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It slid though the letterbox like a snake; slowly – almost cautiously –before it hit the doormat with a thud. It was a package; a brown parcel. But there was no label, or address, or any sign of its intention. No clue to its contents.

Ciaran and the others watched it with blank stares. They all stood there; still, silent, like dead men. The TV blared behind them – a good film. They had gone to get snacks and drinks. A harmless plod to the kitchen. But now, they couldn’t move.

Someone said, “What’s that.” As if that wasn’t the question on everyone’s lips. Ciaran made the move. He picked it up. The rest observed, as he casually placed it under one arm. The other held the remote; he turned the TV off. The snacks and drinks were forgotten, and they gathered in the lounge. Ciaran placed the package on the round table; the one with the coffee stain from yesterday. He sat down.

They all sat down. On the floor, on the sofa, on the broken chair with that horrible yellowy hue.

“Well,” a friend began, “You gonna open it?”

The question was for Ciaran. It was his house after all. The parents were out. Just him and his mates, and that kid he didn’t like but had to invite anyway. He waited, unsure.

They all did.

“Alright.” said Ciaran. With reluctant hands, paper ripped. The package was opened.
Someone managed to say something.

“Get your parents. Now!”