Ren had hauled stranger things than most couriers could imagine—garden statues in shrink-wrap, a mannequin family with taped faces, even a single tire on a pallet. But this crate felt different the second he saw it.
Chest-high, steel-banded corners, rough planks, and a polished brass padlock. Someone had stenciled FURNITURE on the side, then tried to sand it off. The word ghosted faintly under the scratches.
“No paperwork?” Ren asked.
The dockman shrugged. “Manifest says furniture, one piece, fragile, keep upright. That’s it. Drop’s in Oakview, cul-de-sac.”
Ren winched it onto the van, strapped it three times tight, and drove off.
The freeway settled into its steady hum. That’s when he heard it.
Tap.
So faint he almost missed it. Two exits later—
Tap-tap.
Ren lowered the music. Loads settle, boards flex, straps complain, he reminded himself. But this sound had rhythm.
He pulled into a gas station, opened the rear doors, and laid a hand on the wood. Silence. He pressed his ear to the planks. Nothing—except his own pulse and freeway hiss.
“You’re fine,” he muttered, and drove on.
Oakview was dusk-quiet, houses lined with tidy hedges. The drop-off: a dark two-story with no lights, no cars. Curtains drawn.
Ren knocked. No answer. He tried again. The house swallowed the sound.
The crate waited in the van, still and silent. He rolled it onto the liftgate. The straps sang when he loosened them, wood pressing back against his gloves. As the crate’s feet touched concrete—
Tap.
Ren froze, grip tightening. The sound was deliberate, like a hand inside.
His phone showed the manifest: DELIVER—LEAVE AT FRONT DOOR—NO SIGNATURE REQUIRED. Easy enough. Leave it, take photos, file proof.
He wheeled the crate to the porch, staged it by the door, and knocked once more. No answer. Only silence thick enough to feel.
He snapped photos—wide, medium, close on the lock. Proof for dispatch. He pulled out a delivery slip, started writing the time, then stopped. The pen hovered.
Across the street, a window lit up. A shadow moved behind the glass. Ren’s gut went cold.
He pocketed the slip and returned to the van. Instinct made him cover the crate with a moving blanket, tape neat corners, make it look ordinary. He rested his palm on the planks. Nothing.
For a second he considered calling dispatch. Then he imagined the story he’d become—driver swears package knocked back—and shoved the thought away.
Ren reloaded the crate, ratcheted straps until they clicked sharp, and closed the doors. He texted the listed number: At address. No answer. Can reschedule or leave with written permission. Advise.
No reply. No dots.
He waited, added: Will return to warehouse. Can attempt again tomorrow.
The street stayed still. The window across the way went dark. The moth on the porch glass fluttered to another light.
Ren U-turned in the cul-de-sac, careful, deliberate. At the stop sign he lingered, listening.
No tapping.
Back at the warehouse, he staged the crate under the dock lights, signed it back in, and set his copy of the manifest on the counter. He sat in the van with the key cold between his fingers, phone still blank.
He thought about how quiet it had been since Oakview. Not a sound on the road. Not a knock from the crate.
Ren turned toward the cargo bay, listening to the silence.
The tapping had stopped.
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