While I stood staring at my mess of a life, someone started tapping lightly on the door. It was an annoying little tap, but I knew who it was. I pulled open the door and Brent, the postman, stood there with a large square box. His face showed worry, but it always did.

“Guess I was wrong,” he said. “You got this.”

I took the box from him.

I stared at the short ghoul and turned my head. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Brent sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

“What did you do when you were, you know, alive?”

The ghoul looked puzzled by the question. “What do you mean, what did I do?”

“You know. What job? Were you an adventurer in the 1600s or some crap like that?”

“I was a postal worker.”

He didn’t even blink. If I’d offended him, he wasn’t showing it. Then he timidly nodded and walked away. Fucking ghouls. They were harmless, loyal, and about as kind as a monster could be, but they were so fucking weird sometimes.

“Thanks, Brent!” I called after him and kicked the door closed before he responded.

Usually, nothing brightens the day like an unexpected package, but this one crawled up my ass and gave me the creeps right off the bat. It had an odd weight, heavy and shifting ever so slightly. It had a California postmark. The name and address on the label were mine, but there was no return address. It was trouble. I could feel it.

I used a penknife to slice the tape. The cardboard flaps popped open, eager to show me the gruesome sight inside.

It was a human head, severed clean just above the Adam’s apple.

Weirder still, I knew whose head it was.

It was an old friend of mine, Sam “Hecky” Burnett. He was a private detective, and a hunter of the strange, bizarre, and outright freakish—just like me. The only difference between us was that he looked for the shit.

I’ve always tried to avoid the craziness and live a normal life, but not Sam. Not that insane old bastard. He savored the hunt. He loved tracking monsters like some folks love music or sports. He was obsessed, a fanatic. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the supernatural, a mind like a thousand forbidden libraries, and I can say without reservation that he was one of the toughest sons-a-bitches I ever met.

Now he was just a head.

The look on his face was peaceful, like he’d fallen asleep and someone had made off with his body without waking him.

I hesitated, and then gave the forehead a poke. Nothing.