Cold storage, Pt.1
A short story I've been working on and feel brave enough to share.
I don’t know how the hand got in my freezer.
Before you besmirch my good name with sordid accusations, know this: I had nothing to do with the hand or its arrival in my half-empty freezer.
It just showed up one day, an uninvited and unwelcome guest. The kind that ‘pops’ in like such an event is something to be enjoyed or appreciated. Opening the freezer door, I was stunned, like I’d been walked in on in the shower.
It just sat there—leaning against my dwindling supply of peas—like it had always been there. Four fingers and a thumb frozen in a zip-lock bag. A left hand, clean and manicured, small with slim fingers. Maybe a woman’s hand.
Now, when such an object appears in your home, without your knowledge or consent, the only sensible thing to do is use a pair of kitchen tongs to get a closer look. Don’t pick it up with your bare hands, you’ll get fingerprints all over it.
On the ring finger, a soft indentation where a ring used to sit. It was cut just past the wrist, a clean cut, maybe done by a surgical saw. The base was a deep, crystallised crimson with a flourish of bone-white in the middle. In the right light, you could count some of the tiny hairs glinting on the back of the palm, one by one.
I returned the bag to its preferred spot by the peas and slowly closed the freezer door. If I did it gently, with care, maybe it would un-happen.
I ordered a pizza for dinner.
The next morning, I went to the freezer to find my visitor was still there. I stared it down for a while, hoping it would get the hint and leave, then closed the door again and brewed my pot of coffee. Busy day ahead. Code doesn’t write itself. Not yet anyway.
On the third day, it had moved. The fingers were pointing at the ice tray. I squeezed my eyes tight and opened them again like a hard reset would work. I slammed the freezer shut and made my coffee. Routine is important; at least that’s what they say.
By the end of the week, the fingers were pointing at me, and I had started locking the freezer with an old bicycle chain before bed.
The knock came on the tenth day. Three confident raps on my door, fading into silence. I looked through the peephole and did not recognise the distorted uniform on the other side. I opened the door anyway.
‘Hello. I’m here for the delivery.’
The man was about six feet tall with tanned skin and brown eyes. Bushy eyebrows. Hairy forearms, but a lanky body. He wore a dark grey uniform with no logo on it. The shorts made him look like a schoolboy who’d gone through one hell of a growth spurt. His shoes were wet, despite it being a sunny day.
And he was carrying a cooler.
“Ah! Good. It’s in the freezer.” I left the door ajar and nearly skipped to the kitchen. I was fumbling with the key, unlocking the bicycle lock.
“You still have the first one. That’s unusual.”
He’d let himself in and appeared immediately behind me without a sound. I jumped. The man deftly picked up the key I’d dropped and unchained the freezer in one swift motion. He opened the freezer, nodded, and opened the cooler.
Inside, resting on a bed of crushed ice, was another hand. Right. This one was larger. Hairier. A gold signet ring on the pinkie finger. He placed it in the freezer.
“Have a nice day.”
He left before I had a chance to complain. I brewed my coffee; at least some things still made sense.
I started checking the freezer every morning. At first, I thought they were speaking to each other. One hand pointing left now. The other right. One clasping the other at the wrist. A strange dance.
This morning, they were pointing at me. Quiet. Clean. Accusing me of…what? I don’t know. Every night, I chained the freezer shut, just in case.
Routine is important. I can’t quite remember who said that—maybe it was me.
The next stranger came fourteen days later. She had short, sharp black hair and smelled like hand sanitiser. Nails filed to a point, painted dark red. No cooler this time. Just a dark grey clipboard tucked under her arm. She stood politely at the door, dressed in a smart, tailored suit.
“How many do you see?” she asked, clicking the pen twice.
“Um, two.” Something about her was familiar.
She nodded and wrote something down. “Still seeing them?”
“They’re still here. Do you want to see…?”
“Has the first one spoken yet?”
I looked at her open-mouthed for a long time. “Are you from the council or something?”
She smiled like I was a child to be humoured.
“You’re doing so well,” she said. “They didn’t think you’d make it this far after last time.”
Then she left. The smell of hand sanitiser lingered.
I hope you enjoyed part one! What do you think will happen next? What’s happening to our poor protagonist? Tell me in the comments, and don’t forget to share this newsletter if you enjoyed it. ♥️