Secret Satan

I was having my morning cup of coffee when I heard a high-pitched whine outside. Thinking it was the neighbor’s kids playing with their new Christmas toys, I went to the window to see what they had. I’d always wanted a flying toy when I was a kid. And while I knew there was nothing stopping me from buying one now, I didn’t want to deal with anyone staring at a grown adult playing with some flashy thing meant for a child.

When I looked out the window, I didn’t see any toys, just a drone wobbling its way down the street. I wasn’t sure what made it wobble, if it had a defective propeller or if the box it carried was too heavy. Maybe it was a combination of both.

I went onto my front porch to watch the drone’s slow progression, sipping coffee. My cup said, “Average Joe,” and red proofreading marks put “cup of” in between the typed words. It was something my co-worker, Rose, had given me for my birthday. She makes and sells all kinds of handmade stuff on her website.

I stepped out of the way as the drone came onto my porch. It set the box down and ambled on its way. The drone continued to wobble as it went down the street. If anything, it teetered from side to side even more than it had before. The box’s weight must have been keeping it steady.

With the drone gone, I went around the box to read the return address. Well, I tried to go around and tripped over the welcome mat I’d been meaning to replace, spilling coffee all over the return address. Growling in irritation, I picked up the box and set it just inside the door before heading off to grab a towel. I gulped what was left of my coffee on the way, wanting to finish before it got cold.

I patted the box dry, finding that nothing was left of the return address except the name “Satan,” preceded by a smudge. I peered at the word to make sure I wasn’t misreading it. Nope, that definitely said “Satan.” What the heck could have preceded the name? “Dark Lord?” “Prince of Darkness?” “666?” Actually, the last part should have been part of the address. I squinted at the address in case I could make out something, but it was too blurry. Someone had chosen poorly with their ink.

Picking up the box, I shook it cautiously. Would merely opening the package seal my pact with the devil?

I laughed at myself. I’d watched way too much demon content over October. It wasn’t even memorable stuff, just some low-budget TV that put me in a spooky mood. It was more likely that someone got annoyed with me and used the name “Satan” as part of a practical joke. I frowned. A practical joke could be anything. Depending on how the person felt about what I’d done, it could be messy. What did I do to deserve a package from Satan? I mean, I was prone to tripping over things, but I couldn’t remember anything that… Oh no.

It was the paper incident. It had to be the paper incident. Matt had been so furious when I stumbled by his cubicle, sending a stack of neat papers flying. They’d gotten in front of a vent somehow, and they flew all over the office, getting into everyone’s stuff. What was it that Matt had done the last time someone had messed up his stuff? Sent a box of glitter?

Or was it Matt? Everyone had to clean up the mess I’d made that day. It was on the Friday before Thanksgiving, meaning that everyone was angry and rushing to get work done so they could travel for the holiday. And then, five minutes before they were ready to go home, they all had to deal with my mess. Rose was on her way out the door at the time, and the paper startled her into dropping her latest knitting project. Yarn balls rolled everywhere, tripping and tangling people wherever they went.

I stared at the box, really scared now. I didn’t know everyone well enough to imagine what they might do. All I had for reference was a few joke videos from YouTube.

Taking the box out back, I set it on my patio. If there was a mess, I should keep it outside. Or should I? Would it be eco-friendly glitter? I got goggles and gloves from my shed and went back inside with the box to put on two masks. If whatever was inside was gooey, I didn’t want it soaking through a single mask. I took the box to the bathroom, sitting awkwardly in the bottom of the shower, then slowly cut the box open.

With the flaps unfastened, I shielded my eyes with an arm (I was panicking, okay, I forgot about the goggles) and quickly opened the flaps. Nothing happened. Slowly, I opened my eyes and peered inside.

It was a sweater. A hand-knit Christmas sweater in the style that I jokingly called “feral” whenever Rose tried to tell me the real name. At least, I guessed it was hand-knit because the quality felt better than the stuff I saw in stores.

I shuffled the paper in the box around, making sure that there were no other surprises, and then I sighed in relief. Of course, Rose must have pulled my name out of the secret Santa hat and accidentally misspelled “Santa” on the return address. This sweater had to have been made by her. I mean, the design didn’t look like anything I had seen at the store. I smiled as I looked at the sweater, examining its pattern.

That smile quickly turned into a frown. Circling the sweater was a white pattern knitted so that it looked like a bunch of paper flying in all directions. And embroidered yarn balls skittered around underneath.