A Brown Paper Package. Tied up With String.

The package had sat unopened on the table for two days. And it would, if Clemence obeyed the note stenciled in three inch high block letters, DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS, remain unopened for another two days. Thus far he’d managed to restrain himself. But the curiosity was already gnawing at him like him like so many pointed teeth.

           It was as if he was a child again, poking and prodding the package in a vain attempt to guess its contents. But now, as when he was a child, Clemence was stumped. He’d shaken the package just a little but even that had elicited no noise from within. There was no tinkle of glass or jingle of metal to give the smallest hint. So Clemence was resigned to wonder and be taunted by the mystery every time he ventured through his front hall.

“What could it be?” He wondered aloud to himself.

           The return address had been little help. The name H.J. Cotter and Sons, Albany, New York, had resulted in little more than frustration as every directory he’d tried showed no business or individual ever by that name in the city of Albany. He didn’t know anyone in Albany. Who would know his address?

           Clemence stood in the door to his parlor eyes fixed on the small box neatly wrapped in crisp brown paper and tied tightly with hemp twine. With his left hand he held his unlit pipe and absently he moved it up to his mouth. Sucking on the stem he continued to stare as though some great revelation might suddenly break upon his mind and he, in ecstasy could proclaim to the walls and windows his triumph. But victory was not forthcoming.

           Resignedly Clemence sighed and idly fingered a box of matches with his right hand. Turning, he walked slowly, contemplatively to his chair near the hearth. Sinking into the rich leather he let the chair devour him as the warmth of the fire crept into his tired bones. Long tongues of mocking red and yellow flames licked at the black of the growing night.

           A smoke. He’d have a smoke that’d clear his mind and settle his nerves. A good puff on the pipe was what he needed. But even before he’d taken out his tobacco a thought shot into his mind that if it’d been a fusilier’s bullet would’ve killed him instantly.

           What a fool. What an imbecile. What an incorrigible dolt. Was this not his home? Was he not an aging man of fifty? He was no child to be scolded. A stamp of ink could not stop him. He had every right to know what he was harboring in his home. He rose, pipe forgotten and stomped into the hall. He had every right to know. What a fool.

           Clemence shook his head as he began to pull at the string. Who could stop him and why would they? There was no one else here.

He hadn’t so much as broken the knot when there came a quiet yet insistent knock upon his front door.

           In alarm he almost dropped the parcel. Almost. Quickly, he replaced it on the table as though he was a child caught and about to be admonished for sneaking peeks under the Christmas tree.

           After several distressingly loud heartbeats he called out.

“Who is it?”

           There was no response so he moved closer to the door and repeated the question more firmly. Again, there was no response. With a hesitant hand Clemence unbolted then opened the door. Through the narrow crack he squinted into the snow-lit world beyond. The stoop was empty.

           What madness. What stark raving lunacy. Was he that much of a coward? He swung the door open exposing himself and his home to the bleak world beyond. Empty. For a ponderous moment he stood looking first up and then down the street. Not a soul dared the cold dark of the bleak December street.

           Footprints however, led from the street to his door where he noticed a cream colored envelope resting atop the fresh dusting of snow. With a quick squat and a flick of his hand he plucked it from the snow. Then with one more glance about the street he stepped back inside and bolted the door.

           Back in his parlor Clemence stood near the fire whose flames had dwindled to embers. In the scant light he turned the envelope over and over in his fingers. Neither name nor symbol could he discern upon it. So, he tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with the typed message.

           Naughty boys have no patience. Naughty boys get no presents.

           Turning the letter over Clemence scrutinized the opposite side. It was as empty as the street had been. Then he reread the message and fumed.

           “Boy? Boy! Curse this whole nonsense.” He crumpled the letter and envelope into a ball and with a disgusted sneer threw it into the fire.

           He did not wait to see the paper burst into flame, his shadow cast briefly on the wall as he marched into the hall was enough to speak of its fate.

           Picking up the package he scoffed at its warning. Then with all the kindness and finesse of a hungry coyote he tore through the brown paper package.

           Inside was a wooden box latched closed with a silver clasp. Clemence inspected the exterior carefully and seeing no obvious device or mechanism popped open the clasp and slowly opened the lid.

           Resting on a bed of blue velvet lay what looked to be a music box. With delicate fingers he plucked up trinket. Atop it stood two diminutive figures a man and woman, presumably made of metal but painted to be dressed in fine evening wear. A tuxedo and top hat for the man and flowing gown for the woman. Clemence found the key and turned it until it stopped. The little metallic man and woman turned to face one another and bowed as a single note played slowly almost like the chiming of bells on the hour.

           The pair then turned to face Clemence and bowed again. The note was going faster now and sounded out of tune. The figures turned back to one another then the man bowed then the woman. Finally, each spun around once and didn’t move anymore as the note played even faster until both heads shot off the little figures each landing on the rug with a cacophonous thud in the absence of the now silent note.

           What an awful thing. What a terrible trinket. Clemence took a step back prepared to place the thing back into it’s box when he noticed a piece sticking out slightly. With his fingernail he prized it open further until a tray opened revealing a card.

Naughty boys get what they deserve.

           Taking the card he put the music box back in its container and closed the lid. He would find the heads later.

           Who would send such a thing? Why would they send such a thing? Resuming his chair by the fire he took up his pipe, packed and lit it. A smoke would do him good clear his mind and calm his nerves.

           But it didn’t. Long after the hearth had gone cold and his pipe had burned out Clemence sat thinking. Who would’ve sent it, an old flame? But why? He’d universally been the one spurned. If anyone were to send little macabre toys it should be him. But he hadn’t carried any torches or grudges.

           Could it be an old business partner? Didn’t seem likely but it was a possibility. There were countless possibilities and he was by no means a detective. Perhaps there was some clue he could better discern in the light of day.

           That was it, sleep. A good nights sleep and a fresh mind in the morning. Problems always seemed somehow less daunting in the light of day.

           But as he rose from the luxurious recesses of his chair he heard a noise. Faint as though very distant it was none the less distinct. Like a foot clad only in a stocking carefully stalking the upper hall. Grabbing up the fire poker he too moved carefully walking heel to toe and keeping to the rugs lest he trod on a creaky board.

           In the hall Clemence paused and listened but he couldn’t hear the feet anymore. It could be the owner of the feet had also paused to listen, waiting for him to move. He didn’t oblige them. The moments dragged on as he stood poised. When at last his feet ached and his lungs burned he took a deep breath and a long step forward stopping just short of the stairs.

           The stairs creaked this he could not avoid. It was best then he decided to mount them quickly and take by surprise any fiend that could be waiting for him at the top.

           Aged legs pumping and smoker’s lungs burning he moved with an agility that would make a goat jealous. The effort however was in vain as there was no beast at the top of the stairs. Nor was there one under his bed or in his wardrobe. Believing he was alone Clemence slumped down onto his bed and clutching the fire poker drifted into a fitful sleep.

****

           Clemence woke to a sound like a bell ringing. Was it the door? The telephone? No, it sounded different, it sounded…out of tune. He jumped up and brandishing the fire poker flew down the stairs. The music box was playing. Someone had taken it back out of the tiny chest. Someone had put the heads back on. Someone had wound the key. Someone…

           An icy hand gripped the back of his neck and a small voice whispered in his ear.

“Naughty boys get no presents.”

           That voice. It couldn’t be. No, she was…He tried to turn to see a face, to see her face. But the grip tightened and his knees buckled. How was she still alive? How was she so strong? Now the hands were pulling tight a rope. He could feel the pressure building around his neck.

“Naughty boys get what they deserve.”

           That was the last thing Clemence heard as the world faded slowly to nothing.