As a woman, I'm never short on frightening moments: a man turning down the same dark street as me, unexplained sounds in the night, a taxi driver playing The Everly Brothers' All I Have to Do Is Dream on repeat all the way from Old Street to Peckham (true story). But nothing has given me the heebie-jeebies quite as much as an incident in 2017.
One of those irritating "Sorry we missed you" slips landed on my doormat, and when I went to the post office to collect the mystery package, I was met with a heavy box wrapped in brown paper, my name and address handwritten—an important detail I'd think back to later—across the front.
