The Box

Twisted Imaginings – A Horror And Gore Themed Blog.

​It was almost three months,to the day, since I had last seen Simon. I shall never forget that insane smile spread across his face, the sweat pouring down his face like some noxious waterfall. But his laugh! It was positively unhinged with a menace that suggested evil beyond comprehension as he assured me the foul box of his was mine. And three days later it was, having been bequeathed to me in his will. For Simon had put a gun to his temple after my visit, his madness having finally consumed him.
Which is why that reasonably small yet horrendous thing now gathered dust under the stairs. Despite it’s weight there was nothing in there that I could tell. You see, it was completely locked as far as I could tell, with no obvious hole where a key could be inserted. There appeared to be no other way of opening it either. It was black, the blackest I had ever seen and smooth. Were it to reflect anything it would have most brilliantly but it didn’t.
The stench at Simon’s flat I had assumed to be from his lack of personal care, but by the end of the week I noticed it at my own place. It was evasive at first, so naturally I put it down to a blocked drain, or perhaps a rodent. But my investigations proved fruitless. It was also around the time, although I now cannot recall with clarity, that the dreams began. They too were subtle, more tendrils, sneaky and elusive.
In my dreams I heard what I now believe to be a final demand, although it’s tempting lilt promised much at first. It almost sang as those things gathered at the edges of my unholy lullabies. Dark they were, like silhouettes, their repugnant life hidden in an alto of whimsy. I quite forgot the first few, as one does when awakening, but before long I began to not only anticipate them, but to wonder at what they meant. For it was like a recording, one of such clarity and tranquility that releasing to sleep was quite a nights entertainment!
Had that been all I would have been quite happy, but with it I became obsessed by the box bequeathed to me by the late Simon. At first, it sat in the living room, on my coffee table. It honestly feel better, for I did not realise at first that the crystalline voice and vague shadows were the inhabitants of this mysterious box. The dreams were becoming more intense, and I had noted with some grim acceptance that the shadows were calling me. Not just anybody, but myself by name!
Yet everything while I slept seemed fine. It was the world around me that seemed to change, as if it’s axis were off centre! Simply walking from my abode to the train station became hazardous, people scattering and screaming as I attempted to walk sensibly. By the end of the third week, I could barely tell real from false.
Yet, the box! What had once been an inappropriate gift now became my comfort. It understood, as did my dreams, to the point where getting out of bed seemed totally unacceptable.
Which is why I am writing this account, just for you. Because I have decided to shuffle off this mortal coil post haste! This world, and it’s sundry meanderings, have no pleasure for me. The box knows all, it understands to. For when you hear it, you’ll know! You’ll understand why the noose is ready!
It is waiting!​

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