A hurried scribble on a delivery bag sent me racing to my backyard, where I made a disturbing discovery. The cryptic note from our regular delivery guy, Ravi, might have saved my family from something terrifying, but it was clear the danger was still looming.

As a single mom, I often rely on food delivery when I’m too exhausted to cook for my kids. Over time, Ravi, our usual delivery guy, became more than just a familiar face. He was always friendly, exchanging high-fives with my children, Kai and Isla, before heading off. But last Tuesday, something felt different.

Ravi arrived looking unusually tense. He handed me our food without a word and hurried back to his car, leaving me puzzled.

“What’s wrong with Ravi?” Kai asked, peering out the window.

“I don’t know, buddy. Maybe he’s in a rush,” I replied, watching his car disappear down the street.

As I set the food on the kitchen counter, still wondering about Ravi’s strange behavior, I noticed something scribbled on the back of the delivery bag. The shaky handwriting caught my attention immediately, and when I read the message, dinner was the last thing on my mind.

“CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”

My heart raced as I tried to remain calm for my kids. “Why don’t you two wash up while I get everything ready?” I suggested, sending them out of the kitchen.

Once they were gone, I dashed to the backyard, Ravi’s message echoing in my mind. I approached the trash cans, my hands trembling as I lifted the lid of the first one. Nothing out of the ordinary, just our usual garbage. But when I opened the second can, I froze.

Inside, wrapped in an old blanket, was a collection of gloves, a few small tools, and an unlabeled bottle filled with a mysterious liquid. Panic surged through me.

“Mom? Are you okay?” Isla’s voice startled me.

I quickly shut the lid and turned to her with a forced smile. “I’m fine, sweetie. Just checking something. Go on inside, I’ll be right there.”

As soon as Isla was out of sight, I called the sheriff’s office.

“Sheriff’s Department, this is Leona speaking.”

“Leona, it’s Nora. I need you to come over immediately. I found something disturbing in my trash.”

Leona’s voice turned serious as I described the contents of the can. “Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way. Stay inside with the kids until I get there.”

After hanging up, I couldn’t shake the fear. Our neighborhood had recently experienced a series of break-ins with eerily similar methods—chemicals to weaken locks and meticulous clean-up of evidence. A chilling thought crossed my mind: my house was next on the list.