Delivery To Nowhere

The first order pings from 0 Meridian Lane, an address my app swears is “verified.” When I get there, it’s just an empty lot framed by a sagging chain-link fence and a single crooked STOP sign. No house, no mailbox, no lights—but the payment clears instantly, along with a tip big enough to make me double-check the decimal point.

More orders follow over the next week. Noodle bowls at dawn. Waffles at 2 a.m. A single banana delivered at noon sharp. Each time I roll up, the lot is unchanged, yet my phone vibrates with another impossible tip. I start talking to the emptiness out of nervous habit—“Order for… whoever?”—and the air always seems to shift in response, as if someone invisible is stepping closer to take the bag.

Tonight’s request is different. Shorter. Colder. Final delivery. Bring yourself.

When I arrive, the STOP sign is spinning in a wind I can’t feel. My app glows a soft, pulsing red: Customer approaching.

And there—where the empty lot should be—stands a narrow doorframe made of nothing but shadow, cracked open, leaking darkness. My phone dings: Please come in.

The tip appears before I take the first step.