The Cardboard Box with Strawberry Jam

For the third time, Henry Foster walked past the riverside bicycle repair shop just as the church bell struck three. The wind carried the metallic stench of the river, snapping the slip of paper in his hand. On that crumpled sheet, the address written in pencil by the postmaster had been rubbed out and rewritten so many times it looked like a cipher.

Behind the repair shop’s display window, a boy in a red cap wiped down the same wheel hub with mechanical repetition. Henry noticed his blue-striped shirt was identical to the one he had worn yesterday and the day before, complete with the same dark grease stain beside the second button.

A train’s brakes shrieked sharply in the distance, startling a flock of white egrets from the riverbank. Instinctively, Henry reached into his coat’s inner pocket for the quadrupled-folded train ticket—a one-way pass from Portland to Wellington, its stub smeared with faded date ink.

“Need a hand?”

The sudden voice sent a violent jolt through Henry. Jonah Field, the undertaker, was standing right behind him, wearing an unseasonable beige trench coat over his black suit. He was holding a cardboard box secured with two strips of heavy tape, the faint word FRAGILE visible beneath.

Across the river in the town square, six women dressed in matching dark red turtlenecks were trimming hedges in absolute unison. Their shears snapped together like clockwork, as if drawn by a single invisible string, sending a rhythmic clatter floating across the water like Morse code.

“Word is you’re looking for 117 Riverbend Road.” Jonah’s eyes flicked toward the corner of the paper peeking from Henry’s pocket. “That’s Old Bennett’s tailor shop.” He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t go there before sunset if I were you.”

The box of parts clicked softly in Jonah’s hands. Henry caught sight of the faded brass ring on his ring finger—the exact same one he had seen at the funeral three years ago.

The church bell rang again. Henry counted carefully this time—just one chime, but it stretched out at least three seconds longer than normal. Inside the shop, the boy in the red cap froze. He turned toward the glass, a stiff, wooden smile spreading across his face. Sunlight streamed through the spokes of a bicycle wheel hanging behind him, casting a cobweb of shadows across his skin.

Jonah tapped his fingers against the cardboard box, matching the bizarre rhythm of the bell. Beneath his fingernails, Henry spotted traces of a dark red residue that looked uncannily like dried blood.

“Bennett’s shop hasn’t taken orders in years,” Jonah said, his voice sounding hollow, as if coming from miles away. “Unless...” He cut himself off, his eyes shifting past Henry’s shoulder.

Across the river, the six women froze at the exact same instant, their hedge shears locked open in midair. The hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood on end. The collective stare coming from across the water felt colder than the wind. Pretending to adjust his collar, he shoved the paper deeper into his pocket.

“Unless what?” Henry asked under his breath.

Beside them, the wind chimes hanging in the repair shop’s doorway began to rattle violently, ringing out a harsh, chaotic alarm despite the stillness of the air.

Jonah didn’t answer right away. He tore a strip of tape from the side of the cardboard box and slapped it over the rusted handrail. The plastic fluttered in the gale, revealing a faded “117” stenciled beneath it. Henry’s pulse spiked. It was the same number from the coffee-stained address on the anonymous letter he’d received three days ago.

“Did you see this at the funeral home?” Henry pulled the four-times-folded train ticket from his coat. A flicker of something crossed Jonah’s eyes, but it vanished instantly behind a wall of stagnant calm.

Inside the box, the mechanical parts clattered louder, as if something alive were thrashing beneath the cardboard. In the distance, another train screeched onto its brakes, the sound grinding like fingernails across glass. Only then did Henry notice the yellowed notice taped inside the repair shop window: *All clocks set seven minutes fast.*

Jonah finally spoke, his voice so thin the wind nearly tore it away. “The tailor shop basement…” He broke into a violent coughing fit, nearly dropping the box. Henry reached out to steady him, but Jonah quickly pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. Sticking out from the folded cloth was the edge of a strip of black tape.

Across the water, the women began to move again, filing down toward the muddy bank in a single line. Their red sweaters snaked against the leaden sky like a trailing smear of blood. The oldest woman turned her head and stared straight across the river. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

The third erased word on the sticky note in his pocket—it had to be *basement*. Henry opened his mouth to press further, but a movement behind the shop’s display glass caught his eye. The boy in the red cap was tracing dark, greasy spirals on the window with oil-stained fingers.

Jonah took two quick steps backward. A final heavy *clack* echoed from inside the box. As he turned to leave, a folded slip of paper slipped from his trench coat pocket. Henry bent to grab it, catching a glimpse of fresh mud splattered across the hem of Jonah’s trousers—the distinct, rust-colored sludge found only along the Riverbend bank.

The moment Henry’s fingers closed around the paper, the church bells cut off mid-peal. A sudden gust swept up the brine and iron tang of the river, making Jonah’s retreating figure stagger. Unfolding the note, Henry found a hasty hand-drawn map. A jagged star was penciled over the number 117.

“Wait!” Henry lunged forward, but Jonah had already vanished into the narrow alley beside the shop. At the mouth of the alley, nestled among a pile of stripped bicycle frames, sat an overturned box leaking a dark red fluid. Henry tipped the lid back with the toe of his shoe. It was filled to the brim with cassette tapes bound in electrical tape, swimming in a thick pool of melted strawberry jam.

The wind chimes outside the shop erupted into a deafening, frantic violence. Behind the glass, the boy in the red cap raised his oil-slicked hands and slowly covered his ears. In Henry’s pocket, the train ticket began to burn—a searing heat pressing right through the fabric against his skin. He yanked the stub out. On the back, faint lettering written in lemon juice had bloomed into view: *8:00 PM Tonight.*

Inside the cardboard box, the magnetic tapes vibrated in unison, raising a low, swarming hum like a hive of bees. As Henry stumbled back, his boot heel crushed a pocket watch half-buried in the mud. The instant the glass face shattered, a door slammed shut across the river—a single, heavy thud. In that same second, every one of the red-sweatered women vanished inside the same brick house.

The slip of paper jerked free from Henry’s fingers, whipped away by a gust of wind and pinned flat against the repair shop window. Beneath the amber light of the setting sun, the ghost of eraser marks surrendered a new message. Three erased words stood out in the rubbed-thin fibers: DON’T OPEN THE DOOR. The boy in the red cap lowered his hands from his ears. Reaching beneath the workbench, he hauled out a box bound in crossed strips of heavy tape and began to stab at its cardboard skin with a screwdriver, his rhythm flat and mechanical.

The first drop of rain hit the train ticket, and Henry watched the printed date begin to dissolve, bleeding into blurred blue gray. Across town, the church bell tolled eight o’clock early—a drone so long and drawn out it sounded like a stuck tape loop. From the screwdriver holes in the boy’s box, thick red strawberry jam oozed out, pooling on the gravel before trickling toward the riverbend in a narrow, bright line.

Henry bolted toward Number 117, but the sudden, distorted ringing nailed his boots to the dirt. On the second floor of the tailor shop, the windows flared bright. Behind the sheer curtains, a dozen figures in identical red sweaters stood in a tight circle. Then, at the exact same fraction of a second, every one of them snapped their heads toward the glass—their necks turning at an angle so sharp and uniform it set his teeth on edge.

Henry slapped his hand onto his holster, his knuckles turning chalk white. He caught the side door to Number 117 slightly ajar, releasing a sickly-sweet reek of strawberry jam and heated adhesive. He pushed through. In the basement, dead-white fluorescent tubes hummed and flickered overhead, casting light across a dozen people bound at the mouth with heavy tape. Every single one wore a red sweater.

“Freeze!” Henry drew his sidearm, but his hand locked midair. Streaming rigs, tripod stands, and cardboard boxes stamped with wellness logos lay strewn across the concrete floor. At the center of the room sat an old man with a mayor’s pin pinned to his collar. He shook his head wildly, his fingernails digging frantically at the edge of the black tape plastered over his lips.

Noah Bennett poked his head out from behind a high-end camera rig, wearing a t-shirt that read Sleep Optimization Coach. He yanked the tape off his mouth with a sickening rip and screamed, “Put the gun down! We’re a verified fitness channel!” Raw red welts covered his cheeks, beads of blood weeping from the broken skin.

A few feet away, Jonah Field, sweltering in his red sweater, pried a screwdriver under the tape stuck to his chin. Pervading the room with his ragged gasps, he held up his phone screen. “Look at this! The 48-Hour Nasal Breathing Challenge! We’re almost at a hundred thousand likes…” Mud from the riverbend still caked the cuffs of his suit trousers.

A dull pop echoed from the far corner as a cardboard box burst open. The boy in the red cap climbed out from a vat of strawberry jam, waving a roll of packing tape and letting out eager, unintelligible squeaks. Henry stared. The “blood” splattered everywhere was nothing more than high-fructose preserve. The spiral drawn on the shop window wasn’t an omen at all—it was a peak-traffic analytics chart.

The mayor finally managed to rip the tape from his mouth. Snatching a notepad off a nearby crate, he scribbled frantically, shoving the page into Henry’s chest: The client paid for 72 full hours of complete silence! The final payout covers the bell tower restoration! The paper was scarred with heavy erasures. At the bottom, a fresh line of lead read: JUST 4 MORE HOURS.

Noah yanked the service order off the camera tripod. The tape peeled away with a harsh, tearing sound. “A wellness camp proposal!” he shouted, holding it up. “Page three, item seventeen—townspeople participating in the influencer challenge video get twenty-five dollars an hour!”

One by one, the women in the red sweaters began ripping the tape from their mouths, a chorus of dry coughs filling the room. Someone knocked over a jar of strawberry jam, sending the thick, dark liquid pooling across the floor, creeping over the chalked number 117. Henry watched the crowd, every one of them gasping greedily for air, and felt his fingers slowly slide off the grip of his revolver.

Outside, the church bell suddenly chimed three times, returning to its usual rhythm. The boy in the red cap tossed his used roll of duct tape toward the corner. It hit the neon sign for the Wellington Riverbend Wellness Center, bouncing off with a dull thud. Under the flickering pink glow, Henry silently slid his gun back into its holster.