"It's cursed."
"Jesus," you say. "It's not cursed."
"Look me in the eyes and tell me it's not cursed," he says back, pointing his spoon at you aggressively.
"It's not cursed, Abe."
"Okay, you were not looking anywhere NEAR my eyes when you said that."
"Oh my god, can you please try to be helpful here."
"This is me being helpful! You asked for my professional, scientific opinion, and my opinion is that that box is cursed. This is textbook shit, bro."
You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose. It doesn't make you feel any better. "Okay, first of all, you took one folklore class sophomore year, that does not make you a professional."
"Tell that to the 69 I got on my final paper."
"Abe, that makes you LESS credible, if anything. Second of all, I didn't even ask you to come over. You just showed up and started eating my yogurt. This whole interaction is pure coincidence."
"Only more evidence that it's cursed," he says while balancing the spoon on the yogurt container, not bothering to look at you. "Clearly some dark force compelled me to come here."
The two of you are standing in the kitchen of your apartment. It's a Tuesday afternoon, and there's a small black box sitting on your counter. It's labeled "TO J" in streaky silver sharpie.
"It's gotta be a mistake," you say after a moment.
"Yeah," Abe says, "your name doesn't even start with 'J'. Unless, wait, what's your middle name?"
"Kendall."
Abe smacks the counter with one hand, as if he's had a great revelation. "'K', that's one letter after 'J'. It's a sign!"
"I really don't think it's a sign," you say dryly, and then: "Should we just open it?"
"Yes," Abe says immediately. "Yes, that's the obvious, logical next step. Fuck yes we should open it."
You nudge it towards him. "Open it, then."
He recoils. "Uh, fuck no, that's your curse to deal with. I finished paying off my student loans last week, I'm not dying today."
"Sunk cost fallacy," you counter. "The fact that you've paid off your loans shouldn't affect your future decisions, i.e. opening this box."
"Okay, I don't think you understand what sunk cost means," Abe says.
"Whatever," you say. "Fine. I'll open it."
He punches the air. "That's what I'm talking about."
"I hate you so much," you mutter, and grab a pair of kitchen scissors.
The act of opening the box itself turns out to be sort of anticlimactic. It's obviously a normal package, the type you get at Target for a few bucks, that someone half-heartedly spray-painted black. It takes you about ten seconds to cut through the cheap packing tape. You glance at Abe, who wiggles his eyebrows at you, and then pull back the flaps.
You both peer inside, and you hear him gasp quietly beside you.
"What the fuck," he whispers, all joking gone from his voice.
You don't say anything.
"What the fuck," Abe repeats, growing louder. "That's a human fucking hand."
You still don't say anything. It doesn't register. You see it, you see the fingers and the knuckles and the neat white of a wrist bone, but your brain refuses to put the pieces together.
"That's a hand," Abe is saying, "why is there a hand in your kitchen, why did someone send you a hand, why is there a hand in a box in your kitchen–"
And then: "Can you please say something? I'm not crazy right, there's a human–"
"I see it," you interrupt, and your voice sounds muffled. "You're not crazy. I see it."
"What the hell do we do?" he asks you, scrubbing at his face and turning away from the box. "Do we call the police? I never read those ABC Mysteries books as a kid, I'm not build for this shit."
"You should go home," you hear yourself say.
Abe gawks. "No, I can't just fucking–"
"Abe," you cut in, "go home. I'm serious. You don't need to be involved in this. The box showed up at my doorstep, not yours. You don't need to be part of this." Your tone shifts to pleading. You need to make him understand.
He stares at you, not moving for a moment. "What the hell, dude? I'm as much a part of this as you are. I can't just fucking go home and pretend I didn't just see a severed fucking hand." He roughly pushes his hair out of his face. "What am I supposed to say to Tilden?"
"Nothing," you say sharply, and grab his shoulders when he scoffs. "You don't need to say anything. You don't. Just forget about this. Please, Abe. I'm begging you. Just go home."
He looks at you, hard and disbelieving, and then shrugs out of your grip. "Fine. Fine, I'll leave." He strides to the door and twists the handle open, then turns to glare at you. "But you owe me a fucking explanation."
"I promise," you say. He stares at you for a moment longer, then slams the door shut behind him.
The silence makes the air feel heavy. You can't be mad at him. He's never seen anything like that before. How else was he supposed to react? He wasn't supposed to be here when you opened the box, you're positive of that. Just a terrible coincidence.
You sit at the counter heavily, and get out your phone. You wonder briefly if you should take a picture of the hand, but that seems crass.
You dial a number and press call. It rings three times, and then there's a soft pause as the call connects. You wait a moment, but she doesn't speak.
"I got your gift," you say finally, "you wrapped it like shit." You hear a small puff of static, like she's laughing. "What was the 'J' supposed to mean?"
It's quiet for too long, like she's mocking you, and you're just about to hang up when you hear her take a breath.
"Darling," she purrs, and your heartbeat quickens traitorously at the sound, "your middle name."
You blink stupidly, and her voice drips like blood through the phone.
"Kendall. 'J' is one letter after 'K'. I thought it was obvious."
