Lockdown Care Package Stream by TDVH

 The battery percentage on my phone just ticked down to 7%. I’ve dimmed the screen until the text is almost illegible, and I’m huddled in the far corner of the reinforced closet I once joked was "overkill" when I moved into this Seattle apartment. Outside this steel door, the world is silent. That’s the worst part of the lockdown—the silence. It makes every floorboard creak sound like a footstep. But this time, it isn't my imagination. I can hear the metallic rhythm of my own spare keys rattling against the door’s keypad.

I need to get this down. I need there to be a record of how "The Unboxing" ended.

It started in the third month of the mandatory stay-at-home orders. I’m a full-time streamer—mostly cozy games and late-night chat sessions—and the isolation was starting to rot my brain. My apartment, a sleek, minimalist space on the fourth floor, had become a gilded cage. To bridge the gap between me and the three thousand strangers who watched me every night, I announced a "Lockdown Goodie Bag" series.

"Send me your survival kits!" I told the camera, flashing a bright, practiced smile. "Show me how you’re staying sane. Puzzles, snacks, whatever. Let’s survive this together."

I gave out a PO Box, thinking the post office’s vetting process would act as a shield. For the first two weeks, it was wholesome. It was the highlight of my day. I’d sit in my ergonomic chair, the ring light reflected in my eyes, and peel back packing tape for an hour. I received hand-poured candles that smelled like rain, custom-painted gaming controllers, and enough artisanal coffee to keep me awake until 2027.

But around week three, the tone of the packages shifted. It wasn't anything you could report to the police—not at first. It was just... specific.

The first "off" package was a small, unmarked bubble mailer. Inside was a single, vintage music box. It was beautiful, made of dark, polished wood with intricate brass gears. When I wound it up, it played a haunting, slowed-down version of a lullaby. My heart skipped a beat as the melody filled my studio. It was the exact song my grandmother used to hum to me—a folk song from a specific, tiny region in the Appalachian Mountains. I had never mentioned it on stream. I’d never even thought about that song in a decade.

"Someone did their homework!" I laughed into the mic, though a cold prickle moved down my spine. The chat scrolled by with Pog and Beautiful, oblivious to the fact that this song wasn't on any public playlist of mine.

Three days later, a heavy envelope arrived. Inside was a vacuum-sealed container of homemade chicken noodle soup. It was still warm—the plastic was fogged with steam. A handwritten note was taped to the side in a cramped, vertical script: “You sounded like you were getting a cold on Tuesday’s stream. You need to keep your strength up, Elena. Eat every drop.”

I stared at the soup. On Tuesday, I had cleared my throat exactly once. I hadn't even mentioned feeling sick. I lived on the fourth floor of a restricted-access building with a locked lobby and a twenty-four-hour concierge who was supposed to be screening deliveries. How was this soup still warm?

I didn't eat it. I dumped it down the drain the moment the "Stream Offline" graphic hit the screen. But as the soup swirled away, I noticed something in the bottom of the container. A small, plastic bead. It was a replica of a tooth. A child’s molar.

The "gifts" began to arrive every day. I tried to stop going to the PO Box, but the packages started appearing at my actual door. My concierge, a guy named Marcus, swore he hadn't seen anyone come up. "Must be the night shift guys," he’d say, not looking me in the eye.

The chat started to change, too. A user named 'The_Archivist' began donating small amounts—just enough to trigger the text-to-speech voice—every ten minutes.

“Elena, the blue dress looks better than the black one you wore yesterday.” “Elena, you forgot to lock the window in the bathroom.” “Elena, why did you throw away the soup? It was made with love.”

I banned him, of course. But five minutes later, a new account would appear. 'Archivist_2', 'Archivist_3'. The moderators couldn't keep up. The terror was becoming a sub-plot of my content. My viewership spiked. People weren't tuning in for the games anymore; they were tuning in to see what the stalker would send next. I was trapped in a feedback loop of my own making—I needed the income from the stream to pay for the apartment, but the stream was the very thing feeding the monster.

Last night was the "Grand Finale."

I had told the chat I was ending the series. I was scared, and I didn't care who knew it. I sat in my chair, my back to the darkened hallway, and pulled a large, wooden crate onto my desk. It was heavy, smelling of damp earth and something metallic—like old pennies.

"This is the last one," I said, my voice cracking. "Whatever is in here, we’re done after this."

I took a screwdriver and pried the lid. The wood groaned and splintered. I reached inside, expecting more "creepy" memorabilia. Instead, I pulled out a handful of my own trash.

A discarded electricity bill from two months ago. An empty pill bottle for my anxiety medication. A clump of hair from my shower drain, tied with a black ribbon. And then, at the very bottom, sat a velvet pouch.

I opened it, and my breath hitched. It was a set of spare keys. My spare keys. The ones I had lost months ago while hiking. I had assumed they were gone forever. I’d even had the locks changed—or so I thought.

As I held the keys up to the camera, a notification pinged on my second monitor. It was a system alert from my SmartHome app.

Front door status: UNLOCKED. User: MASTER_ADMIN.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. I froze, staring at the little green icon on the screen that confirmed my front door—the only way in or out of this apartment—had just been opened.

I didn't wait to see who it was. I didn't check the hallway. I grabbed my phone and dived for the panic room. I slammed the steel door and threw the manual bolts, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it felt like it would crack them.

I sat there in the dark, gasping, until I remembered the stream was still running. I pulled up the Twitch app on my phone.

The camera was still focused on my empty chair. A few seconds later, a figure stepped into the frame. He was wearing a dark, heavy parka and a mask that looked like it was made of molded plastic—a featureless, white face with no mouth.

He didn't look for me. He knew exactly where I was. Instead, he sat down in my chair. He adjusted the microphone. He looked at the camera, and for a long moment, he just watched the chat scroll by in a frenzy of terror.

Then, he reached into the crate and pulled out a small, portable device. He plugged it into my computer’s USB port.

A sound began to play through my phone’s speakers. It was a recording of me. Not a recording of a stream, but a recording of me right now, inside the panic room, gasping for air. The delay was only a few seconds. He was broadcasting my terror to the world.

"The final unboxing," he said. The voice wasn't his. It was a perfectly synthesized, digital version of my own voice. It was indistinguishable from me. "We’ve opened the house. We’ve opened the history. Now, we just have to open the girl."

He stood up and walked toward the camera. He picked up the heavy ring light and turned it toward the hallway—toward the door I’m sitting behind right now.

I heard his footsteps. They weren't fast. There was no urgency. He walked with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who owned the space. He stopped just outside the door.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He’s hitting the steel plate with my spare keys. He knows I can hear the metal-on-metal ring.

"Elena," the voice said from the other side—my own voice, calm and melodic. "You forgot to include the charger in the goodie bag. It’s okay. I’m coming in to get it."

The keypad on the door just lit up. I can see the red glow through the crack at the bottom. He’s inputting the factory reset code. He’s not guessing; he knows it. The lockdown was never about keeping the world out. It was about making sure I was exactly where he wanted me when he finally arrived to collect the last package.

My battery is at 2%. The bolts are starting to slide back.

If you're reading this, don't look for me. Look for the person sitting in my chair. Because by the time the police get here, he’ll be wearing my life better than I ever did.