I was cleaning out my son's bedroom and I opened the closet door to see this box sitting perfectly in the middle of the floor. Of course, I had to write something about it.
- The Box
- by
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murphy_kismet (aka
anansay)
- horror
- 1200+ words
Nobody remembered where the box had come from. Only that one day it was there. But that was normal in the Garrett household, what with the boxes of hand-me-downs coming in from family and friends to outfit the children. Sometimes those boxes contained more than clothes. Those things were usually divvied up between the children in a more or less amicable fashion. Still, nobody remembered claiming the box as theirs.
It sat on the floor tucked in a corner of the children's bedroom, as inconspicuous as a simple piece of wood, decorated with simple marker scratches—a child's attempt at decorations. There were tiny stabs as though from a knife, probably another's kid attempt at opening a box that didn't belong to them. It was a well used, if not loved, wooden box with a rusty metal latch but no lock. So the mother bought a lock and the boy appropriated it as his own.
For a boy of thirteen, a lockable box was like a mine of gold. The mother never asked what he stored in it, only complained when she had to pick up constantly from its apparent travels about the house. Of course, the boy never laid claim to being its carrier. The box just simply moved itself, and the mother left it that, knowing, in her motherly way that the boy was, indeed, its carrier and simply didn't think it worthwhile to return it to its proper place: in his room.
But when the mother opened her eyes one morning and found the box atop her night stand, she swung her legs out of bed, grabbed the box, and slammed it down on her sleeping son's bed. He woke with a start, eyes wide and crusted with sleep, morning breath pouring out of his mouth like waves of putrefaction. (She made a mental note of her weekly brushing of her son's teeth to ensure their proper cleaning.)
"I told you to stay out of my room William!"
"I didn't do it . . . !" he mumbled, wiping his eyes.
"Well, how did this get in there, eh?" She hit the box with her fist. It wobbled on the bed.
"I don't know." That was his answer for everything, whether he knew the answer or not.
"Keep it on your own room, stay out of my room, or it's going in the garbage. Understand?"
"Yeah . . ." William put the box on the floor, rolled over, and began snoring.
The mother stared at her son, gave the box a half-hearted kick, and went to the bathroom.
In the following days, the box would be found in almost every room of the house. Sitting in a corner on the kitchen counter. Behind the toilet. Blocking the outside door so that one would have to slide the box along the rug to get the door open. And sometimes, even in the middle of the hallway. Mother stubbed her toe on it one time bringing in groceries. Luckily, the eggs did not bear the brunt of her anger.
"
I told you to keep this box in your room!" she'd bellow and kick it towards the room. It'd slide a bit, and stop when it reached the wall, the lock jangling in its metal loop.
Nobody thought twice about the box except as a box. It was just a cheaply made wooden box. The mother had never seen the son playing with it, never saw him put anything in it, never even heard the jiggle of the lock, even at night. When she'd ask him, covertly, what he put in it, he'd shrug his shoulders and change the channel on the television.
Things started disappearing. At first it was small things: a cheap calculator; matches; a few coins; the pencil sharpener; pens. It was frustrating, and that was all. Suppers became a thing of the past as the kids gravitated more and more to the couch to eat, their eyes glued to the television. Plates and utensils were found beneath the couch instead of in the sink. The hamper remained suspiciously empty, as did their dresser drawers, and the laundry loads diminished. Over five hundred channels on the television and still the kids would complain there was nothing to watch. The computer held no more interest. Bedtime leaned more and more into the wee hours of the morning, despite the mother's admonitions.
The kids were gone to school and the mother was doing her weekly manic bit of cleaning, having gotten fed up with the piles taking over every flat surface. The music was loud and rhythmic, raunchy voices drilling holes in her apathy and making her move. At first she thought it was the music, something groaning and pulsing. She'd bob her head, her body moving in rhythm, but every few moments she'd be jarred out of her head by a sudden noise that didn't go with the music. She paused the music; the sound stopped. She turned on the music; and a little while later the sound returned. Pause; play; pause; play.
Finally she turned down the music and listened. It wasn't coming from the speakers. She turned the music down lower and followed the sound. Into her son's bedroom. Into the closet. And there, on the floor of the closet, in the perfect middle, sat the box. It's lid was closed but not tightly. Like a layer of air was keeping it open, straining against the lock. And the closet was warm, and damp. Nothing else lay on the floor but the box. No clothes moist from a trip to the local pool. No wet towels from a shower. Bare.
She went to her purse and took out her keys, on the ring of which was the key to the lock on the box.
The box was warm, like it'd been cradled, rubbed hard. The lock, though, was hot. The key shook as it approached the opening and she had to take a deep breath and steady her hand. It slid in smooth. She turned it and heard the tumblers sliding in the place, releasing the latch and the U popped up. Immediately the lid bounced upward slightly, like a jaw falling open, giving her just a peek inside. She lifted the lid, slowly, and was assaulted with the same horrible smell that her son's mouth would emit in the mornings: something fetid. Horrible. She cinched her shirt up above her nose and breathed shallowly, waiting to see what food her son had hidden in the box, and then forgot about.
When the box was fully opened and displaying its contents, the mother fell backward, her hand at her cloth-covered mouth.
Inside the box, there was a pulse of air and the groaning sound. As the mother sat back and heard only the groaning, she began to recognize sound, words. When she peered back in, she couldn't see the bottom for the thickness that lay in it. Like fog, only . . . more. There was a thought that if she put her hand in it, she'd feel it, a weight on her flesh, warm and pulsing. She didn't want to touch it. But as she looked the thickness began shifting, growing and dipping. A scream lodged in her throat, nearly choking her.
Her son's face was looking back at her. Only it was an expression she'd never seen before. Terror. Eyes wide and mouth open, almost cracking the sides. From that maw there spoke a deep guttural voice.
I have your son. The face dissipated. The air thinned. And there, on the bottom of the box, was a lump of flesh, dark red and pulsing. A heart.
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