"Box of Red" by CL Prestland

Box of Red

by CL Prestland

Almost stepping on it as he silently pushed through the front door, the box—small and wrapped neatly in brown paper—waited on the carpet. The hallway was dark, so he hurried across the hall into the kitchen and switched on the light. 

Turning it over in his hands, the package felt almost weightless. There was no name. No address. Just the words: Please Open. Scratchy and jittery, like his grandmother’s handwriting before she died. A faint sentimental smile crept across his face. She’d sent him trinkets throughout his childhood, and he’d inherited his need to collect from her. Those packages had been his only tether to a biological family he never met. Without any consideration, he peeled off the layers of paper and exposed the white cardboard box beneath. Slipping a gloved finger under the flap, he popped it open.

Nostalgia curdled into disgust. The box was full of hair.

A bright red lock, looped into a bow. Too silky for doll’s hair. His eyes instinctively darted around the room as he drew it to his nose. There was a faint chemical smell, but what struck him was the sweetness of the shampoo. One end dead-straight. The other frayed with split ends. No. No—surely not.

He shoved the thought aside. He was a professional—or so he believed. The prize—more than any high-value goods—was the fear that fluttered in his ribs. Though he liked to push his luck, the contents of the strange box were an unsettling distraction.

Thump.

It came from upstairs.

He killed the light and waited, enveloped in the silence of the night. Worry knotted in his stomach. Heart in his throat, as if x-ray eyes watched him through the walls. He felt seen. 

Gut screaming danger: Run!

There it was again—another thump. 

Shit.

This time the tap-tap-tap of small, panicked feet followed the thud. And then, as the kitchen door opened—the jingle of a bell.

Stupid, bloody cat!

It looked up at him, pupils wide, fur raised. He kicked his foot in its direction. It sprang away, then glanced nervously back into the hallway. The cat stayed in the kitchen, flicking its tail in dread-induced rage before vanishing into the shadows. 

Like a held breath, the house was perfectly still again.

Creeping back into the hallway, he made his way up the stairs. One hand carried his work bag; the other clutched the lock of hair. He’d perfected sneaking as a child; silence had been survival in the last home. 

The door was open, the light from the street enough to bathe the bedroom in a faint glow. The smell of floral talc, fancy soaps—not unusual for the homes he chose. There was something else too. A cloying, intrusive sweetness. Then he heard it.

Fast, gasping breaths. Wet. He turned his head slowly, knowing he was caught. But she wasn’t in bed. The fear in his ribs no longer a flutter but painful. Wrong. His magpie eyes snapped to it. The jewellery box. It was three long strides to reach what he’d come for. Simple. 

Deathly cold fingers clamped around his ankle. He drew his leg backward—but she held on. Dragged from her hiding place beneath the bed, she tried to speak. Tried to warn him. Struggling to break free, he lost his balance. His head smashed against the foot of the bed. 

Then landed in her lap. 

It was sticky.

Warm.

Her chest rattled beneath him with one last, haggard breath. The room was spinning as he pushed himself up, forcing his eyes to hers. Glassy. Dead. Her hair was gone. Her skull exposed. Questions rioted in his mind. He’d fucked up, ignored his instincts—someone else was there. Her blood now on his clothes. His face. Bile filled his throat.

Stealing a look at the jewellery box—dare he? With an unsteady lurch, he snatched it, forcing it into the duffel bag. Then staggered out of the room, down the hall. Racing to the stairs, desperate to get out.

He froze.

Wild eyes promising death blocked his way out. The face split into a wide grin—too wide. One hand carried a knife. The other still clutched the woman’s scalp. He was certain the long crimson tresses—crudely sewn into a wig—were the only human part of it.

“Oopsie daisies. My box. Not meant for you.”

The voice scratched like nails on a chalkboard. Goosebumps flared across his skin. A gut-wrenching realisation hit. The box was its taunt. A spiteful tease. Victims’ scalps collected—stolen. Worn. The chemical smell—dye. 

Knowing he could escape into the garden, he bolted into the back bedroom. Made it to the window. Then wrestled the handle, fingers slipping. Too late. Hot breath pressed against his neck, the sickly-sweet scent of strawberry filling his nostrils. The wig brushed his face as the killer gripped his shoulders with freakish strength.

“Saw you watching. Shame you chose tonight.” It whispered, a voice full of broken glass. Sharp and cutting. “Oopsie daisies.”

He plummeted through the window. Glimpsing its reflection in the shards falling around him—expressionless, empty, cackling all the same. Then, with the sickening snap of bone, it was gone. And the world was black.

***

He woke face down in the icy grass, covered in blood. Freezing cold. His head pounded, filled with disorienting noise. Vision pulsing blue. Black. Blue. Its shrill, siren-like snigger echoed in his ears. As his consciousness fought to return, terror stabbed in his chest. Trying to get up, trying to run. Searing pain ripped through his leg.

Someone shouted: Stay down!

He struggled against the knee in his back. The shouting voice asked if he understood his rights. Arms wrenched behind him. Click of handcuffs. Too shattered, too haunted to register his predicament—just aware he’d survived. Body trembling, breaths ragged, raw and manic laughter tore from him.

Held tight in his hand, the lock of hair.