A man received a package as a birthday present. The package was tightly sealed, but it showed signs of wear. There were no details regarding who sent it. He tried to ask the delivery guy, but he was already driving away, and he didn't bother chasing him. He quickly went back into his house and unwrapped the package.
To his surprise, he found a vase inside. The vase was tall and round with curves all around it. It looked like it had been crafted from old clay, judging by its deep brown color. There was a lid on top, but inside the vase, there was nothing—only the heavy smell of old earth. The man was confused as to who had sent the gift. He double-checked the torn packaging, but there was no letter, and the address was smudged and unreadable. He took the vase into his living room, thinking it must have been sent by someone he knew since it was his birthday.
Later that evening, he called his wife, asking her if she was going to make it home. His wife was a doctor and had a night shift, but she promised him they would celebrate. The man ordered an Uber and took a shower. When he was done, he checked his phone; the app said the Uber had already arrived, but he didn't see anyone outside. He didn't pay it much mind, thinking it was an error with the app. He took some food from the fridge, put it in the oven, and started watching a series on Netflix.
He was startled awake by the sound of his phone ringing late at night. He had fallen asleep on the couch. It was his wife calling, but he couldn't hear her; the only sound was heavy static. He called her name, but there was no answer, and then the call ended. Worried, he tried to call her back, but she didn't pick up. Panic started creeping in, but he reassured himself she was likely driving through an area with a bad signal. To calm himself, he watched a horror movie. When it ended, he went upstairs to his bedroom and fell asleep, knowing his wife would arrive soon.
As he slept, he had a terrible dream. He was in a cramped space, almost like a coffin, and beside him lay the vase. When he woke up, he was drenched in sweat as if he had run a marathon. His phone rang once more. It was his wife, her voice distorted: "Honey, I'm home. Can you please let me in? The door is locked."
Quickly, he wiped the sweat from his face with a towel and ran downstairs. Just as he reached for the lock, the door banged hard. His wife's voice begged him to let her in, saying it was cold outside. A thought struck the man—he and his wife both carried a key. Why couldn't she just open the door herself?
The door banged again, louder. His wife's voice pleaded, saying she was exhausted from work. Just as he was about to brush the thought aside, his phone rang again. This time, it was his wife on the line. She told him she couldn't make it home after all; her shift wouldn't end early, and she was too tired to drive, so she was staying at the hospital.
The man swallowed hard, his throat tight, still holding the phone to his ear. At the door, the banging stopped. Curious, he pressed his ear to the wood. Silence. Then, a wet, clay-like scratching sound began on the other side.
"I'm still here," a voice whispered. It no longer sounded like his wife, but like something trying to imitate her. "It's cold. And you're so warm in there..."
The man's heart raced. He didn't know if he was dreaming or awake. He looked through the peephole. There she was—his wife—holding her arms around herself to keep warm. But upon closer inspection, he noticed something unnatural. Her hands were bent at impossible angles, and she was shaking uncontrollably. The woman looked directly into the peephole and asked if he was just going to watch her freeze all night.
The man grabbed a cooking knife from the kitchen. "I don't know what you are," he shouted toward the door. "My wife is at the hospital! She has her keys! Where are your keys?"
The thing outside paused. Then, it began banging on the door repeatedly, screaming: "Please let me in! Please let me in!"
Terrified, the man tried to call 911, but the phone only emitted static. He turned to prayer, though he wasn't a believer. He prayed until the sounds stopped. Suddenly, a massive bang on the door sent him slipping backward, hitting his head hard on the edge of the stairs.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in his bed. It was almost 3:00 AM. He was relieved it had been a dream—until he felt a presence in the bed next to him. He remembered his wife saying she was staying at the hospital. He repeated her words over and over in his head, terrified to turn over and see who was lying there with him. He felt dizzy, his heart heavy.
The next morning, his wife arrived home and unlocked the door. She was surprised to find a red stain below the peephole. She called out for her husband as she ran upstairs. A scream echoed through the house. Her husband's lifeless body lay on the bed, and the room reeked of wet, old clay.
She turned to run for her phone, but the house had transformed into a maze of endless stairs. Every door she opened led back to the bedroom where her husband lay. When she finally found her phone, it emitted only static and muffled laughter.
When the police arrived, they found two bodies. The man had suffocated; his skin was grey and hardened like baked clay, his jaw frozen open. The woman had died of a heart attack. The only evidence they found was the vase and a note inside with strange writing. When deciphered, it read:
Happy Birthday, Shariah. It started with us and ends with them.
The victims were identified as Mr. and Mrs. Halkens. Neither of them was named Shariah.