Mark’s funeral was held on Tuesday, amid a cold rain. As his best friend, I personally placed the final scoop of dirt on his coffin.
Today is Monday, exactly seven days since he was laid to rest.
At 9:00 p.m., I was sitting in Mark’s empty apartment, helping him sort through his belongings. Thunder rumbled outside the window when suddenly, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door, a little puzzled, to find a delivery person in a yellow uniform standing there, holding a paper bag that was still steaming.
“Mr. Mark’s order,” the delivery person said in a muffled voice, rain dripping down the brim of his cap. “A double cheeseburger, extra spicy, no pickles.”
I froze. Mark was severely allergic to pickles. Whenever he ordered takeout while he was alive, he would always go on and on, making sure they didn’t include pickles.
“You must have the wrong delivery,” I said, pointing inside. “Mark died last week. I’m his friend, and I’m here to help sort through his things.”
The delivery guy didn’t say a word; he just stared intently at me, his eyes looking unusually cloudy under the dim hallway light. He slowly held up the screen of his phone, which displayed the order details:
Order Time: 8:45 p.m. tonight
Notes: Please hurry, I’m starving.
I shuddered violently and snatched the paper bag from his hand. It was scalding hot, burning the palms of my hands.
“That’s impossible…” I muttered to myself, turning to look at the empty dining table inside.
Just then, the delivery driver’s phone suddenly rang. He answered it, listened for a few seconds, then said to me in a flat, mechanical voice, “Mr. Mark says he’s been waiting too long and wants you to open the door.”
My whole body went rigid, and I instinctively took a step back.
The delivery driver paid me no further attention; he walked right past my shoulder and into the apartment. He didn’t head toward the dining table but walked straight to the tightly closed bedroom door—the place Mark had feared most in life, and the room I’d never dared to enter since his death.
“Mr. Mark, your takeout is here.”
From outside the door, the delivery man’s voice came through the wood, accompanied by the grating sound of fingernails scraping against it.
I looked down at the paper bag in my hand. At some point, the bottom of the bag had become soaked with a warm liquid. It wasn’t soup, but a viscous, dark red liquid with a metallic, rusty smell, trickling through my fingers, drop by drop, onto the floor.
The doorknob began to turn slowly.
