It was the voice of the short postman that had delivered the first two packages. He peered at the quivering, lumpy package lying on the doorstep of 42 Spiker Street. He waited with a tranquil complexion until the package finally stopped squirming. He heard Mary’s last breath escape her cold lips, and rolled his eyes.
“Finally!” he mumbled.
His job was complete. He rang the doorbell and disappeared into the night.
Stuck onto the now still paper package was a small note. It read:
Don’t look for us in shadows, you will never find us; we always hide in plain sight.