Pylimitics

A Haunted Boston tale

It was not the usual way a delivery began. Pen nearly tripped over a bundle left outside the apartment door. It was about the size of a soccer ball, wrapped in old newspaper and tied up with twine. Not quite perfectly round. An envelope tucked under the twine simply said “Delivery.”

Inside the envelope was a handwritten note in a spidery hand. “Must deliver today. Directions on wrapper.” The envelope also held a worn $100 bill. Better than a delivery fee to a downtown law office. The bundle was heavy, but not overly. Whatever was under the paper felt slightly… squishy. Gross. Pen carried it by the twine instead. It fit neatly in the handlebar basket while Pen unlocked the bike, then looked for the directions on the bundle.

The directions were printed on the old newspaper like a normal story. The twine had been routed and tied to frame that particular story. Maybe it wasn’t real newspaper. Pen wondered briefly if this was a Halloween prank by one of the other messengers, but the $100 suggested not. And the money was a good way to start the day; Pen’s phone hadn’t pinged with any other deliveries yet. Halloween was usually pretty slow; people had parties, kids, costumes. It was a lot.

The directions, though…they described a complicated route with loads of turns, heading into some of the oldest areas of Boston. Along State Street and past the Custom House, then…somewhere. There were some strange details, too, like “pedal three times round then turn sharply left,” and “stop at the largest stone in the wall and rest thy hand upon it for a full moment.”

THY hand? And what was a “full moment?” Pen assumed they were just typos and it meant a minute, although what that had to do with a delivery was anybody’s guess.

Past the Custom House, the directions led into a maze of narrow, ancient alleyways. It was an unfamiliar part of old Boston. Stone and brick walls were too close and tall to admit much sunlight. Getting to the odd instruction about “pedaling three times round,” Pen nearly didn’t make the sharp left turn because it would surely mean riding straight into the wall. But at the last second an even narrower alleyway was there. Must have been an optical illusion. It was getting surprisingly dark.

The directions were right about the largest stone in the wall; it couldn’t be missed. At least seven feet tall. Under Pen’s palm the stone felt strangely soft, almost mossy. And…was it moving slightly? Like a huge animal breathing? Probably another illusion. Not optical, but…what would that make it? A tactile illusion? Was that even a thing? But touching the stone made Pen’s teeth clench; it was a struggle to keep touching it while counting out sixty seconds. Pen was going to use the phone timer but the battery was deep in the red. Better to save the juice. No signal, either.

After the stone, Pen felt out of place, as if this wasn’t even Boston any more. The alley walls seemed to lean together far overhead, and what light found its way to the bottom was dank and gloomy. There was an unpleasant odor, even though there was no way this route could have led anywhere near a water treatment plant. Broken sewer line maybe. It smelled of dead fish, filth, rotten molasses, worse kinds of decaying garbage.

But Pen had almost reached the end of the directions. There was another pedal count. Seven rotations this time. The last line simply said “halt.” Pen welcomed the stop; riding on the slippery-wet cobblestones was treacherous. But like Pen’s bike, the directions just stopped. No address, no name. Even in the dim light it was obvious there were no doors in the alley walls. What was Pen supposed to do with the bundle?

Pen waited, senses going into that hyper-aware state where you hear noises surrounding you. You feel invisible eyes watching. What part of Boston was this? There hadn’t been a street sign, let alone an actual street, in quite a while. Pen wasn’t sure how long the delivery ride been going on. The phone was completely dead now. Pen shivered, maybe from the chill. Then jumped as someone was just…there. Beside the bike. Geez but it was dark now; it was hard to see whoever it was. Wearing a hood or something. Couldn’t see their face clearly. Whoever it was said nothing, but they must have been the source of the odor. With them standing right there, the stench was strong. Pen stifled a retch.

“Hello? Is this package for you?”

No reply. The figure snatched the bundle from Pen’s basket, then they were gone. The reek lessened, at least a bit. Pen’s heart rate slowed a bit. A hundred bucks, remember the hundred bucks. But if another bundle like that showed up, Pen resolved to ignore it.

Now back to the rest of the day. Except…the directions had been long, complicated, and Pen had no idea what part of Boston this could be. It didn’t even feel like Boston. Pen was lost. Following the directions in reverse might have worked, except the directions had been on the bundle, and the bundle was gone. The phone was dead. Must be something wrong with the battery; it had been charged overnight. Just turn around and do the best you can, then.

Pen turned around…to find no alleyway seven pedal rotations long. It must have been there, but now there was just an ancient brick wall. It was fully dark now. Where were those footsteps echoing from? What was that dragging, scraping noise? Pen shuddered. There was only one possible direction. Toward the sound. The loud, scraping, metal-on-stone sound. It sounded like a scream.

Image by Michael Brandtner, CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons