The moment my corneas sent instant text messages to my retinas, which in turn delivered a tiny package of neural impulses with a note attached reading "HOLY SHIT IT'S THE FUCKING BOX" to my brain, I panicked.
I expected to hear 3 deep strikes from the felt-covered hammers of a grand piano, like in old Hitchcock movies when a sudden plot twist is thrown at the viewer.
"Jesus, Ripley where did you get this!?" I snapped as I ripped the box, now even softer and more organic-feeling than before I attempted to murder it, out from her loose grip.
She responded with something I wasn't expecting, even given the recent incidents that have decided to invade my life since last night.
"The man in the closet gave it to me…"
If there was ever a time to think in leet speak, "wtf" would definitely be the only thing that would come to mind.
"Huh?" I said. That was the only response I could muster. In fact, I'm surprised she even understood my mumble, since my "huh" came out like "Gugh?"
"Over there. The man living in your closet. He woke me up and gave it to me and told me to give it to you. He said you'd like it."
She pointed to the only closet in my apartment, a small walk-in with an old wooden door guarding a small amount of clothes, journals, art supplies and boxes of wires and old video game consoles. Sure enough, even though I haven't turned that doorknob for months, the door was cracked open just enough to cast a pizza-slice-shaped shadow on the floor, right next to an old stain on the carpet from when I stubbed my toe on the closet door frame and dropped a bottle of India ink I was holding. My foot was almost completely black from the ink, and had my foot not distracted the ink on the way down, the stain would have been a lot bigger.
I gently moved Ripley (even though she wasn't the least bit scared) behind me with my left arm as I held the box in my right and stared at the closet door from a few steps away. The box was giving off a hot sensation, almost too hot to hold. I wanted to set it down. Hell, I wanted to SMASH it, but there was no way I would risk Ripley getting hurt, so for now, I had to keep it close to me.
"Stay behind me," I ordered Ripley in an almost heroic manner, which is kinda funny, because I was feeling as far from heroic as Cringer before he's forced to morph into Battle Cat.
"What's his name?" she inquired. "He says he's lived here for a while, but I've never seen him. Do you know his name, Chadam?"
"No"
I was inching closer to the door. I wasn't even really listening to Ripley at this point. My deformed eye was watching the box out of my peripheral, while my good eye was looking at the darkness that lied behind the cracked closet door. I needed something to bash it with, if the situation should call for a celebratory bashing. I quickly panned the room, and somehow managed to do so without taking either eye off of its target. I saw a hammer on the kitchen sink that I use to knock the water faucet loose when it gets stuck.
Without taking my eyes off of the closet, I crossed my left arm over my chest and reached over the counter to grab the hammer. It would have to do. Hammers are one of the worst weapons when you're playing video games, but I guarantee that I can do some damage with this thing. I'll just have to get close.
I could feel my asthma coming on strong, but I inhaled as deeply as I could, causing a weird "wheeze" to escape from my sinuses, raised up my hammer, and I swing open the door to the closet and started to swing downward toward whoever was living among my old Nintendos.
Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, there was no one there. Not even any evidence. Just the same shit that's been in there for months.
A conniving, young cackle erupted from behind me.
Ripley was laughing, "HAHAHAHAHA! I tricked you!"
"What?" I was even more dumbfounded than before.
"You thought someone is living in your closet. Where would they go number 2, silly?"
I didn't know how to react. I wanted to fucking choke her. I mean, not really, but Jesus, had she any clue what the Hell I'd been through all night? Well, no, I guess she didn't. AND she's a kid. With a GOOD god damn imagination. It wasn't the first time she sent me on a goose chase to catch one of her imaginary friends, and I doubt it will be the last.
"That wasn't very funny, Ripley." I said, slightly embarrassed that I fell for a 6-year old's lure, "I've had a weird night, and….never mind, it doesn't really matter. Where did you really get this box? Its dangerous."
"They brought it and told me to give it to you." She said, like a broken record.
"Ripley, this isn't FUNNY, you and I both know no one is in the closet. You sound like the Poltergeist girl. Stop it." I was getting more impatient than I usually do.
"Not the man in the closet…THEY brought it in." Ripley then pointed to the bloody, broken window, which was now completely shattered and was letting more than the light from "The Sandman" sign in.
Posted on and around my widow sill, some inside, some outside, some hovering, was a flock of about a hundred pigeons, all with broken and battered bodies. And when my eyes connected with the closest to me, I noticed his beak was twisted, and his face smashed. I swear it was the pigeon that, only an hour or so ago, I held dead in my arms. And he was staring at me…