6:00 AM.

The small suburban street in Portland was still wrapped in a thin layer of mist. Houses stood silent, curtains drawn tight, and only the occasional delivery truck disturbed the quiet.

But for nearly two months now, at exactly 6:00 every morning, something strange happened in front of house number 214 on Maple Street.

A delivery.

Twenty-two pounds of cucumbers.

Every single day.

The delivery man was Mike Sanders, a man in his forties who worked for a local produce supplier. At first, he didn’t think much of it. Large produce orders weren’t unusual, especially for restaurants.

But this wasn’t a restaurant.

It was a normal house.

And the same person always received the order.

A young woman.

The first time Mike saw her, he remembered it clearly.

The door opened just a crack.

A woman in her early twenties, with long brown hair and pale skin like she had never seen sunlight. She wore an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled low, almost hiding her eyes.

“Your cucumbers,” Mike said, holding out the crate.

She didn’t look at him directly.

Just gave a slight nod.

“Leave them by the door,” she said softly.

Her voice… was strange.

Not shaky, but empty.

Mike set the crate down.

“Are you sure you need this many? Twenty-two pounds every day—”

The door slammed shut.

The days after that repeated exactly the same.

6:00 AM.

Twenty-two pounds of cucumbers.

The door cracked open.

A hand reached out.

No invitations inside.

No conversations longer than a sentence.

After about two weeks, Mike started feeling uneasy.

No one ate that many cucumbers.

Not even restaurants ordered that consistently—same amount, same time, every day.

He began paying closer attention.

One day, he arrived 15 minutes early.

The lights were on inside.

But there was no sound.

No TV.

No footsteps.

Just… a cold white light.

“Maybe she resells them,” a coworker suggested.

“Or some weird detox thing,” another joked.

Mike didn’t laugh.

He remembered her eyes.

They weren’t normal.

They were the eyes of someone… hiding something.

One morning, as he set the crate down, he accidentally dropped a cucumber.

It rolled through the gap in the door… into the house.

“Sorry!” he said, bending to pick it up.

But when he looked inside—

He froze.

The floor… was wet.

Not water.

Something darker.

Streaks dragging across the floor… like something had been pulled.

And the smell.

A thick, metallic stench.

Mike jerked back.

The door slammed shut in his face.

That day, he couldn’t focus on work.

The image stuck in his mind.

And finally… he called the police.

“Do you have any proof?” the officer asked over the phone.

“No… but something isn’t right,” Mike said. “Twenty-two pounds of cucumbers every day. She never leaves the house. And… I think I saw blood.”

“Blood?”

“I’m not sure. But the smell… it was bad.”

A pause.

“Alright,” the officer said. “We’ll check it out.”

The next morning.

6:00 AM sharp.

Mike arrived as usual.

But this time… he wasn’t alone.

Two police cars parked down the street.

Three officers stood ready.

“That’s the house,” Mike pointed.

They approached.

Mike stayed behind, heart pounding.

An officer knocked.

No response.

Knocked again.

Still nothing.

“Police! Open the door!”

Silence.

One officer tried the handle.

The door… wasn’t locked.

It opened.

A wave of stench rushed out.

The air inside was thick.

Mike covered his nose.

“Oh God…”

They stepped in.

The floor… just as Mike had seen.

Dark streaks.

But now it was clear.

Not water.

Blood.

“Call it in,” one officer said.

They moved deeper inside.

The living room was empty.

No TV.

No furniture.

Only… crates of cucumbers.

Stacked high.

Dozens of them.

Some opened.

Cucumbers scattered across the floor.

“What is she doing with these?” Mike whispered.

No one answered.

A sound.

From upstairs.

All of them froze.

“There’s someone up there.”

They climbed the stairs.

Each step heavy.

Mike didn’t know why he hadn’t left.

But he couldn’t move.

A bedroom door was slightly open.

An officer pushed it wider.

The room was dark.

Curtains shut.

Only a bed.

And… the girl.

She sat on the floor.

Back turned.

Hair hanging down.

Around her… cucumbers.

Dozens. Hundreds.

Some cut open.

Some… stained with blood.

“Ma’am?” an officer called. “Are you okay?”

No response.

“Can you turn around?”

Slowly… she did.

Mike felt his stomach twist.

Her face… smeared with blood.

Her eyes empty.

But the worst part—

Was the bed.

A body.

No.

Multiple bodies.

Pieces… arranged.

Stacked.

Like someone was… organizing them.

Mike stumbled back.

“Oh my God…”

“Drop whatever you’re holding!” an officer shouted. “What are you doing?!”

The girl smiled.

A twisted smile.

“You came early,” she said calmly.

“The cucumbers,” an officer said. “What are you using them for?”

She looked down at them.

Then back up.

“To keep things cool,” she said.

“Cool… what?”

She tilted her head.

“Can’t you see?”

An officer stepped closer to the bed.

Looked down.

Then turned away.

“We need forensics. Now.”

Mike could barely breathe.

“What… what did you do?” he stammered.

She looked at him.

Recognized him.

The delivery man.

“You’re very punctual,” she said softly. “I like that.”

“Why?” Mike asked, shaking.

She smiled.

“Because I need them fresh.”

“Fresh what?”

She glanced at the bed.

“Meat.”

The air froze.

“Did you kill them?” an officer asked.

She shook her head.

“Not all of them.”

“What does that mean?”

She tilted her head, thinking.

“Some… were already dead.”

Mike’s legs nearly gave out.

“What did you do with them?”

She answered simply:

“I kept them.”

“With cucumbers?”

She nodded.

“Cool. Moist. They don’t dry out.”

A horrifying silence filled the room.

“What’s your name?” an officer asked.

She looked straight at them.

“Lily Thompson.”

“Lily, you need to cooperate.”

She laughed softly.

“You don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

She whispered:

“They don’t want to leave.”

A cold draft swept through the room.

Even though the windows were closed.

Mike swore he heard something.

Not from Lily.

From the bed.

“Stay…”

He screamed.

“Did you hear that?!”

No one answered.

The officers quickly restrained Lily.

She didn’t resist.

Just kept smiling.

As they led her away, she looked back at Mike.

“Will you still deliver tomorrow?” she asked.

Mike said nothing.

But that night…

When he got home…

He found a crate of cucumbers…

Sitting at his door.

No receipt.

No sender.

Just a small note.

“6:00 AM.”