The Snatcher

It appears at your doorstep, with no name and no return address. A package. Sometimes it’s small, the size of a jewelry box. Sometimes it’s big enough to hold a new stove. It’s suspiciously plain, just a box wrapped in brown paper. You didn’t order anything. This box doesn’t carry your name. It just sits at your doorstep, blocking your escape.

Of course, you bring it inside, what else are you going to do with it? Soon you’re placing it on the kitchen table, or if it’s a large package, dragging it into the living room. You grab scissors first, so you can cut the wrapper away. It falls from the cardboard and lies like long strips of discarded skin. But the package is free from its bindings now, excepts flaps taped together so tight the cardboard wrinkles. Carefully, you finish the deed. It’s ready. You open it.

If it’s a small package, you hold it in your hands. If it’s bigger, you bend down to look. It doesn’t matter, the sight’s the same.

Darkness. Black and inky, sucking in the chandelier’s lights. You can’t see past the blackness to the bottom of the package. Any item is hidden in the shadows. Shadows that are calling too you. Alluring. You want to reach your hand in and search. Why not? There’s not going to be anything but cardboard or packaging peanuts down there. You reach in. And reach. And reach. You reach till you are up to your elbow, your shoulder. Your armpit presses against the edge of the box. There’s nothing. Maybe a bit further …

Something scrapes your hand. It feels like skin, cold and clammy. Surprised, you yank back, but the feeling only gets worse. Fingers wrap around your wrist. You stumble back, the box knocks over, you’re freed from its grasp –

Except you aren’t. A hand stretches out, bony and thin with gray skin sucked against the bones. The fingers are too long. It holds your wrist with an iron grip. You scream. It yanks. You’re sucked into the box with blinding speed, sides splitting to allow it room to swallow you. The darkness closes in. You see the glimpse of bright, sharp teeth.

The Snatcher has you now.

“That’s a stupid story.” Chelsea shot at me. Her arms crossed, and the firelight picked out the shape of her form, making her glasses flash in the light. Her chin jutted out mulishly, but I could see the fearful glint in her eyes. Hah! Another one falls prey to campfire stories.

I shot a grin at her. “Is it?”

She glared at me angrily. “A creature that crawls out of suspicious packages is stupid. Who opens a suspicious package? It’s stupid, and that story is stupid.”

I yawned loudly, covering my mouth with one hand to hide my smirk. “Whatever. Just keep it in mind when some suspicious package shows up at your door. I wouldn’t want you to get dragged in.”

She made some noise, then stood up. Her fingers angrily brushed off her jeans. “I’m going back to my room. You all,” she gave us an imperious look, “can go back to trying to scare each other witless. Have fun with the nightmares tonight.” And with that final decree, she turned around and flounced off.

For a few moments, silence reigned as we watched her open her cabin door and stomp inside. The door shut behind her with a resounding slam.

Alexander tucked his jacket closer around him. His eyes searched mine. “It’s … not real, isn’t? The Snatcher, it’s not real. It can’t be real.”

Oh, his obvious terror was thrilling. I tried so hard to not obviously preen at the sight. “Who can say? It certainly is a haunting tale.” I grinned at my fellow campers. “Does anyone think they can top the Snatcher?”

Summer camp passed like that, in snitches of stories told by firelight and in fleeting memories by day. My favorite was always story time. I loved making people squirm, trying to top myself every night. A drowned girl who called the close lake home. A man missing his head. But none were as well-received as the story of the Snatcher.

I could, of course, understand their concern. Ghosts and the supernatural belonged to the shadows. A drowned girl was only scary if you went to the lake. A man missing his head is horrifying as long as you see him. But if you advert your eyes, advert your gaze, you can avoid the fear. A mysterious box appearing from nowhere is something you can’t avoid. The need to peek inside is similarly something that is too real to ignore. It was far more terrifying than any figment of shadow I could think up.

So that year, I went back home with my head held high. I could barely stop my smirk when Chelsea shot me a glare. Victory this year was mine, and I would make sure that it would be mine tomorrow as well. As the undisputed king of scary stories, I couldn’t let my title be claimed by someone else.

But I would have a whole year to think about it. For now, I was going to enjoy being home once more.

A week passed, and summer’s golden light stopped signing endless freedom and started to warn of school’s trap. Supplies dotted stores, and I avoided them the best I could. School was not in my list of things I wanted to do. So, I buried myself in what I did want to do, playing with my friends and taking long walks as my parents would allow. It was on one of those days, when I was walking home with my hands in my pockets, that I saw it.

The box.

It sat on my front steps like it had been set with purpose, one side leaning against the stone. It was long and thin and covered in brown paper. From here I couldn’t see any writing. The light of the setting sun struck the edges with gold. My parent’s cars were in the driveway. It must have been placed after they’d come home.

Why hadn’t they picked it up?

My steps slowed until it felt like I was trudging across quicksand. I stared at that box. It sat there, innocent. I could still remember that story that had scared Chelsea so. The Snatcher. My footsteps slowed to a halt.

I was being ridiculous. I knew I was being ridiculous. The Snatcher was just a story I had made up. It wasn’t real. This box had been sent by a random person, and it had arrived at our house as a delivery for someone. It could be mom or dad. It could be for me. But the Snatcher didn’t exist, so I was being stupid. Stupid and ridiculous. I swallowed and forced my feet to move.

Closer, it was easier to see that there was no writing on it. That meant nothing. Maybe it had been a surprise delivery meant for the whole family. Maybe it had been hand delivered. People did that, right? Right?

My steps slowed to a halt again. My breaths came in quick gasps. Scared by the own story I had made up. Chelsea would be laughing so much at me right now. That thought spurred me on. With an oath my parents would have had my tongue for, I ran up to the front steps and grabbed the package. It was surprisingly light, like it was nothing but box and wrapper and air. My gut sloshed with nerves.

I didn’t have to open this package. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be happy if I did open it, especially if it was for them … I should just let them open it. It would be fine. It would have to be fine because the Snatcher wasn’t real, and I was the idiot who had scared myself with my story. A kid. And as a kid, I should give mysterious packages to adults. It was the right thing to do. It would be fine.

It would be fine.

With this in mind, I stepped up to the door and knocked on it with my foot, hoping I hadn’t just made a horrible mistake. “Mom! Dad! I’m home! And someone left a package for you!”