube packages taped together.
It was one of many, and he made no note of it at first. He busied himself with unwrapping a Mystery Toy Box and a leopard-print bathrobe from a bodywash company. His phone pinged, like a beloved child asking for his attention. Barely a second passed before the sound compelled him to view deals and exclusive offers. A form auto-filled with his address and credit card information. Thank you emails poured in. Satisfied that his inbox was in order, he alternated between sips of coffee and ripping tape.
He could not have said how long it took to open the box, or what made him realize that he should not be opening it— time skipped, he blinked as if shaken from a daydream.
He looked down into the dark tube and saw fingernails. Pale fingers opened like a lotus flower. He threw the half-opened package onto the balcony and closed the door, his stomach writhing.
* * *
His daughter, Cassandra, turned to him in his entranceway with a sigh. He could see the fatigue in her face, new lines that made her look older. She didn’t do herself up anymore, not since having a baby. What kind of person didn’t polish their appearance before going out? What would people think? He felt a sudden and unexpected rush of annoyance and disappointment at the sight of her. “Dad, Tommy and I walked over. We can’t carry all this back to the apartment.”
At her feet, a line of boxes issued from the coat closet. An individual egg poacher, three spice mills, a popcorn machine, an alcohol marker set. His three-year-old grandson clamored over the shiny boxes and sat on one, his cherubic face pleased by his feat. He bent over with an approving smile for the boy. “You like that one, Tommy?” Then, eyes sideways: “Tell your mom to take it home. I got it for her, after all.”
His daughter didn’t say anything. She picked Tommy up and wove a path around several boxes on her way to the kitchen. There, she opened her laptop. Her flurry of confusing questions irritated him: What’s your password? (As if he knew.) Do you know what browser you use? (I just need my phone!) Can you log in to your bank?
He produced a paper copy of his credit card statement from a pile of mail. They huddled over it on the counter. This was the one connected to his phone, he explained to her expressionless face, a face that tightened with obvious concern as she scanned the long list of purchases. She refrained from talking about his problem, produced a marker, and asked him to mark off which orders he’d received. It was a tedious endeavor, he realized. Charges from companies like GOOBERNATION and YAMAJI TOY YUM weren’t recognizable, removed from their context.
Cassandra took his phone and searched his email; he snatched it back. “You can cross-reference your charges with any confirmation emails,” she explained. Instead of admitting that this was a good idea, he nodded gruffly and slipped his phone into his back pocket. “I’m trying to help, Dad.” Then, she asked him, “What happened to your hand? Why is it wrapped up?”
“Broke a dish” he snipped. His voice went up a register. “There was no return label, and I know I didn’t buy that thing by mistake.”
“What was it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She looked a little surprised, but then shrugged. “Someone sent you a gift?”
“Without a note?”
“Alright, maybe someone stole your credit card number. That can happen when you shop online too much.”
He rolled up his credit card statement, forcing her to sit up straight at the counter. He did not look at her and mumbled that he’d review the list later. The matter was closed. But the idea of theft itched in the back of his mind, and he acknowledged that it would be prudent to ask his credit card company to re-issue his card, just in case.
His daughter bundled up, silent in her tasks. He shoved a few items into her stroller’s under seat basket before she buckled in Tommy. A granite mortar and pestle set, and an action figure. Her face pinched, her mouth opened— he could not hear her.
He stood transfixed in front of the open door, snow flurries dancing into the house, his heart galloping. He felt the blood retreat from his face. Dad? Dad are you sick? In the tiny mirror above the coat rack, he saw the door to the balcony in his kitchen slide open. Just an arms-width, silent.
With eyes closed, he swallowed and felt his skin thaw. He promised his daughter—her voice from the bottom of a well—that he’d get a drink of orange juice and sit down. He rejected the need for a doctor (it’s just blood sugar, I’m fine) and finally she relented. The incident concerned her so much that she didn’t complain about the stuff he’d given her, and before leaving she promised to call him later.
After a few hours of pretending that everything was normal, that his house is his own—he felt a sense of uneasy excitement. He was a little boy ready to glide down a dangerous hill on his bike.
* * *
His daughter—the culmination of his life’s efforts— was condescending and ungrateful. (How is the mortar set? He texted hours ago, without reply.) Why didn’t she care about the gifts he bought for her? True, he didn’t always think of her deliberately when shopping, but didn’t she appreciate the overture? He scratched angrily at his palm where old scabs opened and oozed.
The answer, he knew, was no. She thought she knew how to live better than he did. What did she even get out of life? There were no mystery packages at her apartment door, after all.
* * *
He woke up from fitful sleep at 3am. Instinctually, he reached for his phone. Checked the weather. The news. Reasonable things before his mind led him to what he really wanted to do. He opened an ad for scented pillows (Professionals agree: lavender helps with sleep!). He chuckled. Why not? The phone knew him so well. Your order will arrive in two days guaranteed. He sighed and let the phone drop into a groove between the sheets. He imagined those pillows before forgetting about them, eyes unfocused.
Sorrow and misery and compromise made up every life, and from the midst of his own he’d never had the desire to create. That seemed subservient, and to beget no reward. He’d been a slave to his daughter, hadn’t he? A child required so, so much, and then they grew up and had no memory of it. After her, he saw no point in making anything else. To receive, however. To get. That was meaningful. What eye-wetting bliss it was to hold a thing and call it mine.
He looked at his phone.
His heart throbbed with sudden guilt.
Donning his bathrobe he walked into the kitchen. He opened the sliding door to the balcony and brought in the packages he’d so carelessly tossed away. What kind of man refused a gift? Not him. Not anymore. He stared at them, evidence of cold weather on the cardboard. The snow on them melted and puddled on the tile floor. They were empty, of course. He hoped he hadn’t ruined everything. He ran his hand along the corner of one package, as if soothing a dog. I’m sorry, he thought. I’m sorry.
A father deserved to be comforted and gratified by a daughter. No matter what, he convinced himself. He sat down on the floor and tipped his head back, eyes closed. The smell of sodden cardboard was in his nostrils. No matter what.
* * *
The next night, his eyes flew open at 3 am. Every nerve in his body was on fire with anticipation. He felt more alive than ever. With slow determination, shivering, he opened his front door and inhaled the icy winter air as if it was a purification ritual. The delivery driver was gone. The box was on the stoop. Mysterious, in the dark. A mystery—no. A treasure.
He tried to contemplate how such a delight could exist in the world. His face took on a look of intense vulnerability, lips stretched wide with anticipation of pleasure.
Sometime after dragging the box into the house, he came to. His legs were numb. He stretched, as he found himself sitting on the hardwood in the hall, his back to the wall. I think I’m injured. The slight prickle in his hand recalled summers of bug bites, the kind of wounds wrought by slithering predators seeking to envenom a victim. A blood-guzzler was even more apt, a leech or mosquito. Everything consumed and was then consumed, a cycle of creatures taking their turn to bite.
It was still dark. He could smell dead flowers. A pale, skeletal body lie face-up on the floor, blocking the way to the spare bedroom. Its arms were folded over its chest. The torso ended in a protruding bit of bone with one rib sticking off.
He blinked: it was further down the hall, moving away from him. He blinked again, and its head was inside the spare room. It did not wriggle or scoot. More of a silent glide, above the ground, a skate-board in stop-motion.
His phone buzzed in his bathrobe pocket. He’d been sitting in the hall for an hour, now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about himself. He even considered calling someone, maybe his daughter, a notion dispelled by the bright screen. More, he agreed, responding internally to a compulsion plucked from his brain by the algorithm in the palm of his hand. I need more.
The door to the spare room shut. His phone pinged with order confirmations. He would sleep there, just a little longer.
* * *
He woke up on the floor, his daughter’s cold hand was on his forehead. Afternoon light illuminated his drawn, beige curtains. Are you sick? She pulled him up by the arm and led him to the bedroom. He felt hot, feverish. He waved his hand weakly at her. Sometime in the day she got him to take painkillers.
* * *
That evening he rested in his living room. He was tempted to contemplate his life’s efforts again, months and years that stretched long behind him, regrets and sorrows rising to the surface. But then, a message popped up.
>are you satisfied?
A pause. And then, again:
>it is very important that you are satisfied.
He felt himself grow hard. The sudden sexual awakening was a welcome surprise. His pupils dilated. He spread his knees open, sank back into his armchair. His hand slipped easily under the elastic waistband of his pajamas. He stared at the message again. He wanted to be careful, to reply in a way that expressed his feelings. Instead, only one-handed, he sent:
>oh ya. Five stard
He went limp. An email notification for erection pills slid onto the screen. He swiped it away, face molten.
The windows dimmed. The air cooled. He looked through the doorway to the kitchen. The thing appeared from behind the countertop. He remembered stepping on a rake as boy. The pole-handle snapped erect into his face; this was similar but soundless.
It glided toward him, pale as an egg, its skeletal rictus-smile crowning a fully assembled body.
>do you mean it?
>please be satisfied.
His mind filled with a numb, unthinking buzz. The bright eyes that met his were set deeply in their sockets, dimly lit coins at the bottom of well. And just as alluring.
* * *
His daughter was crying. He lost the sound after a while, wondered if he’d dreamed it. Hours later—still in his armchair, the smell of his sweat rank in his nose—he heard her again. The rustle of a trash bag, the sound of things being moved. Don’t throw away my stuff! He managed to croak. He didn’t know if she listened.
He recalled his grandfather’s last days. The old man lived in the family guest room, sitting in a plush armchair much like his own, surrounded by piles of books. Is this it? He’d asked his seven-year-old grandson. My life, reduced to these piles?
His muscles ached. He had a fever.
* * *
He breathed heavily, moaned when his flesh was touched. It gave way to hysterical howl of pleasure when the teeth sunk into his neck. They were intense needles that laced his blood with fire. His flesh burned, his limbs convulsed in seizures for two minutes before his body stiffened with cold, arms open wide in a kind of rigor mortis. He was filled to the brim, so full that he couldn’t imagine anything else as good.
He could only stammer:
Oh yes, oh yes I’m satisfied.
I want. I want more.
I want more.
* * *
He found his daughter draped over the back of the couch. A lamp was broken. Her chin was pushed against her chest, purple tongue out the side. Her unseeing eyes looked shocked, her body drained of blood.
In the bathroom, his grandson. The flush of life absent from his skin, his body wrapped in the clear shower curtain.
* * *
He wandered the rooms of his house, neither dead nor alive. He couldn’t feel any physical sensations. Not even the carpet under his feet. He was an empty jar longing to be filled. A pale carapace in human form, a hollow shell. An appetite with no outlet, a large and gaping mouth.
In his bedroom, the phone on the bedside table offered nothing. A black screen. It had been dead for a day. More. Is there anything more? In answer, he caught sight of the hacksaw on the bed, the glint of light on the teeth. His bright-eyed gift danced soundlessly across the walls, spider-quick, healthy and hale. Its white belly was engorged like a tick.
It lowered him gently to the ground.
The carpet was covered in plastic. Ah, yes. Perfect.
After a while, he thought, There’s no sound. Not the winter wind outside nor the hum of his gas heater.
There was only the sawing apart of his yearning and ravenous flesh.
* * *
Hazel Zorn works as an artist in the Northeastern United States. Visit hazelzorn.com for her fiction bibliography.
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