It arrived like most cursed things do—quietly, without knocking, and way too early in the morning.
At 5:17 a.m., I jolted awake to the sound of paper rustling. Not the cute kind of rustle, like someone gift-wrapping joy, but the dry, crackling whisper of something ancient unfolding where it shouldn't be. My bedroom was dark except for the faint blue light of my phone screen glowing on the nightstand. No pings. No new job notification. Just silence. And yet, something was off.
Then I saw it.
Lying neatly on top of my chest, like a sleeping cat that wanted to consume my soul: a black, leather-bound manual. Thick. Heavy. Smelled like moldy library and bad decisions. The cover simply read: "DROPDEAD EXPRESS: SHIFT REGULATIONS – UNRELEASED EDITION." And under that, scribbled in something that looked like red ink (I hoped it was ink): "For Ray Alvarez. Read when desperate."
Desperate? I was beyond that. I was in the neighborhood of confused, bordering on mentally sautéed. I picked it up and felt a faint pulse run through it. Not metaphorical. This book had a heartbeat.
"Of course you do," I muttered.
I flipped open the cover. Page one was blank. Page two just said:
"Warning: Readers may experience hallucinations, spontaneous nostalgia, or a strong desire to scream. Continue?"
I stared at it. "Well, I haven't screamed in a while." I turned the page.
Immediately, the walls of my apartment flickered. Like someone had hit the reality dimmer switch. My moped floated past my window. Inside the apartment. I blinked. It was gone. Cool. This was fine.
The manual's next section was titled "REGULATION 7C: NEVER OPEN A PACKAGE IN A DREAM." I frowned. Below the title, the manual started rewriting itself in real-time.
"Dear Ray, this chapter is tailored for your mental instability. Please avoid panicking while we recalibrate your cognitive timeline."
"WHAT?"
The room bent sideways.
I found myself standing in a corridor of shifting doors. One opened. My childhood bedroom. Except the wallpaper was made of shipping labels and a tiny version of me was taping shut a box while humming the DropDead Express jingle.
"Do not engage," the manual warned.
I backed away. Another door opened. My apartment again—but I was older. Grayer. Staring at a wall covered in strings and thumbtacks and post-its all saying the same thing: "GET OUT BEFORE SHIFT 100."
"Cool, love that for me," I muttered. The corridor spun. I fell.
When I came to, I was back in bed, clutching the manual. It was glowing faintly now.
I flipped to the next page. This one was written in Courier font, like an old typewriter had had a breakdown:
"Hallucination Phase Complete. Shift Reality Stabilizing. Side Effects May Include: Nostalgic Crying, Existential Humor, Sudden Ability to Speak Latin."
"Wait—what?" I tried saying "I don't speak Latin," but what came out was "Ego sum pastam confusam."
The manual flipped itself to the next section. A big heading this time: "FIELD GUIDE TO SENTIENT PACKAGES."
Underneath were sketches. Some I recognized. The one that tried to bite me. The one that sobbed. The one that leaked black ooze and whispered conspiracy theories about the moon. But others were new. One had legs. One had eyes. One looked like my ex and I wasn't ready to unpack that metaphor.
The next page featured a full-body sketch of... me.
"WARNING: COURIER SHOWING SIGNS OF SYSTEM ABSORPTION. MEMORY LEAKAGE DETECTED. POSSIBLE TEMPORAL ECHOES."
I tapped the page. It didn't respond.
"Hey! I am not leaking memories!"
My kitchen radio suddenly turned on.
"…and that's the weather for 1997. Now, back to our sponsor—DropDead Express, delivering packages you forgot you asked for!"
I threw the manual across the room. It landed with a thud and groaned like it had a hangover.
The walls flickered again. The clock on my stove spun backward. My phone melted a little, then reformed into a pager that beeped: "YOU'VE GOT SHIFT."
I picked up the manual again. It had cooled down. The final page had appeared.
"To exit hallucination, complete delivery to self."
And next to it, a package. Small. Sitting on the foot of my bed.
I didn't put it there.
It had my name. No address. No instructions. Just "OPEN IMMEDIATELY OR RISK DETERIORATION."
I cracked it open. Inside: the manual again. But newer. Not haunted. A post-it stuck to the front:
"Now you've read it. Next time, listen. - Management"
Suddenly, everything stopped. The lights normalized. The air returned. My brain stopped doing jumping jacks.
I sat there for a long time, clutching the fresh manual.
Was it over? Or had I just been... updated?
I checked my phone. One new ping:
NEW SHIFT INCOMING. DESTINATION: ELEVATOR BUILDING. FLOORS: UNKNOWN.
My stomach twisted. The next job was coming. And now I had a manual that screamed and a head full of other people's memories.
Still, I sighed, got dressed, and grabbed my courier bag.
Because screaming manual or not, I still had a job to do.