Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Seven Packages in Seven Days The Terrifying Countdown That Arrived on My Doorstep #54

Episode Date: July 16, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #countdownhorror #mysteriouspackages #doorknockdread #dailyterror #supernaturalwarning  One package a day. No return address. No explanation. Just eerie, cryptic contents that grew more disturbing as the days passed. Each delivery was part of a countdown—one that promised something horrific when it reached zero. “Seven Packages in Seven Days” is a slow-burning psychological nightmare about fate, fear, and the unknown force that knows exactly where you live… and what’s coming for you.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, mysteriousdelivery, cursedpackages, supernaturalcountdown, doorstepterror, paranoiahorror, eeriegifts, hauntedmail, ritualwarning, countingtowarddoom, ominousparcels, unexplainedevents, suspensebuilds, creepingfear, unwantedarrival

It started exactly one week ago. Last Tuesday. I came home from work, just a regular day, nothing out of the ordinary, and there it was, sitting on my doorstep. A small package, about the size of a thick novel, maybe a bit wider. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, the kind you get from a roll. It was sealed very thoroughly with clear packing tape, like someone really didn't want it to come open accidentally. The weird thing was, there was no one.

no return address. No stamps. No postmark. Just my address, neatly printed in the center in plain, black, block capital letters. It looked like it had been typed on a label maker, or maybe printed from a computer. It was definitely my address, perfectly correct. My first thought was that a neighbor had dropped something off, or maybe a local delivery that didn't go through the usual channels. I wasn't expecting anything. I picked it up. It wasn't particularly heavy, but it felt solid. I shook it gently. Nothing rattled. I brought it inside, set it on the kitchen counter, and just stared at it for a bit. There's a certain level of unease that comes with an anonymous package, you know, especially these days. But it wasn't ticking,

it didn't look suspicious in that way. It just looked, blank. Impersonal. I considered opening it right then, but something held me back. A little niggle of. I don't know, caution. Or maybe just the fact that I was tired from work and wanted to unwind. I left it on the counter and mostly forgot about it for the rest of the evening.

The next day, Wednesday, another one arrived. Identical. Same brown paper, same meticulous taping, same typed label with my address. No return info, no stamps. Just, there. On my doorstep, waiting for me when I got home. Now, two is a pattern. This wasn't a misdelivery or a friendly neighbor anymore.

This was intentional. I felt a prickle of anxiety. I picked it up, and it felt exactly the same as the first one. Same size, same weight, same lack of rattling. I placed it next to the first one on the counter. They looked like twins. My mind started racing. Was it some kind of weird marketing gimmick?

A prank? I asked my immediate neighbors if they'd seen anyone drop anything off. Mrs. Henderson next door, who sees everything, said she hadn't noticed anything unusual. I even called the local post office. described the packages and asked if they had any record of a delivery service that might operate this way. The guy on the phone sounded bored and unhelpful, basically told me if it didn't have postage, it wasn't their problem. Could be a courier, could be anyone, he'd mumbled before suggesting I call the non-emergency police line if I was concerned. Thursday. Another package.

Same as the others. Now I had three of them lined up on my counter. The anxiety. The anxiety. was definitely stronger. This wasn't funny anymore. It felt invasive. Someone knew where I lived, and they were deliberately, repeatedly, sending me these mute, anonymous things. I did call the non-emergency line. I explained the situation to the officer who took my call. I tried to keep my voice calm, rational. Look, I know it sounds minor, I said, but it's three days in a row now. identical packages, no sender info. It's just, unsettling. The officer listened, or at least I think she did. She asked if the packages seem threatening, if I'd been threatened by anyone. I said no, not overtly. They just were. She suggested it was probably a misguided prank,

or maybe some company's bizarre sample distribution. You could just, not accept them. She offered, as if I had a choice when they were just left on my doorstep. Or throw them away if they're making you uncomfortable. Unless there's an actual threat, sir, there's not much we can do about someone leaving items on your property if they're not hazardous. Helpful. So helpful. Friday. Package number four. I actually felt a nod in my stomach when I saw it.

I didn't even want to touch it this time. I nudged it with my foot first, then reluctantly picked it up. Same. Exactly the same. The pile on my counter was growing. It felt like they were watching me. Saturday. Package number five. I was starting to feel besieged. I wasn't sleeping well. Every creek in the house made me jump. I kept looking out the windows, hoping to catch whoever was doing this. I even stayed up late on Friday night, watching. Watch the porch from the darkened living room, but I must have dozed off because there it was on Saturday morning when I went to get the newspaper. Sunday. Package number six. My weekend was ruined.

I barely left the house. I just kept staring at the six packages. They were a silent, oppressive presence in my kitchen. I'd walk past them, and my eyes would be drawn to them. What was inside? Why me? The question of the question. The question of the question. The question of the one. The question of the Questions looped endlessly in my head. I thought about taking them somewhere, the police station maybe, and just dumping them on their desk. But what would that achieve? They'd already told me they couldn't do anything. I considered opening them, of course.

Many times. The curiosity was immense, a burning itch under my skin. But it was mixed with a potent dose of fear. What if it was something horrible? Something dangerous. The not knowing was torment, but the knowing could be worse. My imagination, fueled by lack of sleep and growing paranoia, was conjuring up all sorts of grim possibilities. And then yesterday, Monday, the seventh package arrived.

I saw it from the window as I was making coffee, my hands shaking slightly. Another one. Seven days. A full week. That number, seven, it just, it felt significant. ominous, even. Like an ultimatum, or a countdown reaching its end. I didn't go to work yesterday. I called in sick. I couldn't have focused anyway. I spent the day pacing, staring at the seven packages now lined up like grotesque brown bricks. The kitchen felt smaller, the air thicker.

I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I couldn't let this go on. I had to know, The not knowing was eating me alive. So, I decided. Last night, I'd wait until it was late, until the world outside was quiet. Then, I would open them. All of them. The hours crawled by. I tried to distract myself with TV, with a book, but my gaze kept drifting back to the packages.

They seemed to hum with a silent, expectant energy. Or maybe that was just the buzzing in my eye. own head. Finally, around midnight, I couldn't stand it anymore. The house was dead silent. The only sound was the frantic thumping of my own heart. I went to the kitchen. The seven packages sat there, accusingly. I took a deep breath, grabbed a utility knife, and picked up the first one, the one that had arrived last Tuesday. My hands were clammy. The tape was tough, layered. It took some effort to cut through it cleanly. I peeled back the brown paper carefully, as if disarming a bomb. Inside, there was a simple, white, unsealed envelope. Standard letter size. My name and address weren't

on this inner envelope. It was completely blank. My heart hammered against my ribs. I slid my finger under the flap and pulled out what was inside. It was a single sheet of plain white paper. size, like printer paper. On it, there was a drawing. A child's drawing. Or at least, it looked like one. Done in what looked like black crayon, or maybe a thick marker. It was crude, simplistic. It depicted a house. Two windows, a door, a triangle roof. Simple. But, it was my house. unmistakably. The shape of it, the placement of the front window, even the slightly crooked gutter I've been meaning to fix. It was my house. To the far left of the page, almost at the very edge, was a stick figure. Just a circle for a head, a line for a body, two for arms, two for

legs. In one of its stick hands, it held another, smaller line, with a blob of red crayon at the tip. A knife. A bloody knife. Above the drawing at the top of the page were two words, also seemingly handwritten in that same black marker, in messy block letters, day one. I stared at it, a cold dread seeping into me. Day one. This was the package from last Tuesday. My house. A stick figure with a bloody knife, far away. What did it mean? My breath here. My breath hitched. I reached for the second package, the one from Wednesday. My fingers fumbled with the utility knife, my movements jerky. I sliced it open, pulled out the identical white envelope, then the single sheet of paper. Another drawing. The same house, my house. The same stick figure,

holding the same red-tipped knife. But this time, the stick figure was a little closer to the house. Not dramatically, but noticeably. It was no longer at the very edge of the page. It had moved perhaps an inch or two inward, towards the drawing of my home. And above this drawing, day two, a wave of nausea hit me. Oh God! No. I scrambled for the third package, tearing at the brown paper with frantic energy. Envelope.

Paper Drawing Day 3 My house The stick figure Closer still Now it was about a third of the way across the page marching steadily towards the depiction of my sanctuary

The red on the knife seemed brighter, somehow More deliberate I didn't need to be gentle anymore I ripped open the fourth package Day 4 The stick figure was halfway to the house It's crude, featureless circlehead seemed to be staring right at the front door. My front door.

My breathing was shallow, ragged. A whimper escaped my lips. This couldn't be happening. It was a sick joke. It had to be. But the sheer, methodical commitment, seven packages, seven days. Package five. Day five.

The stick figure was now much close. maybe three-quarters of the way there. It was almost in the yard of the crudely drawn house. The knife it held seemed larger, or maybe it was just my terror magnifying it. I was shaking uncontrollably now. My hands were slick with sweat. I could barely grip the utility knife. Package number six. The one from Sunday. I slashed it open, not even bothering with the envelope, just ripping the paper out. The stick figure. It was practically at the porch steps in the drawing. Looming. Its presence filled that side of the page. The red on the knife was a sickening smear. One package left.

The one from yesterday. Day 7. I hesitated. A part of me, a screaming, terrified part, didn't want to see it. wanted to burn them all to pretend this wasn't happening. But I had to. I had to know how this grotesque storyboard ended. With trembling fingers, I picked up the seventh package. It felt colder than the others, heavier, though I knew it was an illusion, a product of my fear. I cut it open. Pulled out the envelope.

Pulled out the page. Day 7. The drawing. My house. and the stick figure, it wasn't just close. It was there, standing right in front of the door. Its stick arm was raised, the one with the bloody knife. It was positioned as if it was about to knock, or to slash.

Its featureless head was tilted slightly. I stared at the page, my blood turning to ice. The silence in the kitchen was absolute, save for the roaring in my ears. Day 7. Today. The stick man was at my door. In the drawing. Knock. Knock. Knock.

I screamed. Not a loud scream, more like a choked gasp, a sound ripped from my throat. The sound had come from my actual front door. Three distinct, solid knocks. My heart leaped into my throat, threatening to choke me. I stumbled back from the counter, knocking a glass to the floor. It shattered, the sound unnaturally loud in the charged silence. The drawings, the stickman at the door in the day seven picture, and now this.

Who, who's there? I managed to call out, my voice a hoarse whisper. I didn't expect an answer. I didn't want an answer. Silence. For a moment, I thought maybe I'd imagined it. The stress, the horrific drawings. Then it came.

Not a voice. Not another knock. It was a tapping. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. It was light, almost delicate, like fingernails on wood. But the rhythm, it was a melody. A perverted, skeletal version of a lullaby. Slow, deliberate, chillingly patient.

Each tap seemed to resonate through the house, through me. I was paralyzed. Every horror movie cliche, every primal fear, it was all real, all crashing down on me. The drawings were a countdown, a warning. And the clock had just struck zero. The lullaby tapping continued, a soft, insidious rhythm against the wood of my front door. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Over and over.

My mind, finally jolted out of its frozen terror by a surge of adrenaline, screamed one word, police. I fumbled for my phone, which I'd thankfully left on the counter. My fingers were clumsy, slick with sweat. I almost dropped it. I dialed 9-1-1, my breath coming in ragged gasps. 9-1-1, what's your emergency? The operator's voice was calm, professional, a stark contrast to the chaos erupted. interrupting inside me. Someone's, someone's at my door, I stammered, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

They're trying to get in. I think. I think they're dangerous. Okay, sir, what's your address? I gave it to her, my eyes darting between the kitchen doorway, which led towards the front hall, and the drawing spread out on the counter. That day seven drawing seemed to mock me. Is the person still there, sir. Yes. Yes, I can hear them. There, tapping. Like a song. My voice was trembling so badly I could barely form the words. Please, hurry. I got these, these packages, they showed this happening. Sir, I need you to stay on the line with me. Are you in a safe location in the house? Can you lock yourself in a room? I'm in the kitchen. The front door is, it's locked, but...

But what if a lock wasn't enough? What if the stick figure wasn't bound by normal rules? The tapping stopped. The silence that followed was somehow worse. Pregnant. Expectant. Sir. Are you still there?

The operator asked. Yes, yes. The tapping, it stopped. My voice was barely audible. Okay, officers are on their way. They should be there in approximately five minutes. Can you see the front door from where you are? No, not directly.

The layout of my house meant the kitchen was towards the back. But I'm not going near it. The operator tried to keep me calm, asking questions, but my attention was fractured. Every shadow seemed to move. Every tiny sound the house made, the settling of wood, the hum of the refreements, I was a footstep, a breath. Those were the longest five minutes of my life. I clutched the phone, staring at the drawings.

The progression. The relentless approach. It was so methodical, so patient. Then, finally, I heard it, the blessed sound of sirens in the distance, growing closer. A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled my knees, washed over me. Soon, there were flashing blue and red lights painting my windows. I heard car doors, voices outside. Then, a firm, authoritative knock.

Police. Open up. This time, I almost ran to the door. I fumbled with the dead bolt and chain, my hands still shaking, and threw it open. Two officers stood there, expression serious, hands near their holsters. Are you okay, sir? one of them asked, his eyes scanning past me into the house. I.

I think so. They were here. At the door, I babbled, ushering them in. The knocking, the tapping. I got these packages. I led them to the kitchen, my words tumbling out in a jumbled mess as I tried to explain the week of anonymous deliveries, the decision to open them, the horrifying drawings. I pointed to the seven sheets of paper laid out on the counter.

The officers exchanged a look. One of them, older, with tired eyes, leaned down to examine the drawings. He picked up day one, then day seven, his expression unreadable. The other, younger, walked through the ground floor, checking windows and the back door. Everything secure, no sign of forced entry, the younger officer reported when he returned. The older officer looked at me. Sir, when we arrived, there was no one at your door. We checked the perimeter of your house as we approached. No one. But...

I heard them. I insisted, my voice rising with a new kind underscore of panic. The knocking, the tapping lullaby. It was right there. We understand you're upset, sir, the older officer said, his tone carefully neutral. These drawings are, disturbing, I'll grant you. Could be some kind of very elaborate, very cruel prank. A prank? I felt a surge of frustration. This isn't a prank. This thing was at my door. We have a street-facing camera down at the

corner, the younger officer interjected. It sometimes catches activity on this block. We can check the footage from the time you called, see if anyone was approaching or leaving your property. A small flicker of hope. Yes, please. You'll see. They called it in. We waited. The kitchen felt cold again, the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving me exhausted and raw. The older officer asked me more questions, if I had any enemies, any recent disputes, anyone who might want to frighten me this badly. I couldn't think of anyone. My life is, quiet, normal. Or it was. After about 20 minutes, the younger officer's radio crackled. He listened, then looked at me, then at his partner.

His expression was, strange. Not quite pity, not quite skepticism. Well, I urged. He cleared his throat. Dispatch reviewed the camera footage from the last half hour. There's no one, sir. Nothing. No one approached your door, no one was on your property.

porch. The street was empty at the time you made the call. The words hit me like a physical blow. No one. The camera showed no one. But I'd heard it. The knocking. The tapping. It was real. I know it was. The officers were sympathetic, in that professional, detached way. They suggested I might have been under a lot of stress, that the drawings had understandably freaked me out. They implied I might have imagined the sounds, my mind playing tricks on me after such a disturbing discovery. One of them even gently suggested I might want to talk to someone, a doctor, maybe. They documented the drawings, took my statement. They said they'd file a report for harassment, but without a suspect, without any physical evidence of someone actually being there, there wasn't much more they could do.

They assured me I was safe. They even did an extra patrol around a block before they finally left. I locked the door behind them, the multiple locks clicking into place with a sound that offered zero comfort. Safe. They said I was safe. But I didn't feel safe. I felt more exposed, more vulnerable than ever. If there was no one there, then what had I heard?

What was tormenting me? I gathered the seven drawings, my hands still trembling. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. They were evidence, even if only I believed it. I put them back in their envelopes, then back in the brown paper wrappers, and tucked the whole terrible collection into a drawer, as if hiding them would hide the truth. I didn't sleep at all last night. I sat in my living room, in the dark, listening.

Every creek, every groan of the house settling, was the prelude to that knock, that tapping. But it didn't come. Until tonight. It's now, just after midnight. The same time I opened the packages last night. The same time the knocking started. And it's happening again. As I'm typing this, I can hear it. Knock. Knock. Knock. From the front door. Clear as day. Or, clear as night. My heart is a frantic bird in my chest. I called out, who's there, just like last night. My voice was a pathetic, shaky thing. No answer.

Just silence for a beat. And then. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. The lullaby. It's back. Fingernails on wood, a delicate, horrifying rhythm. I know if I call the police, they'll find no one. The cameras will show nothing. They'll think I'm crazy. Maybe I am. But that tapping,

it's real. I'm listening to it right now. It's soft, persistent. It's not demanding entry. It's just, there. Reminding me, the stick figure from day seven might not be physically standing on my porch. But something is. Something invited by those. drawings or something that sent them. I don't know what to do. I'm trapped in my own home, terrorized by a sound no one else can verify the END.