Chapter III

I reach for my purse, which is sitting on my desk. The phone gave me a start when it began ringing---Ring ring ring ring. I snatch my purse and peek my head out of my room. "The phone? What the---" Ring ring ring. "Okay, okay! I'm comin'! Geez."

Still clutching my purse, I trot down the stairs and grab the phone off it's holder. I place the phone next to my ear, "Yo. Amy Lynn here."

Silence greets me in answer through the speaker.

"Hello?" I set my bag down on the floor next to the foot of the table.

Silence.

"If you don't speak up now, I'll hang up..."

More silence.

"Okaaaay... Bye then." I say into the phone. I pause before taking the speaker from my ear; I can hear breathing on the other line. Quiet, yet heavy breathing. A deep breath. Exhaling.

"Hello, Amy." The voice was a rough whisper.

I don't recognize the voice. Maybe I should, I don't know why though. "Hey, so, what's up? Something I can help you with?"

"No."

"No?"

I can hear him breathing still; at least I think it's a he.

"Hello?"

"Did you get a package today?"

"Yes? Why?"

Click. Beeeep beeeep beeeep beeeep...

I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it; I cautiously place it back on the receiver. I wandered into the kitchen without realizing it. Before I know it, I've bent over and picked up the knife that was knocked on the floor this morning. I'm drifting over to the box with the blade. I spin the box around, there's no return address, nothing was written on it besides "To: Amy Lynn" in a dark red color. I run the blade over the tape; setting the knife down nearby, I begin prying the box open. Inside, there was plenty of packaging popcorn fluff. I dig around until my fingers come in contact with something that doesn't feel like styrofoam. I push the fluff away, revealing something wrapped in a cloth. I lift it out of the box, pushing the cardboard filled with packaging aside. I place the cloth on the counter and gently unwrap it. Inside is, what looks to be, a thick book manuscript. The bundle is flecked with the same dark red color as my name was written in on the box. The manuscript is a thick collection of lightly faded printed papers bound together by some kind of strong, yet thin, wire or string of some kind. It almost looked brand new even; someone had crossed out the title multiple times, making it impossible to read. Below the illegible title was a slightly faded name typed with black printer ink: Henry Johnson.

I place the manuscript back in the box, close it up, and snatch my purse up off the counter. I grab the house keys off the key hook at the front door and stuff them in my bag.