[ WP ] You keep getting packages addressed to the person who lived in your apartment before you . One day you open one .

The address was mine, the package was n't. I had only met Charles Lutece, the previous owner of my apartment, once. He had been a quiet man, always seemed in a hurry and never seemed to go anywhere. He helped me move in, said it was the least he could do. At the end of the day, we shook hands, I paid him a small amount for his services and he left. 
 
 I've been getting his mail ever since. Never envelopes, always boxes of various shapes, weights and sizes. I've never opened one, until today. My curiosity got the better of me and now I... I wish I had n't opened it. 
 As I cut the tape, I felt alive. I'm not a criminal, I stole my neighbor's Gameboy game once, but I do n't frequently break the law. Now I realize the package was meant for me. For someone at least. Under the cardboard flaps there was a note. `` This is the last one, enjoy the collection.'' it said, in crisp penmanship. I removed the note, puzzled, a layer of bubble wrap hid a dark, oblong shape. I removed the layer of wrapping and threw the package down in shock. A gasp escaped me and nothing else. There, in the box sat the severed head of Charles Lutece. His hair shaved down to stubble, the life vacant from his eyes, his mouth gaping open. Tears rushed down my face. 
 
 I turned and searched the room, and found another package. It was addressed in the same way as the other boxes. I opened it, less carefully this time, there was no note, only Charles Lutece's right hand. I set the box down in horror, picked up my phone, and called the police. 

