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The driver is gone before I can confirm who the package is from.

Usually, as soon as the shops either side of me close and the alley grows quiet, I lock the door. Since Steven disappeared, especially, it has felt prudent to make sure no one can just walk in when my back’s turned.

But tonight, because of the box, I forget.

I leave it unlocked, and the sign turned to open, then put the box on the counter and find a knife to slice through the tape on top.

Moving aside the packing, my fingers meet something smooth and hard. I peer inside. A glimpse of dark, coffee-colored wood makes me reach in with both hands.

Using my elbows to knock the cardboard box to the floor, I pull out a smaller wooden one. Glossy wood. Ornate carvings.

I set it down on top of a stack of paperwork.

Something flutters inside me but I’m not sure if it’s dread or anticipation and, I swear, the lights flicker as I run my hands over the lid.

It is both smooth and sharp at the same time. There is no lock, but there is a latch. I flip it open and hesitate, fingers on the lip of the lid.

I brush the carvings on top — vines, roses, a moon, and two crucifixes. I can feel my pulse beating in my fingertips, pressing down on the wood, thudding as if the box has a rhythm of its own.

My breath catches in my chest.

My heart is racing.

It is as if the entire world has slowed down, as if something inside this box is calling to a deep, dark part of myself I didn’t know existed.

My entire body feels alive. The pain is still there, but it’s like a whisper. A memory of pain that I can’t latch onto because something else is taking its place.

The lights flicker again.

I lift the lid.

It creaks like the sign outside.

At first, there is darkness. Shadows swell in my vision. I pull the box a little closer, and it makes a strange sound against the papers on the desk. I lift it up. There is a deep red stain grazing the top sheet of paper.

Like scarlet mixed with crimson.

Instead of looking into the box, I look under it. I run my finger along the bottom edge then stare at it.

Deep, velvety redness coats my pale skin. Like I’ve cut myself, except I haven’t. It’s not my blood.

The scent tingles in my nose.

I have always been sensitive to the smell of blood; but I have never been squeamish. In fact – and I know this sounds weird – I’ve always been kind of drawn to it.

As a child, if I grazed my knee or scraped my elbow, I would press my finger to the wound then, when no one was looking, I’d taste the blood. The tang on my tongue would make me feel alive.

I would let it rest there, aware this was not something normal girls did, but enjoying it all the same.

This blood, however, tastes sour. It makes me wrinkle my nose and wipe my hand on my jeans.

The blood continues to drip. Faster now. Some of it falls onto the large, beautiful volume of Unleash The Magick Within that I’d been saving up for. It soaks almost instantly into the pale blue cloth cover.

I still haven’t looked into the box.

I should feel afraid, shouldn’t I?

A normal person, if they received a package containing a box dripping with blood, would panic. Drop it. Scream and run into the street flailing their arms about.