Last night, I went to the location that was specified, arriving (as I often do) half an hour early. The location had turned out to be a vacant lot in the dead center of the bad part of town. To say it wasn’t an ideal location is quite the understatement, so I brought a pistol with me, just in case someone decided to come along and relieve me of my wallet. I sat in my car, parked right outside of the lot, checking my watch occasionally, and wondering exactly why I was following the instructions of an odd nightmare I’d had the previous week.
When 8:00 arrived, nothing seemed to happen at first. I was about to drive away, but some part of me wouldn’t let me leave just yet. I stepped out of the car and walked to the lot, my hand over my holster in case someone got any ideas. I waited, but still nothing happened. I turned around to go back to my car and yelped a little bit when I saw the man in my path. This dark-haired young man wore a tan trench coat and an irritated. He had one hand planted firmly in his trench coat, and I could bet he wasn’t holding a stress ball at the ready.
“Matthew Moore?” he all-but demanded.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I said, reflexively putting my hands up and sweating like mad.
“Mr 6!” I heard a voice from behind me say. “How many times do I have to tell you not to scare our subjects.”
I whirled around to see two other men who had seemingly just appeared behind me. One man had short, white hair; wore a plain grey suit; and regarded me with a smile that, judging by the wrinkles around his eyes, was his natural expression. The other was younger, roughly the same age as the tan-coated fellow; wore a white suit; and barely looked at me at all, instead jotting something down on a notepad he held in his hand.
“My apologies,” said the smiling man “Mr 6 tends to get twitchy when he hasn’t had much to do in a while.” He walked over and gave my hand a quick shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Matthew, you can call me Dr 8.”
“N-nice to meet you too.” I responded, giggling slightly.
“Let me get right to the point, Matthew, we have an offer for you. If you do a small favor for us, we’ll add 2 grand to your bank account.”
I pursed my lips and asked, “W-what do you want me to d-do?”
Dr 8 smirked a little and handed me a small, brown manilla folder. “Next week, there’s a basketball game at the local high school. We just want you to watch the game and leave this folder under your seat. That’s all.”
I took this package and tucked it under my arm. “I’ll do it.” I said after giving it surprisingly little thought. “However, if you don’t mind me ask-”
“Do the task for us,” Dr 8 answered, putting his finger over my lips “and we’ll tell you how we first contacted you.”
The man in the white suit looked up and pointed at his watch.
“Sorry, Matthew, that’s all the time we have to talk to you. I’d ask that you not look in the envelope, but I know you’re not the sort to snoop. Please do this favor, and we’ll pay you and answer your questions.”
With that, all three of the men started to walk away. I was going to say something, but the minute I blinked, I was alone. I thought for a second that I had just imagined this, but the envelope was still there, tucked under my arm.
I don’t know what to do, but I think I may do as that man said. I don’t smell any odd chemicals on the package, and it’s too flat to contain a bomb or anything like that. Even if these people are criminals, delivering a harmless package isn’t going to implicate me, is it?
However, even though I know I’m not supposed to, I can’t help but wonder what actually is in there. It certainly feels like the contents are papers, but what could they possibly say? The urge to peek is almost overwhelming, but the man was right. Privacy has always been important to me, and I hate to violate it for others almost as much as I hate others violating my own. Yet, hard as I try, I still can’t shake my curiosity.
I’m still uncertain, but right now, it seems that this favor is the one way I can really get any answers.