Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome to stores all the time. That's get started.
The truck suspension grund. As I eased down the final
stretch of gravel road, Arthur pressed his nose against the
passenger window, leaving smudge as that caught the afternoon sunlight.
We'd been driving since five that morning, stopping only for
gas in a quick bathroom break for both of us.
The trucks stopped near the state line. Almost there, Buddy,
I said. The road curve left around the stand of pines,
and there it was Grand Pomilla's place, two stores of
worded cedar siding with green trim that had faded to
the color of a lichen. The wrapp around porch shouts
slightly in the western corner, just as it had when
I was twelve. I parked beside an overgrown rhododendron and
cut the engine. The absence of road noise left or
ringing in my ears. Arthur whined softly, his tail thumping
against the seat. I know, I said, scratching behind his ears.
New place, news mouse. The key was exactly where the
lawyer said it would be, under a fake rock near
the porch steps. I collected it and stood for a
moment taking in the property. Mapel On pine surrounded three
sides of the clearing, with a glimpse of the lake
through the trees behind the house. The nearest neighbor was
a quarter mile down the road, invisible from here. Arthur
bounded up the stairs ahead of me, sniffing enthusiastically at
the weathered boards. The potch creaked under our weight. The
lock stuck at first, then gave way with a metallic scrape.
Inside The air hung still in cool, carrying the faint
scent of wood smoke and something else furniture polish. Maybe
Granpo had been gone six months, but it seemed like
his presents lingered and quiet. The main room looked smaller
than I remembered. A stone fireplace dominated the far wall,
flanked by built in bookshelves. Granpa's rocking chair still faced
the window with a view of the birch grove. I
ran my hand across its arm, feeling the smooth depression
worm by ears of his elbow wristing in the same spot.
This is home now, I told Arthur, who was circling
the perimeter of the room, nose to the floorboards. I
hauled in my duffel bags from the truck. Two were clothes,
one with kitchen essentials and another with tools. The bare minimum.
Emily had kept most of our share belongings, which shooted
me fine starting over men traveling light. The kitchen cabinet
held Grandpasm's match plate to mugs, all coated with a
thin film of dust. I wiped down what I needed
and filled the ball with water for Arthur. He drank
noisily while I continued my inspection. Upstairs, three bedrooms branched
off a narrow hallway. The smallest had been mine during
summer visits, still painted blue, with a twin bed pushed
against the wall. Grandpa's room remained untouched, his flannel shirts
hanging in the closet, reading glasses folded on the night stand.
The third room held boxes of old photographs in fishing gear.
I opened windows throughout the house, letting cross breezes chase
out the stillness. Arthur found a sunny spot on the
living room rug and settled with a contented sigh. The
afternoon passed in small tasks. I swept floors, white counters,
made up the bed and ground pass room with fresh
sheets I'd brought. The work felt good and complicated and necessary.
When hunger finally registered, I fired up the old gastow
and made a simple dinner, can soup and saltines, even
standing at the counter while watching dustmots dance in the
slant in evening light. Later, I carried a mug of
coffee out to the porch and lowered myself into one
of the ada and at chairs. The woods had begun
their nightly transition. Burton gave way to cricket shrups, an
occasional plaint of colov Ol Whipperwell. Arthur lay at my feet,
head on pause, ears pricking at each new sound. The city,
with his constant noise in the cramped apartment had shared
with Emily, felt impossibly distant. Three hundred miles of highway
and back roads separated me from that life, from her
teery accusations and my own defensive anger. From the final
door slam and weaked of sleepless nights. Coffee called in
my hands. Darkas settled fully among the trees, turning them
into black silhouettes against a navy sky. No street lights here,
no headlights sweeping across the walls at regular intervals, just
darkness and stillness. I reached down to stroke Arthur's back different.
He looked upwise, reflecting the faint light from the kitchen window.
Something rustled in the underbrought beyond the clearing, probably a
raccoon or a possum. Arthur's head turned sharply toward the
st but he didn't bark, just watched his body tensing
slightly under my hand. It's okay, I murmured, just the
local saying hello. I finished my coffee and stood joined
popping after the lawn drive inside, I locked the front
door and checked the back. Have it from city living,
though it seemed almost silly out here in the woods. Upstairs,
I hesitated outside Grahampa's bedroom door. It felt strange to
claim his bass, but the other beds were too small,
still fitted with mattresses meant for children and guests. I
set my phone on the nightstent and changed into sweatpants
and a T shirt. Arthur circled three times on the
braided rug beside the bed before settling with a heavy sigh.
The springs creaked as I laid down, staring at the
ceiling beams. It'd counted as a child during thunderstorms. The
house made its own music. Soft ticks and cruins as
wood contracted in the cooling nighthare, water moved somewhere in
the pipes, windbrush tree branches against the eastern eaves. Good night, Arthur,
I whispered. His tail thumped once against the floor. I
closed my eyes and listened to the unfamiliar quiet, wandering
what Grandpa would think of me hiding out here starting
over at thirty two. The thought followed me down into sleep,
that maybe he'd understand better than anyone why sometimes a
man needs to disappear into the woods to find himself again.
I woke, the sunlight filtering through the curtains and Arthur's
tail thumping against the floor beside the bed. The alarm
clock in the nights in shured eight hundred thirty seven,
later than I'd normally sleep, But the previous days drive
a tiken more out of me. Tonight, expected morning, Buddy,
I said, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. After
pulling on jeans in a flannel shirt, I made a
quick breakfast of instant coffee and peanut butter toast. Arthur
circled my feet, his nails clicking against the linoleum, until
I filled his bowl with kipple from the byguide brought.
With daylight streaming through the windows, I could better assess
what needed attention around the place. Branpa had maintained the essentials,
but left cosmetic issues for another day that never came.
Water stains met the ceiling near the upstairs bathroom. The
kitchen cabinet doors hung slightly askewe most of the windows
stuck when opened past halfway. They found a notepad in
a drawer and started ell thiss replace, warned the weather
stripping relays, bathroom window check gutters, send in repaintrom The
familiar routine of cataloging repairs steadied me. Every house had
its problems. These were fixable, at least. In the front closet,
I found grand pas toolbooks, a heavy metal case with
a red enamel finished scrutch from decades of use. Inside
his tools remained organized in neat rows, each of the
place worn into the foam liner. The hammer handle still
bore the groove from his thumb. Ryan's supposed to come
up next weekend, I told authors. I examined a rust
of claw hammer should make quick work of these repairs.
Between the two of us, I worked through the morning,
tightening loose door knobs and oiling squeaky hinges. Around noon,
I made a sandwich and ate it in the porch,
watching a pair of cardinals stop between the pine branches.
After lunch, I tackled the living room. Most of Grandpa's
furniture would stay, the worn leather arm chair, the oak bookcase,
the small writing desk by the window. I sorted through
stacks of old hunting magazines and fishing catalogs, tossing the
yellowed ones into a cardboard box for recycling. Arthur had
been trailing me room to room all morning, but when
I started working in the living room, his behavior changed.
He paced near the center of the room, his nails
clicking a nervous rhythm against the hardwood. Then he stopped
by the large braided rug and wined, pawing at its edge.
What's wrong, boy, I asked, setting down the stack of magazines.
He scratched more insistently at the corner of the rug,
looking between me and the floor with unusual intensity. When
I approached, he backed away, then returned to the same spot,
whining louder you swell a mouse or something. I knelt
beside him, running my hand over the worn fibers of
the rug. Other continued pawing at the edge, almost frantic. Now,
I gripped the corner and pulled the heavy rug back,
expecting to find a mouse nest or maybe a fruit
stask grandpide forgotten. Instead, I untovered a wooden trap or
flush with the floorboard some barely visible except for the
scene out lying at square shape a but three feet
on each side. A recess metal handle sat in the center,
tarnished to a dull copper color. I sat back on
my heels, puzzled. I'd spent weeks here every summer as
a kid. How had I never noticed this before? The
rug must have always covered it, and Grandpa had never
mentioned the basement. Good boy, I said, absently, still staring
at the trap door. Arthur didn't wi like his tail
at the praise. He backed away several steps, ears flattened
against his head. I pressed my palm against the wood.
It felt cooler than the surrounding floor, almost cold, spite
the warm day. The handle was ice cold to the touch,
with a thin coating of rust that left orange smears
on my finger tips. I hesitated, then gripped the handle
firmly and pulled the door, lifted with unexpected ease, as
if the hinges had been recently oiled. Cool air rushed
up from the opening, carrying a faint, metallic sent I
couldn't identify wooden stairs descended steeply into darkness. I counted
fifteen steps before they disappeared into the shadows below. No lights,
which was visible in the wall beside the opening. Stay here, author,
I reached from my phone to use its flashlight. Arthur
made no move to follow. He retreated to the doorway,
watching me with anxious eyes, his body tens. I swung
my legs into the opening and tested the first step
it held for him under my weight. The wood felt
solid and dry, not rotted, as I might have expected
in an old house. I descended slowly, sweeping my phones
light back and forth across the darkness. The temperature dropped
noticeably with each step. By the time I reached the bottom,
I could see my breath form in small clouds and
the beam of light. The walls and floor were pored concrete,
smooth and free of cracks. The ceiling hung low, maybe
seven feet, with exposed wooden joists. I stood in what
appeared to be a main corridor. Why did the night
expected My light revealed several doorways branching off in different directions.
The concrete felt unnaturally cold through the soles of my boots. HULLO.
I called immediately, feeling foolish. The house had been empty
for months. Nobody would answer. My voice echoed slightly, suggesting
that space was larger than it should be. The basement
seemed to extend beyond the footprint of the house above,
which made no architectural sense. I chose the nearer stow away.
On the right, my light revealed shells lining all four walls,
each filled with vinyl records and cardboard sleeves, hundreds of them,
arranged alphabetically according to small handriton labels on the shelves.
I pulled one out box brand and Burg Concerto's the
sleeve dusty but intact. I'd never known Grandpa to be
interested in classical music. Next to its ad albums by
bands I'd never heard a mention Pink Floyd the Door's
Tangerine Dream. I replaced the record and backed out, choosing
the next doorway in the left. This room contained a
small wooden table with two chairs. On the tables sat
a plate with half a sandwich, a glass of water
and an apple. The bread looked fresh, the apples cut
south as barely browned. A folded newspaper lay beside the plate,
dated three days ago. My throat tightened. Grandpa had been
Dad for six months, who had been down here eating lunch.
I checked the date on the newspaper again, then backed
out of the room, my heartbeat quickening. The main corridor
continued for about twenty before ending at another doorway. The
cold intensified as I approached it, the air taking on
a slight vibration I could feel against my skin. I
stepped through into a larger room, with the concrete floor
and walls. Like the others, it contained nothing but a
single object in the far corner, the black metallic box
sitting on the floor, roughly the size of a microwave oven.
No seams or fastener as were visible on its surface.
No manufacture is marked or serial number. From it came
a low, continuous hum that made my molarsach and the
hair on my arms stand up. The sound wasn't exactly
a loud, but it filled the space completely, seeming to
come from everywhere at once. I pushed, cautiously, sweeping my
light across the box's surface. The beam reflected dolly, revealing
no detail. Despite the basement's jail, the air around the
box seemed even colder, as if it were drawing heat
from its surroundings. I crouched three feet away, stirring it
without touching. The humming intensified slightly. When my light shone
directly on it. A barely perceptible vibration transferred through the
concrete floor to the soles of my boots. What the
hell are you, I whispered. My phone screen suddenly flickered,
then went dark, the flashlight diet, plunging me into complete darkness.
I pressed the power button repeatedly, but nothing happened. The
battery had been eighty percent when I came downstairs. Only
the humming remained, surrounding me in a pitch black. I
backed away, carefully, feeling behind me with one hand until
I touched the door frame. The corridor outside retained enough
ambent light from the trap door before me to make
out vague ships. I stumbled back toward the stairs, my
eyes gradually adjusting to the dimness. From somewhere upstairs, Arthur
began barking frantically. I took the steps to you at
a time. Emerging into the living room's brightness with my
heart hammering against my ribs. Arthur rushed to me, pressing
against my legs and whining. I knelt and buried my
fingers in his fur, feeling his rapid heartbeat. It's okay, boy,
it's ok I closed the trap door firmly and drigged
the rug back over it. My phone remained dead, not
responding to any attempt to restart it. The battery felt
ice called through the case. Arthur wouldn't leave my side
for the rest of the afternoon, following so close he
occasionally stepped on my heels. He kept glancing at the rug,
growling softly whenever I walked near it. I tried to
focus on my repair list, measuring a window for replacement
glass and checking the water pressure in the upstairs bathroom,
but my thoughts kept returning to the basement, to the
fresh food in the table and a black box with
its penetrating hum. When evening came, I locked all the
doors and windows, checking each twice. I pulled the curtains
close throughout the house and turned on every light. The
electric bill would be uprages, but I couldn't bear the
thought of shadows. To night, Arthur refused to sleep in
the bedroom. He stayed in the hall way outside the door,
positioned as if standing guard. I lay awake for ires,
listening to the familiar creeks of the house settling. Just
before dawn, I thought I heard something else, a faint
humming rising through the floorboards, vibrating the bed frame ever
so slightly. It might have been my imagination. It might
have been the furnest cycling on. I didn't get up
to check. Rand f minus one hundred fifty rattled up
the gravel driver round eleven. The next morning. He parked
next to the Rhodandron, leaving a good six feet between
his truck and mine. The radio cut off midsong when
he killed the engine. I watched through the kitchen window
as he growled a tool box from the passenger seat
and a six pack from behind and the driver's seat.
Arthur tens beside me, ears forward. It's just Ryan, I
told him. Though his behavior seemed odd, Arthur knew Ryan
Wale had slept on his caruach for two weeks when
I'd been in Chicago for work last year. Ryan's work
boot crunched across the gravel. He wore a faded khat
jacket with frayed cars and a brewer's cap puldler over
his eyes. The spring morning had turned coal, hovering around
forty five degrees with the damp wind rolling off the lake.
Look at you, mountain man, Ryan cold as I stepped
on to the porch, he said, his tool walks down
with a metallic clank. Two days in the woods, and
you've already got that unabomber vibe going. I ran a
hand over my stubbull jaw. Didn't bring a razor. Didn't
bring a razor, he minic, grinning, city boy's gun. Native,
he extended to six pack. I brought you a housewarming
gift at eleven in the morning, three o'clock somewhere, he shrugged,
frigid valaa. Then how's the place looking, I gestured toward
the door. Come see for yourself. Side. Ryan made a
slow circuit of the main room, testing the give of
floorboards with his bew running his thumb along the window frames,
eyeing the ceiling corners. Not bad, he said, Finally, better
shape than you made it sound on the phone. Author
had retreated to the hallway, watching Ryan with unusual intensity.
When Ryan approached to pat him, offer backed away. What's
with him? Ryan asked, straightening. Not sure be enacting strange
since yesterday. Ryan set his tool books on the kitchen
counter and popped it open. Inside tools nested in pham,
cut oats, screwdrivers, ranches, a voltage tester, three sizes of pliers.
Everything arranged with the precision that belied his casual demeanor.
So what's the plan, boss? You mentioned li floorboards and
maybe checking the roof. I retrieved my notepad from beside
the sink, made a list. Weather stripping needs replacing on
most windows, back door sticks. There's water stains on the
ceiling upstairs that need investigating. Ryan took the list, scanning
it with a professional easy suff we'll knock this out
by dinner. We worked steadily through the early afternoon. Wyane
called under the kitchen sink to replace a leaking pea
trap while I caught windows in the bedrooms. The work
felt good, straightforward problems with clear solutions. We fell into
an efficient rhythm, passing tills back and forth without needing
to ask, measuring twice before cutting anything around to We
broke for lunch, sandwhich is made with bread and cold cuts.
Bryan had brought in a small cooler. We ate in
the potch, watching a red tail hawk circle above the
tree line. So Ryan said, brushing crumbs from his jeans.
You're going to tell me why you really came out here.
I took a long drink of water, told you on
the phone. Needed a change after Emily boshit. He could
have gotten a change with a new apartment downtown. He
came out to your dad Grandpa's cabin in the middle
of nowhere. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Something happened.
I shook my head. Nothing dramatic, just needed space. Wine
studded me for a moment, then nodded slowly. All right,
keep your secrets. He wanted up his sand witch wrapper
and stood. Let jack that roof before it gets too late.
We hold ground Po's aluminum extension ladder from the shed
and set it against the eastern eve. Wine climbed while
I steaded the base. The ladder creaked under his weight
but held firm. Couple shingles missing on the north slope.
He called down nothing major, flashing looks, and tacked around
the chimney. He worked his way methodically across the roof line,
testing shingles and inspecting the gutters. I watched from blow
one hand, shading my eyes against the afternoon sun. Gutters
clogged with pine needles on the side, he reported, should
clear it before the next rain. Otherwise, structure looked solid.
When he descended, his hands were dark with grit and
bits of decomposed leaves. He wiped them on his jeans,
leaving smears across the denim. Old houses always have secrets,
he said. I'n the roof line, then anything interesting, exploring
the place, hidden rooms, love letters in the attic. The
basement trap door flashed in my mind. I hesitated. Ryan
caught my expression. You define something, Come on, spill it.
It's nothing. I began collapse in the ladder. Sections Just
a basement. I didn't know about Ryan's eyebrous rose. A basement.
You didn't know about a new grandfather's house. How's that possible?
I struggled with how to explain it was hidden under
a rug in the living room, hidden basement. Ryan laugh,
that's some horror movie ship right there. He helped me
carry the ladder back to the shed. You have to
show me it's not that interesting, I said, trying to
sound casual. Just storage, old records, some furniture. Then why
is your dob deniying that living room rug like it
might bite him. Ryan closed the shed door, latching it firmly.
I've known you for fifteen years, Jamie, You're a terrible liar. Inside,
Arthur stood in the wholy watching us enter. He went
softly when Ryan had for the living room. See, Ryan
pointed at Arthur. Your dog knows something's up, I sighed,
knowing Ryan wouldn't let this go. Fine, I'll show you.
But there's something strange down there. Strangehow I crossed the
braided rock and pulled it back, revealing the trap door.
There's this object, a black box makes a humming sound.
Ryan crouched beside the trap door, running his fingers along
the scene. What like a generator, old furnace? Maybe No,
it's I struggle to find the right words. It's not
like anything I've seen before. When I went down yesterday,
it drained my phone battery. Instantly, Ryan looked up, his
expression cap between amusement and concern. Drained your battery? You
sure you didn't just forget to charge it? It was
at eighty percent. I pulled the handle, lifting the trap door.
Colie wafted up from below, carrying that same faint metallic scent.
I'm serious, whine, something's not right down there. Ryan peered
into the opening stairs. Look solid enough, he lanced back
at me. You've been alone out here too long, already
getting spook by old house noises. Before I could respond,
he swung his legs into the opening and started down
the stairs. I followed, reluctantly, flicking on the light switch
I discovered early that morning. A single bulb illuminated the
stairwell with weak yellow light. Arthur remained at the edge
of the trap door, whining but refusing to follow. At
the bottom of the stairs, Ryan whistled softly. This is
bigger than I expected. He moved forward, ducking slightly under
the low ceiling joists. Looks like it extends past the
house foundation. I switch on the main corridor light. Another
bearbel panging from the ceiling. That's what I thought, doesn't
make architectural sense. Ryan ran his hand along the smooth
concrete wall. Some one put Syria's work into this, not
your stand at Michigan Basement. No dampness, no cracks. He
peered into the first doorway records. You're a grandpa music buff,
not that I knew of. I followed him into the
wreck room, watching as he examined the shelves. I never
heard him play most of these. Ryan pulled out an
album at random, led Zeppelin for some good stuff here.
He replaced it carefully and continued down the corridor. What
else did you find? I showed him the room with
the table and chairs. The sand which and apple were gone,
but the newspaper remained still open to the crosswood puzzle.
Someone had completed three quarters of it in blue ink.
Ryan picked up the paper, checking the date. This is
from four days ago. I know, he said it down carefully,
And your grandpa's been dead six months. Yes. We stood
in silence for a moment, the implications hanging between us.
So what's this box you mentioned? Ryan finally asked, his
voice pitched lower than before. I led him to the
final room. The black box at exactly as I'd left it,
its surface catching the light without reflection. The humming was
immediately noticeable, a steady vibration that seemed to bipe past
the ears and resonate directly in skull. Ryan stopped in
the doorway, his posture stuff. WHOA, I told you it
was strange. He stepped slowly into the room, had tilted
as if trying to locate the source of the humming.
What is that sound? Comes from the box? Brian approached
it cautiously, stopping about four feet away. No, seems no controls.
He crouched to examine it more closely. Doesn't look factory made.
The humming intensified slightly, as if responding to his presence.
Temperature in the room had dropped noticeably since we entered.
I wouldn't get too close. I warrant seriously, Ryan, something's
not right about it. He glanced back at me. Eyebruws raised.
You think it's dangerous, It's just sitting here. It killed
my phone instantly, and Arthur refuses to come near it.
Brian's straight and shaking his head. Animals get weird about
all kinds of harmless things, and phones died all the time.
He took another step toward the box. It's probably some
art piece your groundpa picked up, or maybe custom. My
hands trembled so badly I had to dial three times
before getting the numbers right. The operator's voice came through
clear and professional. Nine hundred eleven. What's your emergency? My friend?
I swallowed hard. Try it again. My friend collapsed. He's
not breathing. I think he's dead. Is a person responsive
at all? No? Nothing, He touched something and just fell.
She asked for the address. I recited grandpa's rural route
number and described the turner from County Road eight. The
operator confirmed an ambulance was in the way, then asked
if I knew CPR. I did, barely from a community
college course. He is back. She walked me through the steps. Anyway,
I need to go back down stairs to him, I said,
wedging the phone between ear and shoulder. As I approached
the trap door, he said, downstairs is his person in
a basement? Yes, under the living room. I hesitated at
the top of the stairs, the phone suddenly. I sculled
against my cheek. I don't think CPR is going to help.
He's he doesn't look right. Are the watch from the
hallway refusing to come close. I descended the stairs with
the operator still talking, her voice becoming tiny and distant.
As I reached the bottom, static crackled through her instructions.
Ryan lay exactly as he'd fallen. Limb splayed it naturally.
His skin had already taken on a waxy pallor, and
his open eyes stared at nothing. The humming from the
black box continued at the same sturdy pitch. I knelt
beside him and pressed two fingers against his nekele, like
the operator instructed. His skin felt cold and oddly rigid,
as if he'd been dead rars rather than minutes. No pulse,
not even the residual warmth of recent life. Sir, are
you still there? Have you started compressions? I can't. My
voice caught. He's already cold, completely cold. The lung filled
with static, then cleared. Please begin CPR until the paramedics arrive.
There are about seventeen minutes out. I set the phone
on the concrete floor and position my hands on mine sterm.
The first compression felt rom His chest barely gave under
the pressure, like pushing against pack clay rather than flat PSH.
I kept going anyway, counting under my breath, trying not
to look at his face. After thirty compressions, I tilted
his head back to give resky breath, but something stopped me.
His lips had turned black at the corners, and thin
dark lines spread outward. From his mouth, like cracks in
dry earth. I pulled back, wiping my hand across my mouth.
I can't do the breathing part. I told the operator
something's wrong with his face. She said something about continuing compressions,
but the static overtook her voice again. I placed my
hands back on Ryan's chest, counting through another set, feeling
the strange resistance beneath my palms. The weight stretched into
an eternity of mechanical motions, compress and counting, checking for
any response. Nothing change. The humming from the box seemed
to modulate, slightly, rising and falling in patterns that almost
resembled language. I finally heard sirens in the distance, their
whil echoing through the trees. Relief washed over me so
strongly I had to sit back on my heels. I
checked my watch. Twenty three minutes. Sins called. The operator
had underestimated the response time to this remote location. I
climbed the stairs to meet them, legs wabbling beneath me. Outside,
red and blue light strobed across the clearing its Two
vehicles pulled up, an ambulance and a Sheriff's department a
s u V. The gravel crunched under their tires as
they parked at angles to each other. Two paramedics emerged
from the ambulance, a heavy sipman with a close crop
beard and a younger woman with her hair pulled back
in a tight poter tail. From the sheriff's vehicle step
to female officer mid forties with dark hair tucked under
her hat. She approached first, one hand resting on her
built near her holster. You're the one who called nine
hundred eleven, she asked, her eyes scanning the property as
she spoke. Yes, he's in the basement. I gestured toward
the house. I tried cebar like this head, but he
was already cold when I started. She nodded. Once. I'm
Officer Campbell. These are paramedics. Gugierres and Jensen show us
where The paramedics gathered equipment from the back of their vehicle,
a large orange case in what looked like a folded stretcher.
I led them into the house, pointing at the open
chaptoor in the living room floor down there, last room
at the end of the corridor. Officer Campbell looked at
the trapel with raised eyebrows. That's not a stand of
basement entrance. No, I just discovered it yesterday. My voice
sounded flat and distant to my own ears. My grandfather
never mentioned it. The female paramedic Jensen, according to her name,
take dissented first, followed by her partner. Officer Campbell gestured
for me to go next, then came down behind me.
The stair fell cramped with four people moving through it.
At the bottom, Officer Campbell swept her flap flight across
the concrete walls and ceiling. This looks professionally constructed, recent work.
I shook my head. I've no idea when it was built.
The house has been in my family for decades. We
moved down the corridor to the room where Ryan lay.
The paramedics immediately knelt beside him, one checking for a
pulse while the other opened their case. Officer Campbell remained
in the doorway, her flat white beam settling on the
black box in the corner. What's that, she asked, nodding
toward it. I don't know, some kind of machine. I
struggled to find adequate words. Ryan touched it right before
he collapsed. The male paramedic Pucheri's looked up from Ryane's body. No, pulse,
no respiration. He placed the temperature probe in Ryan's ear,
waited for the reading, then frowned. Core tempt shows eighty
two point six. That can't be right. He checked the equipment,
then tried again, still reading eighties. This man's been deceased
longer than a few minutes. Jensen had cut open Ryan's
shirt and was attaching monitor leeds to his chest. No
electrical activities, she reported, He's in a systel Fuguiera's pointed
to the dark line spreading from Rhyane's mouth. Look at
this discoloration. I've never seen anything like it. Officer Campbell
stepped closer, her flashlight illuminating Ryan's face. Cause of death
can determine that heere, Jensen said, But appears to be
sudden cardiac arrest, no obvious drama, no sign of prolonged illness.
She glanced at me. Did he have any medical conditions,
hot problems, drug use? I shook my head, Not that
I know of. He was healthy, work's construction worked good,
years corrected quietly. Officer Campbell turned her attention back to
the black box. And you say he touched this object
before collapsing, Yes, he walked right up to it, despite
my warnings, put his hand on it and just fell.
She approached the box cautiously, crouching to examine it without touching.
No manufacture on mockings, What does it do? Nothing that
I can tell. De sets their making. That humming sound palming.
She tilted her head. I don't hear anything. The paramedics
pause their work, listening. Jensen shook her head. No sound
coming from it that I can detect. I stared at
them in disbelief. The humming filled the room, a constant
vibration that seemed to press against my eardrums. How could
they not hear it? It constant, I insisted, like a
machine running makes your teeth out if you get too close.
Officer Campbell straightened her expression carefully neutral. When exactly did
your friend arrive the day? Around eleven? This morning? We
were working on repairs to the house, and you came
down here maybe an hour ago. I didn't check the time.
I pressed my fingers against my temples. He wanted to
see the basement after I mentioned finding it yesterday. She
pulled a small notebook from her pocket and wrote something down.
I need to call this in. We'll need detect us
out here de dectives why it was an accident. Officer
Campbell didn't answer. She stepped into the corridor and spoke
quietly into her radio, her back turned to us. The
paramedics continued the assessment of Ryan's body, exchanging glances that
I couldn't interpret. We'll need to transport him, Gajerry said,
unfolding a black body bag. Jensen helped me lift the
positioned the bag beside Ryan's body and prepared to move him.
I turned away, unable to watch them sit my friend
into plastic. Officer Campbell finished her radio call and returned
to the doorway. Detectives will be here in about forty
minut she said. Meanwhile, I need to ask you some questions,
mister Miller, James Miller, mister Miller, Let's go upstairs while
the paramedics finished their work. I followed her up the stairs,
glancing back once to see the paramedics carefully lifting Ryan's
rigid form. In the living room, Arthurs still kept his
distance from the trap door, press against a far wall
with his ears flattened. Officer Campbell gestured toward the kitchen.
Let's sit down. We sat at grand pose old doak table,
She placed her notebook between us and cleecked her pen.
Start from the beginning, When did your friend arrive and
what happened leading up to his collapse? I recounted the
morning as clearly as I could, Bryan's arrival, our work
on the house repairs, the lunch on the porch, his
curiosity about the basement. Officer Campbell wrote rapidly, occasionally asking
for clarification about times or exact woods exchanged. And you
warned him not to touch the box. Yes, I told
him it had killed my phone battery instantly when I
was down there yesterday. She made another note. Did mister
Thomas seem anxious or distress before entering the basement? Now
he was joking around like always? Called me mountain man.
My voice cracked on the last words. A thump from
the basement. Maid us both turned toward the trap door.
Officer Campbell stood hand, moving to her holster. Stay here.
She crossed to the trap door and called down everything, okay,
down there. No response came. She drew her weapon and
descended the stairs, slowly disappearing from view. I remained at
the table, heart hammering against my rips. The silence stretched
for nearly a minute before she called up, mister Miller,
you need to come down here. Something in her voice
made my skin crawl. I approached the trap door, peering
down into the dim light. What is it now, please?
I descended the stairs to find off Sir Campbell standing
in the corridor. Her weap is still drawn but pointed
at the floor. The paramedic stood in the doorway of
the room where Ryan had been. Their expressions a mixture
of confusion and alarm. Where is he? Officer Campbell demanded,
Where's who your friend? Ryan? Where is his body? I
pushed past her into the room. The black body bag
lay open on the floor, empty. The paramedics equipment remained
scattered around it, monitor leads, the temperature probe, medical scissers.
But Ryan was gone. I don't understand, I said, they
were just moving him. We stepped out to get the stretcher,
Jensen explained, her voice tight third is tops. When we
came back, the bag was empty. Good Chairs pointed to
the floor. Luck. A ductriil led from the body bag
toward the door, not quite for Prince, but longs mere
marks like something had been dragged. The substance looked like oil,
but smelled metallic like blood. Officer Campbell followed the trail
with her flashlight. It continued down the corridor, up the stairs,
and across the living room floor to the back door,
which now stood up in a few inches. Arthur growled
from his corner, eyes fixed on the door. Did you
move the body, mister Miller. Officer Campbell's voice had hardened.
What no. I was with you the whole time. She
holstered her weapon and pulled out her radio despatch. This
is Officir Campbell. I need additional units at my location
immediately possible. Could thirty seven suspect may still be on premises.
She provided the address, then turned to the paramedics. Wait
in your vehicle and lock the doors. They nodded and
heard upstairs. Officer Campbell stepped closer to me, Her expression grim,
I'm going to ask you one more time what happened
to your friend's body. I don't know. I stared at
the trail of dark fluid. This isn't possible. He was dead,
completely cold. People don't just walk away after cardiacress, mister Miller.
She gestured toward the stairs. Let's go up. You're going
to sit in my vehicle while I secure the scene.
You think outed something to him. The accusation hit like
a physical blow. He was my friend. I'm not accusing
any one of anything right now. Her hand returned to
her holster. But a body is missing and I need
to fall oprot call outside. The afternoon had turned overcast,
dark clouds gathering above the tree dups. Officer Campbell directed
me to the back seat of her SUV and closed
the door firmly. Through the window, I watched her speaking
to her radio again, then again, a careful inspection of
the perimeter, following the dark trail that led from the
back door into the woods. Arthur appeared at the living
room window, his outline visible through the curtains. Even from
this distance, I could see his agitation, pacing back and forth,
stopping occasionally to stare out at the gathering darkness. Two
more Sheriff's vehicles arrived within twenty minutes. There are lights flashing,
but siren silent. Four deputies emerged, conferring briefly with Officer
Campbell before splitting out to search the property. One approached
her vehicle and opened the driver's door, retrieving a shotgun
from a locked compartment. I pressed my forehead against the
cool window glass, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Ryan had been dead, unmistakably, irreversibly dead. The paramedics had
confirmed it, yet somehow his body had moved, leaving the
strange flue trail behind the black box. Something about touching
it or killed him, and maybe something about it at
what Riann made at him, the thought was too bizarre
to hold on to. A tall woman and playing clothes
arrived in in a Martsidan detective. Judging by how the
uniformed officers deferred to her. She spoke with Officer Campbell
for several minutes, both of them glancing toward the su
v where I sat. Eventually they approached together. The detective
opened the door, her expression carefully neutil mister Miller and
Detective Martinez. I need you to come with me and
answer some questions about your friend. I already told Officer
Campbell everything I know. Nevertheless, she stepped back, clearly expecting
me to exit the vehicle. I calmed out, looking toward
the house. What about my dog, He's still inside. One
of the deputies will check on him. Officer Campbell said,
Right now, we need to focus on finding mister Thomas,
you won't find him, I said quietly, Detective Martinez. His
eyebrows rose lightly. And why is that, mister Miller A
nehugie suddenly certain of what I was about to say,
Because whatever that box did to him, he's not Ryan
any more. The County Sheriff's Department occupied a low brick
building fifteen miles from Grandpa's house. Two fluorescent strips boast
overhead in the processing room, where a deputy with Nikotin's
stained fingers pressed mine into an ink. Bad the finger
printing process left smudges under my nails that wouldn't fully
wash off in a small metal sink. They directed me
to afterward, holding until morning. The booking officer said to
no one in particular, checking boxes on a clipboard form,
he had deep smile lines that didn't match his current expression.
Detective Martinez On's first interview. When she gets in, they
took my belt shoelaces, watching the three crumpled twenty dollars
bills from my wallet. Each item made a hollow sound
as it dropped into the plastic property bin. The deputies
slid a form across the desk for me to sign,
then handed me a thin blue blanket that smelled of
industrial detergent. The holding cell measured eight feet by ten,
with a metal toilet in the corner and a concrete
bench along the back wall no window. The overhead lies
stayed on, casting sharp shadows beneath the bench. Three other
men occupied separate cells along the same corridor, one sleeping,
one staring at the ceiling, and one muttering rivocally to himself.
I sat on the bench with my back against cold
cinder blocks. The blanket pulled round my shoulders. The cell
smelled of bleach in something more organic underneath. The muttering
man across the whole occasionally punctuated his monologue with sharp
lasts that deckered off the concrete. Sleep came in disjoint
of fragments. I dreamed of Ryan's face, the black lines
spreading from his mouth like cracks and pottery. In the dream,
his eyes followed me while his body remained perfectly still.
I woke repeatedly to the sound of keys jingling as
deputies made their rounds, checking cells at irregular intervals. Morning
announced itself not with light, but with a shift change
new voices, doors opening and closing. At the far end
of the corridor, a deputy I hadn't seen before, soliitory
through the slaughter my door, a styrofoam cup of coffee
and a shrink wrap sandwich Miller interview in twenty minutes.
The coffee tasted burnt, but provided enough fiend to push
back the headache forming behind my eyes. I ate half
the sandwich white bread in a slice of processed turkey
before my stomach clenched in protest. When they came for me,
two deputies escorted me down a series of beage always
to a room with a metal table bolted to the floor.
No windows here either, just a large mirror, a lawn
one wall that obviously concealed an obtivation area. A video
camera mounted in the corner tract my movements with a
small red light. Wait here, one depye said, unnecessarily, where
exactly what I go? The room held that particular silence
unique to spaces designed for confession, a dead air that
swalllet small sounds. I counted ceiling tiles twenty eight complete,
six partial, and floor tiles forty two complete eight partial.
While waiting. The chair had been positioned slightly lower than
the one across the table. A subtle power deferential built
into the furniture. Detective Martinez entered eighteen minutes later, carrying
a Manilla folder and a paper cup similar to mine.
She wore the same clothes as yesterday, black pants and
a navy blazer over a white shirt, suggesting she hadn't
gone home. Dark circle shadowed her eyes, but her movement
remained precise that she placed the folder on the table
and sat across from me, Mister Miller, she began opening
the folder. You've been advised of your rice last night.
Several times, she nodded, spreading photographs in front of her,
face down. Walk me through yesterday again. Please start with
when mister Thomas arrived. I recounted events for what felt
like the tenth time. Ryan's arrival, our work on the house,
the discovery of the basement, the black box. Each telling
made the sequence feel more dream like, less connected to reality.
Martinez took nuts and small, tight handwriting, And you maintain
that mister Thomas touched this black box and immediately collapsed. Yes,
he just fell like a puppet with cut strains. Then
the paramedics arrived to confirmed death and the body disappeared.
While they retrieved the equipment from their vehicle. I know
how it sounds. Martinez looked up from her notes. How
does it sound, mister Miller. Impossible, but it's what happened.
She tapped her pen against the folder. We found blood
on your living room floor. Typo positive? Was that Ryan's blood?
I don't know his blood type, but there was that
dark fluid the trail leading outside. Our technicians say it's blood,
makes with something they can't immediately identify, an unusual compound.
She studded my face. Did you harm Ryan Thomas? Mister Miller, No,
the word came out horse. I cleared my throat and
tried again. No, he was my friend, friend's harm friend
every day, usually over money, women or pride. She leaned
forward slightly. Did you and Ryan have a disagreement? The
only disagreement we had was about touching that box. I
warned him not to. Martinez flipped through her notes. You
previously stated this box killed your phone. What exactly did
you mean by that? My phone battery drained instantly when
I got close to it the day before, from eighty
percent to dead and seconds, Yet you didn't think to
warn your friend. That's something potentially hazardous enough to affect electronics.
Might be dangerous to touch. I did warn him, he
didn't listen. I pressed my palms against my eyes. Ryan
always thought he knew better. Martinez let silence fill the
room for twenty three seconds by the wall clock. When
she spoke again, her tone had softened marginally. We found
Ryan Thomas early this morning. His body was approximately half
a mile from your property, in the woods near Caldwell Creek.
My hands dropped to the table. You found him. But
how did he That's what I'm trying to determine. She
turned over one of the photographs. This is the scene
where we located mister Thomas. The image showed forest undergrowth,
illuminated by house camerauflash fall, leaves, pine needles, exposed tree roots.
In the center lay something I initially could in process,
a mass of twisted limbs and torn clothing. A sleeve
I recognized as Ryan's carhaut jacket protruded from the pile,
stained almost black with what must have been blood. That
can't be I started, but Martinez turned over another photograph.
This one showed Ryan's face of what remained of it.
His skin had taken on a grayish cast, like clay
left in the sun. The black lines I had seen
forming around his mouth had spread across his entire face,
creating a web of dark fisures. His eyes were open, bulging,
the whites turned yellow. His expression captured a moment of
absolute terror, mouth stretched in a silent scream that had
frozen into rigor. My stumach heaved. Martinez slid a metal
trask and toward me, just as the coffee and half
sand which came back up. I've vomited violently to a
streaming down my face as my body tried to expel
the horror along with my stomach contents. When I finished,
as tissue appeared in my peripheral vision, I took it,
wiping my mouth with shaking hands. Sorry, I mumbled, that's
a common reaction. Martinez flipped the photo's face down again.
Our medical examiner says he's never seen anything like it.
The body shows signs of intense internal pressure, as if
every blood vessel ruptured simultaneously. The cause of death as
tentatively listed as catastrophic systemic failure, which is essentially medical
language for we have no idea. I stared at the
back of the photographs of Fraig. She might show me more.
It was the box. Whatever is in that box killed him,
mister Miller, Martinez said, carefully, We've searched your basement thoroughly.
There is no black box. What That's not possible. It
was there in the last room. We found the basement
as you described it, concrete walls, multiple rooms, record collection,
even the newspaper on the table, but no black box,
no humming sound, and no evidence of any electronic or
mechanical device. My mind struggled to process this information. It
must still be there. Maybe you missed it somehow. Our
crime scene technicians don't miss items described as potential evidence
in a death investigation. Martinez closed the folder, which leads
us with limited possibilities. Either this box never existed, or
someone removed it between Ryan's death and our arrival, or
it moved itself, I said, immediately, regretting the words. Martinez's
expression did change, but something in her eyes hardened. Objects
don't move themselves, mister Miller, Neither do your dead bodies.
This earned me along a valuating stare. They don't, which
is why we're having this conversation. She gathered the photographs
and returned them to the folder, then stood wait here.
The door closed behind her with a solid click. I
sat alone for forty seven minutes by the wall clock,
trying not to think about Ryan's face in that photograph.
The metal trash and remained beside me, the smell of
vomid adding to my narsa. When Martinez returned offerer, Campbell
accompanied her, now dressed in civilian clothes jeans and a
gray sweatshirt with the Sheriff's department logo. They both remained standing.
Mister Miller, Martinez began, we're releasing you at this time,
I blinked in surprise. You are currently we lack sufficient
evidence to hold you. The investigation into Ryan Thomas's death continues,
and you remain a person of interest. She placed a
business card on the table. Do not leave town. We'll
need to speak with you again. What about the box,
I asked, Are you going to look for it? Martinez
and Campbell exchanged a glance I couldn't interpret. We're pursuing
all relat lead, Martinez said, neutrallly. Officer Campbell will drive
you back to your residence. Patrol car will maintain a
devation of your property for the next seventy two hours.
You think I'm in danger, I asked, We think he
bear watching, Campbell replied, not Unkindly. They returned my belongings, belt, shulacees, watch, money,
and led me through a side door to the parking
lot where Campbell's personal VIHCAL waited, a gray Forward Explorer
with child sized soccer cleats visible in the back seat.
They drive back to Grandpa's house took twenty eight minutes.
Campbell made no attempt at conversation beyond confirming my address
through the windshield. I watched the landscape transition from town
to countryside, bear maple branches reaching like fingers against the
overcasky field stretched on either side of the county road,
brown and dormant, waiting for spring planting still months away.
Your dog's been fed, Campbell said, as we turned on
to the gravel drive. Deputy Williams checked on him last
night and this morning. Thank you, I managed. She popped
behind my truck and turn in her seat to face me. Listen, Miller,
I've been a cup for six years, never seen anything
like what happened to your friend. I waited, unsure where
she was heading with this. The detective has her theories,
have mine. Campbell's eyes held mine steadily. Whatever you're mixed
up in. Be careful. Some things don't have explanations were
equipped to handle. Before I could respond, she nodded toward
the house. Go on, your dog's been crying for you.
Arthur's barking greeted me before I reached the porch. When
I opened the front door, he nearly knocked me over,
pressing his body against my legs and whining desperately. His
first melt of pine and damp earth, as if he'd
spent time outside since I'd been gone. Campbell watched from
her vehicle until I was inside with the door closed.
Through the window, I saw her speaking into her phone
before backing down the driveway. A minute later, a Mark
Shehiff's cruiser pulled up and parked just beyond the property line,
partially concealed by pines, but with clear sight lines to
the house. Arthur wouldn't leave my sigh, not even when
I went to the bathroom. He followed so closely as
nails clicked against my heels on the hardwood floors. In
the kitchen, I found evidence of Deputy Williams's visit, a
clean bowl on the floor, the cable bag neatly closed
with a chip clip from the drawer. The house felt different.
Police had searched it thoroughly, drawers left slightly open, cabinet
doors not quite closed, items on shells re arranged. In
the living room, the braided rug had been moved aside,
the trap door left open to reveal the basement stairs below.
The light had been left on down there. Arthur stopped
at the edge of the living room, refusing to go
any closer to the open trap door. He sat on
his haunches, watching me with anxious eyes. It's okay, boy,
I told him, though we both knew it wasn't. I
approached the trap door cautiously, half expecting to hear the
humming rise up from below. Nothing but silence greeted me
at the top of the stairs. I hesitated, remembering Ryan's
face in a photograph, the terror frozen into his features,
the black lines spreading across his skin. Martinez had said
they found no box. How was that possible. I'd seen it,
heard it, felt its effect on the air round it.
Ryan had touched it and died instantly. Now it was gone,
and Ryan's body had been found twisted and broken in
the woods. The realization hit me with sickening clarity. Whatever
had killed Ryan was still active, still dangerous, and if
the box could somehow move or be moved, any one
might find it, any one might touch it. A vehicle approached,
and the gravel drive not a police car from the
sound of the engine. Arthur's ears perked up, and he
moved to the window of tail working uncertainly. I joined him,
peering through the curtains of the silver cede, aann pulling
up behind my truck. The driver's door opened, and my
heart seemed to stutter in my chest as a familiar
figure emerged, auburn hay, catching the afternoon light, slend her
shoulders squared with determination. Emily she stood for a moment,
looking up at the house, one hand shielding her eyes
from the weak san Then she reached back into the
car for her purse and began walking toward the porch.
Arthur whined softly beside me, his tail still wigging but
his body tense against my leg I needed to get
her away from here, away from the house, away from
whatever had happened to Ryan, away from the danger I
still didn't understand. Before she could knock, I moved toward
the door, rehearsing what I would say to make her leave.
Immediately behind me, something creaked beneath the floor, a sound
like weight shifting on wooden stairs. I sat on the
porch steps with a legal pat and a pen, listing
ways to destroy the black box. The yellow paper glowed
in the evening light, half filled with increasingly desperate ideas. Sledge, hummer, acid, fire.
Nothing seemed adequate for something that could kill with a
touch and disappear. It will. Arthur lay at my feet,
head on paws, watching the sheriff's cruise apart. One hundred
yards down the road. The deputy inside hadn't moved in
two IROs, except to answer his radio. The day had
faded toward dusk, temperature dropping, a shadows lengthened across the yard.
I crossed out explosion on my list and added protective
equipment in the margin. Thick rubber gloves might help, or
those heavy ellied deepens from dentist offices. Anything to create
a barrier between skin and whatever that box contained. Bravel
crunched his head lad swept across the clearing. A silver
cold pulled into the drive and parked behind my truck.
Not police, they would have parked alongside the colleague. Arthur's
ears perked up, his tail, giving one tentative wake. The
driver's side door opened and Emily stepped out. My chest
tightened at the sight of her. Ourburn, hair pulled back
in a loop, ponytail, familiar green jacket sipped against the
evening chill. She stood beside her car for a moment.
ANNs pushed deep in her pockets, surveying the house with
an expression I couldn't quite read. Jamie, she called, using
the nickname I hadn't heard in months. I set the
legal pad face down beside me. What are you doing here?
She climbed the steps, stopping four feet away, close enough
to see her face clearly, far enough to maintain the distance.
Our history demanded. Lee called me, she said, told me
about Ryan Lee, Ryan's sister. Of course she would have
my ex girl friend's number. They'd bonded over pottery classes
last winter. You didn't need to come all this way
two hours. Isn't all this way? Emily shifted her weight
from one foot to the other. Can we talk side?
It's getting cold. Arthur had moved to her side, pressing
against her leg and greeting. She reached down absently to
scratch behind his ears while maintaining eye contact with me.
The familiarity of the gesture made my throat tightened. It's
not a good time. Is there a good time to
talk about your friend dying? Her voice softened. I know
we left things badly, but when something like this happens.
The deputy in the cruiser had noticed our interactions, sitting
up straight behind a wheel, I stood, not wanting to
have this conversation under surveillance. An come in inside the
house thought colder than it had an hour ago. I
flipped on lights against the gathering darkness, while Emmy followed
her eyes, taking inventory of the changes since her last
visit six months ago. Your grandfather's place looks exactly the same,
she said, running her fingers along the back of the sofa,
except for that hole in the floor. I'm moved between
her and the open trap door. I'll make coffee in
the kitchen. I measure grounds into the filter with mechanical pocision.
Listening to Emily's footsteps as she explored the living room,
Arthur's nails a law inside her, his usual weariness apparently
suspended for his favorite human besides me. You sleeping in
the big bedroom, She called, Yes, smart, that's when bed
always killed your back. I poured water into the reservoir,
noticing my hands had begun to shake. Emily's presence felt
like a complication I couldn't afford, not with deputies watching
the house, not with whatever remained in a basement. The
coffee maker gurgle to life. I leaned against the counter,
pressing my pon's flat against the columnate steady them. Emily
appeared in the doorway, her face half in shadow. Jaimie,
what's really going on? Lise said, Ryan died under strange circumstances,
and the police questioned you for ires. They think I
had something to do with it, did you. The directness
was pure Emily, no softening the question, no circle in
the subject. No. But I couldn't save him either. I
gestured toward the cupboard. Muggs are word I've always been.
She retrieved too, the blue ceramic one she'd always preferred,
and a checked gray one for me. The familiarity of
her movements in this space felt like watching footage from
another life. Start from the beginning, she said, setting the
mugs beside the coffee maker. I gave her the simplest
version why I'm coming to help with repairs, finding something
unusual in the basement, his collapse. I left out the
black box, the humming, the strange circumstances of finding his body.
Even stripped down, the story sounded implausible. Emily listened without interruption,
her eyes never leaving my face. When I finished, she
filled both mugs with coffee and handed me mine. There's
more you are not telling me. There's a lot I'm
not telling you. I took a sit scald in my tongue,
and for good reason, you shouldn't be here. It's not safe.
Her eyebrows rose slightly. Not safe. Ah, I think whoever
killed Ryan might come back something like that. She said,
her mug down and touched Jamie. I know we're not
together any more, but I still care about you. If
you're in trouble, I appreciate the concern, but the best
thing you can do is leave now before dark. Arthur
suddenly stiffened beside her, his ears flattening as he turned
toward the living room. A low girl rumbled in his chest.
What's with him, Emily asked. I set my mug down
hard enough. The coffee sloshed over the room. We need
to go right now, get in your car and drive
back to Madison. What I just got here? Please, em
trust me on this. I took her elbow, trying to
guide her toward the door. She pulled away. No, not
until you explain what's happening. Arthur's growl deepened, his body
trembling with tension. He backed slowly toward the kitchen doorway.
I fixed on something in the living room. What's on there,
Emily asked, nodding toward the open trap door. Is that
what Ryan found? Emily, don't She moved past me, crossing
to the edge of the trap door and peering down
the stairs. There's a light on. Stay away from there.
I reached for her shoulder, but missed as she took
the first step down. I want to understand what happened
to him, she said, already descending, He said he found
something down here. I followed, pulse hammering in my ears. Emily,
come back up stairs, please. Arthur remained at the top
of the stairs, barking frantically. Now his warnings echoed down
the stairwell as Emmy reached the bottom and looked around
with curiosity rather than fear. It's just a basement. She said,
running her hand along the concrete wall. A nice one. Actually,
try them most. I called up to her at the
bottom of the stairs, grabbing her arm. We need to
go back up now. She frowned, studying my face. You're terrified.
Why up and down here that you're not telling me?
Before I could answer, her head tilteds lightly, eyes narrowing
in concentration. Do you hear that? My blood turned to eyes.
Hear what? That humming sounded like an electrical transformer or something.
She could hear it, the same sound Martinez and Campbell
claimed didn't exist. It's coming from down there. Emily pointed
toward the corridor that led to the room with the
black box. Don't go near it. I've tightened my grip
on her arm. Whatever you do, don't touch any anything
down here. She pulled away again, moving toward the sound
with the determined curiosity I'd once found in daring. It's
getting louder, feels almost like its vibrating through the floor.
I followed close behind, fighting the urge to physically restrain her. Emily, please,
Brian died because of what's in that room. She paused
at the doorway, looking back at me with a mixture
of concern and confusion. What are you talking about? There's
something in there, a box black about this pig. I
indicated dimensions with my hands. Ryan touched it and died instantly.
Emily's expression shifted from confusion to alarm. And you left
it sitting down here? Shouldn't the police have taken it?
There's evidence they couldn't find it. It was gone when
they searched. I swallowed hard, But now it's back. She
turned toward the doorway again, peering into the room. I
don't see anything except that metal thing in the corner.
I looked past her shoulder. The black box sat exactly
where it had been when Rhine touched it, its featureless
surface seeming to so a blight rather than reflect it.
That's it, that's the box. I reached for her waist,
trying to pull her back toward the stairs. We need
to leave now. Emily shook free of my grasp, taking
another step into the room. It doesn't look dangerous, just weird.
Emily listened to me. Ryan touched it and died. The
police found his body with some kind of black veins
spreading across his skin. Please don't go near it. The
humming intensified. As Emily moved closer to the box. I
could see its effect on her, the slight tilt of
her head, the unfocussed look in her eyes, the same
expression Ryan had worn right before he reached out. It
feels like it's calling to me, she murmured, taking another
step forward, Like it knows my name. I lunged for her,
wrapping both arms around her waist and pulling her backward. No,
don't touch it. She struggled against me with surprising strength,
her eyes never leaving the box. Let go, Jamie, I
just want to see what it is. It killed Ryan,
I shouted, dragging her toward the doorway. It will kill
you too. For a moment, she stopped fighting, turning to
look at me with sudden clarity. You really believe that? Yes, please,
em come upstairs with me. She nodded, slowly. Bouguere. Let's
go up stairs and talk about this. Relief flooded through
me as I released my grip on her waist. She
took a step toward the doorway, then pivoted suddenly and
plunged toward the box. Am I, But I reached for her,
but caught only air as she crossed the three steps
to the box in a single movement. Her hand extended,
fingers brewd wide, and before I could stop her, as
she placed her pump flat against the black surface, the
humming stopped. Emily went rigid, her back arching at an
impossible angle asam escaped her throat, not a scream, but
a high, thin, wine like air escaping a puncture tire.
Her eyes widened, pupils style lating until almost no green remained.
I grabbed her shoulders, trying to pull her away from
the box, but her hand seemed fused to its surface.
Her skin had gone chalk white, vein standing out in
stark blue relief against her neck and temples. Emily let go.
She couldn't hear me. Her body began to convulse, limbs
jerking violently, as if currant foed through her. I wrapped
my arms around her waist, bracing my feet against the
concrete floor, and pulled with every ance of strength I possessed.
Her hand came free with a sound like tearing fabric.
We fell backward together, her weight driving me into the
concrete floor. Emily's body continued to convulse on top of mine,
her head snapping back to strike my chin. Blood filled
my mouth from a bitten tom. I rolled her on
to her side, trying to remember seizure protocols from a
first a course years ago. Keep airways clear, protect the head,
don't restrain movements. Emily, can you hear me? No response
except the continued convulsions, gradually weakening an intensity. After fifty
seven seconds, by my watch, her body went completely still.
Emm I pressed trembling fingers against her neck, searching for
a pulse. Nothing. Her skin already felt cool beneath my touch. Emily, Please,
I turned her face toward mine. Her eyes remained open.
The same terror had seen in Rhyan's for to graft
frozen into her features. Dark lines had begun forming at
the corners of her mouth, spreading outward in tiny fractures. No, no, no.
I pulled her into my arms, creedling her against my chest.
Please him, don't do this. Her body grew heavier colder
by the second. The dark lines continued their progress across
her skin, like ink bleeding through paper. The woman I
have once loved, once planned a future with, had become
something unrecognizable. The humming from the box started again, so
quietly at first I barely noticed it beneath Arthur's howls.
It grew steadily louder, the vibration traveling through the concrete
into my legs. I looked up to see the black
box trembling slightly on its corner, pulsing with something that
resembled life. In that moment, I understood with absolute clarity
that the box hadn't just killed Emily and Ryan. It
had consumed something vital from them, harvested it, and it
was still hungry. I gathered Emily's body in my arms,
her limbs already locked in the awkward position of her
final moments. She weighed less than she should have, as
if something essential had been removed, beyond just her life.
I carried her towards the stairs, keeping my back to
the humming box, feeling its vibration follow me across the room.
I'm sorry, I whispered against her hair, still smelling faintly
of the citrus shampoo she always used. I shall have
made you leave, one step at a time. I climbed
toward Arthur's howling. Emily's body balanced awkwardly in my arms,
her head lowed against my shoulder, I staring at nothing.
Half way up, I paused to catch my breath, the
strain in my back and shoulders already building toward pane.
Almost there, I murmured, knowing she couldn't hear me, but
needing to say something in the awful silence between Arthur's cries.
At the top of the stairs, Arthur backed away from us,
his howling cut off as if his throat had closed.
He pressed himself against the far wall, eyes fixed on
Emily's body with a mistakable terror. I carried her to
the couch, laying her gently on the worn cushions. Her
limbs remained frozen in their awkward positions, making her look
like a broken doll rather than a person. I closed
her eyes with trembling fingers, the lids already stiff and resisted.
And I'm so sorry, I said, again, voice breaking. You
shouldn't have been here. The reality of the situation crushed
over me in waves. Emily was dead, like Ryan. She
had touched the box and died instantly. Unlike Ryan, her
body remained here in my house while a deputy watched
from the road outside. I couldn't call the police, not again,
not with Ryan's death still insolved in me. The prime
suspect find in Emily's body here would guarantee my rest
for double murder. Arthur wind from his position against the wall,
ears flat against a skull. His eyes darted between Emily's
body and the open trap door, trying to warn me
of dangers I already understood too well. I moved to
close the trap door, lifting the heavy wood panel and
lowering it into place. The solid thunk as it settled
felt like a coffin lid closing. I dragged the rug
back over it, hiding the evidence of what lay beneath.
But I couldn't hide what lay on my couch or
in the woods where they'd found Ryan, or it would
ever remained of my future. I carried Emily from the
basement in stages. Her body had grown rigid in my life,
arms joints locked at a natural angles. At the top
of the stairs, I set her down to close the
trap door. The sound of wood settling against wooden naturally final.
Arthur watched from the hallway, his body pressed flat against
a wall, as never leaving Emily's face. The living room
clock showed eleven twenty three. When I laid down the couch,
her head tilted back at an impossible angle next stiff
as cured wood. The black lines had spread from her
mouth to her cheek bones, and delicate fraffle patterns, like
frost foremen on a window. I tried straightening her limbs,
but they resisted. Already sat in the position of her
final moments. I told you not to touch it, I
said to her, and seeing eyes, my voice sounded wrong
in the quiet house, too high, too brittle. Why didn't
ye listen? Outside? The deputous cruiser remained part of the
edge of the property, headlights off, just the occasional flash
of his radio console visible through the trees. He couldn't
see the front door from his position. Pudent see what
I had carried upstairs? I found a blanket in the
whole closet wall, gray with red stripes long the edges.
It smelled of cedar and mothballs. I draped it over Emily,
covering everything but her face. The fabric settled around her
contortive form, creating a landscape of strange peaks and ballas.
You shouldn't have come here, I told her, you should
have stayed in Madison. I sat in Grandpa's arm chair,
the leather creaking beneath my weight from this angle. With
just her face visible above the blanket, Emily almost looked asleep.
The black lions mortering her skin could have been shadows
if I'm focussed my eyes enough. Arthur ed retreated to
the kitchen, his nails clicking against the linoleum as he
paced in tight circles. Every few minutes, he would pause
at the doorway, pierre at Emily's covered form, then resume
his anxious movement. The wall clock took steadily marking minutes
that stretched into eyres. I couldn't look away from Emily's face.
The woman I'd live for three years, argued with for months,
lost entirely just hours ago. Her hair still curled slightly
at her temples, the way it always had won the
air grew damp. I'm sorry, I whispered, though there was
no one to hear the apology. I'm so sorry. Ah.
At one fifteen in the morning, finally stood, like stiff
from sitting motionless. The house had grown cold, the furness
cycling on with a mechanical crone that seemed obscene in
the silence. I needed to do something with her body.
I couldn't leave her on the couch indefinitely, couldn't call
the police, couldn't explain what had happened without sounding completely insane.
I moved through the house, checking lops and windows, closing
curtains against the night in the deputy's watchful eyes. In
the kitchen, I found a half empty bottle of whisky
in the cabinet ab of the refrigerator, Grandpa's emergency supply.
The seil broke with a satisfying crack, and the first
swallow burned all the way down, bringing tears to my eyes.
That had nothing to do with Emily. What am I
supposed to do now? I asked the anti kitchen Arthur
had positioned himself in the doorway between kitchen and living room,
dividing his attention between me and Emily's body. His ears
flattened when I approached with the whiskey bottle, as if
disappointed by this predictable human weakness. Don't judge me, I
told him, taking another swallow. You didn't stop for either.
The unfairness of this accusation hit me immediately. Arthur had
been up stairs barking frantically while Emily descended into the basement.
He tried to warn us both sorry, buddy, I said,
reaching to pat his head. He backed away, ayes worry.
Not afraid exactly, but watchful in a way he'd never
been with me before, as if he no longer recognized
the person standing before him. The kitchen clock read two
hundred forty eight when I remembered the gun, Brampus hunting rifle,
a remint and model seven hundred with the walnut stock,
kept in the soft case at the back of his
bedroom closet. I'd seen it during my initial inspection of
the house, but hadn't given it much thought. The whisky
bottle was a third empty by then, the alcohol having
done nothing to clarify my thoughts. If anything, it had
only intensified the crushing weight on my chest, the certainty
that everything had gone irrevocably wrong. I climbed the stairs slowly,
each tread creaking beneath my weight. After followed at distance,
his nails clicking a steady counter point to my footsteps.
Branpas's bedroom remained exactly that I had left it that morning,
bed maid with hospital corners, reading glasses folded in the
night's tent, flannel shirts hanging in the open closet, The
rifle case leaned against the back wall, partially hidden behind
a row boots. The case unzipped with a metallic grasp
inside the roumington gleamed dully in the overhead light, smelling
faintly of gun oil and storage. Grandpa had always been
meticulous about maintenance. The bolt action moved smoothly when I
tested it, clicking into place with precision. A new way
kept the ammunition in a locked metal box on the
top shelf of the closet. The keyhung on a nail
just inside the door of frame, exactly where it had
been when I was twelve and he had first shown
me how to safely handle firearms. The box contained three
boxes of cattridges, each holding twenty rounds of thirty or
six caliber ammunition. I selected a single cartridge, rolling it
between my fingers, feeling the weight of the brass case
and a leady tip. Beside the ammunition sat a folded
sheet of paper hunting license from last season expired, now
with Grandpa's signature at the bottom. I carried the rifle
and single cartridge downstairs, moving carefully on legs that didn't
seem entirely stable. In the living room, Emily remained motionless
beneath the blanket, face is peaceful, despite the black lines
spreading across her skin. This is all wrong, I told her.
As I loaded the single round into the chamber. The
mechanical sound of the bolt's sliding home seemed too loud
in the quiet house. I sat in Grampa's rocking chair,
positioning the rifle but against the floor between my feet,
bow pointing towards the ceiling. The wooden floorboards felt solid
beneath my boots, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. I
leaned forward, resting my forehead against the cold metal of
the barrel. One pole of the trigger would end this nightmare.
One poll, and I wouldn't have to explain Emily's body
or Rhyane's death. Well, the thing in the basement that
hummed with hungry anticipation. My finger found the trigger guard,
tracing its outline. Grandpa had taught me proper trigger discipline
when I was ten. Never touch the trigger until you
are ready to fire. Keep your finger along the side
until the target is acquired and the decision to shoot
has been made. I can't fix this, I whispered to
Emily's still form. I don't know how to make this
right Arthur Wine from the doorway. His body tens as
if preparing to run. He could sense my intention, understand
the wrongness of what I contemplated. I gripped the barrel,
turning it slowly until the muzzle pressed against my temple.
The metal felt impossibly cold against my skin, the diameter
of the opening precisely large enough to deliver an end
to consciousness. My hand shook violently, fingers slippery with sweat.
Despite the chill in the room. The wall clock take
past three hundred fifteen in the morning. Outside, an al
called once, the sound floating through the night air like
a question. I closed my eyes, trying to find the
courage to pull the trigger. Emily's face appeared in my mind,
not as she looked now, transformed by whatever the box
had done, but as she had been last summer, laughing
as we cacked across the lake, hairweight from swimming, shoulders
pink from sun. The memory was so vivid I could
almost feel the July heat on my skin. My finger
found the trigger, applying the slightest pressure, not enough to fire,
just enough to feel the resistance. Arthur barked suddenly, a sharp,
commanding sound that startled me enough that the rifle barrel
slipped from my temple. He stood in the center of
the room now, body rigid, eyes fixed on mine with
an intensity that communicated more clearly than words. What am
I doing? I whispered, lowering the right to my lap.
The answer came with surprising clarity. I was surrendering, heaving up,
leaving the black Box in abasement to wait for its
next victim. I engaged the safety and set the rifle
against a wall beside me. My hands left damp prince
on the walnut stock, evidence of fear that would evaporate
by morney. I scrobed my palms against my genes, trying
to wipe away the decision I nearly made. You're right,
I told Arthur, who had relaxed marginally since I put
down the gun. This doesn't solve anything. The whisky bottle
sat in the coffee table beside Emily's covered form. I
picked it up, considering another drink, then set it down
and touched. I needed clarity now, not the false comfort
of numbers. The clock showed four hundred twenty three when
I finally understood what I had to do. The Black
Box had killed Rhine and Emily with a single touch.
It had disappeared when a police search, then returned when
they left it hum with purpose, waiting in the basement
for its next victim. It needed to be destroyed mark
to morrow, not after I called someone for help or
tried to explain what had happened. Now out before could
hurt anyone else. I moved to the kitchen, opening drawers
and cabinets with methodical precision. Brandpa had been a practical
man who kept everything in its place. The utility drawer
beside the sink contained what I needed, heavy rubber dish
rushing gloves, yellow and lined with cotton. Not ideal protection,
but better than bare hands against whatever the box contained.
I have to try, I told Arthur, who watched from
the doorway, his expression unreadable in the din light. From
the hole closet, I retrieved Grandpa's toolbooks, the red enamel
one with his initials stamped into the metal. Inside lay hammers,
screw drubers, wrenches, all arranged in perfect order. I selected
the heaviest hammer, testing its weight in my palm. The
wooden handle felt smooth, worn to a pattern of by
years of use. Arthur followed as I collected my supplies, hammer, gloves, flashlight.
When I approached the living room recovering the trap door,
he stopped abruptly, hackles rising along his spine. I know,
I said, quietly, but I have to try. The room
felt ten degrees colder than it had moments ago. My
breath didn't quite fog in the air, but it seemed
to hang visible for just an instant before dissipating. The
rug shifted beneath my boots, as if something moved beneath it,
though I knew this had to be imagination. The floorboards
remained solid when I tested them with my weight. I
pulled back the rug, exposing the trap tool with its
copper handle that gleamed in the low light despite the tarnish.
Arthur backed against the far wall, a continuous low growl
rumbling from his chest. The handle felt us coal, even
through the rubber gloves. I pulled upward, lifting the heavy
wooden door to reveal the stairs, descending into darkness. The
basement light remained on where I had left it, illuminating
only the first few steps before shadows consumed the rest.
I'll be back, I promised Arthur, though I wasn't entirely certain.
This was true. I placed one foot on the first step,
testing my way against the wood it held for him,
showing no sign of the rot that might be expected
in a structure this old. The second step creaked slightly
but remained solid. Arthur's growl suddenly shifted to a bark,
shop urgent warning. I turned to reassure him, but the
expression on his face stopped me cold. This was an
anxiety or fear. This is terror, pure and primal, directed
not at the basement but at me. Before I could
process this change, Arthur lunged forward with startling speed, teeth bare,
eyes wild. I raised my arm instinctively to protect my
face as eighty pounds of muscle and first land into
my chest, driving me back from the open trap door.
His teeth found my forearm, clamping dumb with enough force
that I felt the crunch of breaking skin through the
fabric of my shirt. Thin flashed white hot up my
arm as I staggered backward, trying to break his grip
without hurting him. Altho stop. He released my arm, only
to circle and attack again, this time going for my
angle with single minded determination. His teeth tore fer Deniman
into flesh, bright points of agony that buckled my knee
and sent me crashing to the floor. Arthur, it's me.
I rolled away from him, clutching my bleeding arm against
my chest. What are you doing? My dog, my companion,
my friend, stood between me in the basement stairs, body
lowered into an attack position i'd never seen him use before.
The load matted the fur around his muzzle my blood,
while his eyes reflected something unrecognizable, something that wasn't Arthur
any more. Body, please, I said, voice breaking, it's me,
It's Jamie. He gulled again, deeper, this time the sound
vibrating through the floorboards beneath us. When I shifted my
weight slightly, testing if I could stand, he tensed, immediately,
ready to spring. The realization hit me with sickening clarity.
Arthur was trying to keep me away from the basement,
away from the black box, even if it meant attacking
me to do it. Blood seeped through my shirt, sleeve,
warm against my skin. The hammer eye broughtly on the
foe where I dropped it during Arthur's attack, just beyond
my reach. The flashlight had rolled against the wall, its
beam creating long shadows that stretched across the room. Like
crasping fingers. Okay, I said, keeping my voice steady. I
won't go down there, not now. Arthur's growls subsided slightly,
but his body remained tense, ready to attack again if
I moved toward the stairs. I slowly pushed myself to
a sitting position whencing his pain flared through my injured
arm and uncle. The bite wounds frobbed in time with
my pulse, each beat sending fresh blood seeping through fabric.
I understand, I told him, though I wasn't sure I
truly did. You are trying to protect me. The first
light of dawn had begun filtering through the cuttons, turning
the room from black to deep blue. Emily's form on
the couch remained motionless, covered by the gray and red blanket.
The clock on the wall showed five hundred thirty seven.
Arthur maintained his position between me and the basement stairs,
watching every movement with unervingly focused attention. The dog I knew,
the one who slept at the foot of my bed
and chased scores through the yard, seemed gone, replaced by
something driven purely by instinct. I need to destroy it,
I said, more to myself than to Arthur before it
hurts anyone else. Authour's ears flecked forward at the sound
of my voice, but his sance didn't relax. Blood had
begun to dry in his fur, turning from bright writ
to rosp brown around his muzzle. I needed tools, protection,
a plan. The robber gloves clearly wouldn't be enough. I
needed something more substantial, leatherwork gloves. Maybe are multiple airs,
something to create a barrier between my skin and would
have her energy. The box contained my grandfather's workshop behind
the house might have what I needed. If I could
make it outside without Arthur attacking again, I might find
better equipment, heavier tools, protective gear, something to destroy the
box without touching it directly. I shifted my weight again,
testing my injured ankle. Jane shot up my leg, but
the jaw and held when I carefully stood, keeping my
back against the wall and my movement slow. I'm just
going to sit in the kitchen for a while, I said, calmly,
as if talking to a nervous child. I won't go
near the basement. Arthur watched with suspicious intensity as I
limped toward the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood droplets
in the harbor floor. Each step sent fresh pain through
my ankle, but I kept moving, not daring to look
back until I reached the doorway. Arthur remained by the
trap door, body still tense, but no longer in a
tap position. He hadn't followed, which meant I might have
a chance to reach the back door if I moved
carefully enough. In the kitchen, I grabbed a clean dish
towel from the drawer and wrapped it tightly around my forearm,
creating a makeshift bandage. Blood immediately soaked through the white fabric,
creating a spread in crimson stain. The pain had settled
into a steady throp that matched the pulse in my temples.
Through the window over the sink, I could see the
deputy's crews were still parked at the edge of the property.
Soon he would be replaced by the day shift, another
set of watchful as monitoring the house. If I was
going to reach the workshop unobserved, I needed to move
before full daylight. I found a second towel and bound
my ankle over my jeans, tight enough to provide some
stability without cutting off circulation. The bleeding seemed less severe
there The Danan having provided some protection against Otho's teeth.
The back door stood fifteenth to away, its dead bolts
secure from the inside. If I could reach it without
alerting Arthur, I might make it to the workshop before
he could stop me. I need a tools protection. I'll
wait to destroy the box without falling victim to whatever
had taken Ryan and Emily. I took a deep breath,
testing my injured ankle once more. It held my weight,
barely enough to get me where I needed to go.
The hammer remained in the living room where I dropped it,
but Grandpa's workshop would have better tools, heavier once the
kind that might crack open whatever material the black Box
was made from. Through the kitchen window, I watched the
sky lighten from deep blue to pale gray. Morning approached
with different steadiness, bring him with the decisions that couldn't
be postponed any longer. I had failed to protect Ryan,
failed to save Emily, failed even to control my own dog,
who now stood guard over the very thing that had
destroyed everything I cared about. The only path forward lay
through that basement for confrontation with the black Box that
waited in the concrete room below. The box that hammed
with anticipation that seemed to know my name, just as
Emily had said it near hers. I turned the dead
bolts wholely, whincing at the metallic click that seemed too loud,
and the quiet has. The back door swung open on
well old hinges, revealing the workshop twenty yards away across
two damp grass. Whatever waited in the basement would still
be there when I returned. It had patience, after all,
it had waited for gramp Off, a Ryan, for Emily.
Now it waited for me. I waited until the sky
turned gray at the edges before heading to the workshop.
Arthur remained in the living room, stationed between me and
the trap door like a sentry. Blood had dried in
his fur, turning from bright red to russ brown around
his muzzle. My arm frog beneath the makeshift bandage, each
pulse a reminder of teeth breaking skin. The workshops stood
twenty yards from the back door, a wedded structure with
cedar shingles that matched the main house. De soap through
my socks as I limped across the grass, leaving dark
foot prints behind me. The temperature had dropped overnight, my
breath forming small clouds that dissipated in seconds. Grandpa's padlock
kon open on the workshop door. I hadn't checked it
during my initial property inspection, but the key remained in
the lock, as if he just stepped away. The hinges
protested when I pus the door open, releasing the complex
scent of sawdus, motor oil and mouse droppings. Morning light
filtered through grimy windows, illuminating workfinches along both walls. Peg
board panels displayed tools and neat rows, their outlines traced
in black marker. Some spaces stood empty. The messing hammer
or wrench carried off to fix something and never returned.
Cob would stretched between ceiling rafters, delicate and un disturbed.
I found what I needed Hanging on the back wall
a sledge him with a sixteen inch chandle and an
eight pound head. The wooden grip felt smooth against my palm,
worn from years of use. I tested its weight, the effort,
sending fresh pain through my injured arm. Beside the work
bench sat a metal cabinet, store secured with a gasp
but no lock. Inside. I found what I was looking for.
A kin of charcoal lighter fluid, half empty at a
box of wooden matches. If breaking the box didn't work,
burning might on the low shelf. I discovered heavy leather
work gloves with gatlet cuffs that would cover my fore arms.
They smelled of mink oil and old sweat. The leather
cracked but still supple. I slipped them on over my
bandaged arm whencing as the pressure triggered fresh pane. The
deputy's cruiser remained visible through the workshop window, parked where
it had been all night. He sat motionless behind the wheel,
perhaps dozing or waiting for his replacement. Either way, he
couldn't see the workshop from his position. I gathered my
supplied sledge hammer, lighter fluid matches, cloves, and added a
heavy camis stock folded on a nearby shelf. The fabric
felt stiff with age and embedded it sawdust. I tucked
a flashlight from the workbench into my back pocket and
checked the battery with a quick click. The beam shone
yellow rather than white, but it would serve. The walk
back to the house took longer, each step on my
injured ankle, producing a doll throb that tra traveled up
my leg. The deputy's car hadn't moved, no other vehicles
approached along the gravel road. Emily's over cord remained pucked
behind my truck, its presence a reminder of decisions that
couldn't be undone. Arthur waited inside the back door, is
posture tense, but no longer aggressive. His eyes tracked my
movement as I set the sledgehammer against the kitchen counter
with a dolphad the lead the glow's creak when I
flexed my fingers, testing enough flexibility. I have to do this,
I told him, though his expression suggested no understanding. I
have to destroy it before it hurts anyone else. He
followed me to the living room, maintaining distance between us.
Emily's body remained on the couch beneath the gray blanket,
her face exposed. The black lines had spread further across
her skin, reaching her temples and jol line in delicate
fractal patterns. The rug covering the trap door appeared and disturbed.
I approached cautiously, hammered in one hand, flashlight in the other.
Arthur stopped five feet away, his body lowering into a crouch.
I know you don't want me to go down there,
I said, quietly, but I have to end this. A
low growl rumbled from his chest, building in volume. As
I reached for the edge of the rock. His nails
clicked against hardwood as he paced in a tight circle,
eyes never leaving my hands. I pulled the rug back
in a single motion, revealing the trapel beneath. Oards growled deepened,
his lips, pulling back to exposed teeth still sained with
my blood. The hair along his spine stood straight up,
transforming him from the gentle companion I knew into something
feral and dangerous. Stay back, I warn, lifting the sledge
hammer slightly. I don't want to hurt you. The trap
door handle felt cold, even through leather gloves. I pulled upward,
lift in a heavy wood to reveal stairs descending into shadow.
The basement light remained on where I had left it,
a yellow glow that barely penetrated the darkness. Others were
all cut off abruptly. The silence lasted three seconds before
he launched himself at me, eighty pounds of muscle and teeth,
Gliding with my chest. I stumbled backward, losing my grip
on the hammer. As we crashed into the coffee table.
Vas shatted beneath us, digging into my shoulder through my shirt.
His teeth found my thigh, clamping down with crushing force.
Denin' tore then skin, blood blossoming across blue vabricant and
expanding stain. Deane flared white hard up my leg. As
I thought to push him away without causing serious injury,
Arthur stop. I grabbed his collar, trying to pull his
head back. It's me. He released my leg, only to
lunge from my throat, forcing me to block with my forearm.
His teeth caught the thick lead the glove, puncturing through
to Gray's skin beneath. I twisted sideways, using my weight
to roll him off me. We separated long enough for
me to grab the fallen hammer. I scrambled to my feet,
ignoring the burning pain in my thigh and ankle. Blood
soaked my genes from mid thigh to knee, each heart
be pumping more through torn flesh. Arthur Circle's body lowered,
eyes fixed on mine with predatory focus. Nothing of my
companion remained in that gaze, just cold animal calculation. He
tends to spray again, muscles spounching beneath his fur. I
swung the hammer in a low arc, not aiming to connect,
but to create a space between us. Back off, I said,
voice breaking please. He charged again, faster than I could react.
His teeth found my calf, tearying through fabric and skin
in a single savage motion. I brought the hammer down reflexively,
catching him across the shoulders with a sickening thud. Arthur yelped,
releasing my leg and stumbling sideways. He shook his head once,
then settled into his attack stance again, seemingly unfazed by
the blow. Loud pulled around my boots, soaking into the hardwood.
I couldn't fight him and destroy the box. Not like this,
not with injuries multiplying and strength fading with each passing minute.
I'm sorry, I whispered, raising the hammer higher. I'm so sorry.
When he charged the third time, I was ready. The
hammer connected with the side of his head, not full force,
but enough. The impact produced a sound like a melon splitting,
followed by absolute silence. Arthur collapsed midleap, his body skating
across blood slick hard were to stop at my feet.
His legs twitched once, then went still. A small pool
of dark fluid spread beneath his head, sucking into gray fur.
Now the word escape is barely a breath. No, no, no.
I dropped to my knees beside him, pressing my hand
against his chest. His heart beat weakly beneath my palm,
each bull separated by too many seconds. Blood leaped from
his ear in the corner of his mouth, bright against
golden furrer. Stay with me, I said, voice cracking, Please, buddy,
stay with me. His eyes remained open, but in focus,
pupils dilated to near perfect circles. When I stroked his head.
He didn't respond, no tail wag, no ear, to which
just the shallow rise and fall of his chest, growing
more irregular by the second. I couldn't save him. That
knowledge settle likely in my stomach as I watch each
breath grow shallower than the last. My dog, my friend,
my last connection to the world before everything went wrong,
dying because I had chosen the hammer over retreat. I'm sorry,
I said, again, knowing he couldn't hear me. It wasn't you,
It was never you. His final breath escaped in a
small sigh, barely disturbing a fur round his muzzle. The
stillness that followed seemed absolute, as if the entire house
held it breath and witness. I sat beside him for
seventeen minutes, according to the wall clock, my hand resting
on colling fur, blood continued seeping from my various wounds,
creating a mingle pool beneath us. Both The pain had
receded to a dull background, throb overshadowed by the hollow
ache spreading through my chest. The humming from the basement
grew louder in the silence, a pulsing vibration that traveled
for floorboards and into the soles of my boots. It
seemed almost triumphant, now a mechanical pur of satisfaction. I
stood slowly, testing my weight on injured legs. Blood had
sook my genes from thigh to ankle on the right side,
a fabric sticking to skin with each movement. The sledge
umer felt heavier, now requiring both hands to lift, despite
the pain in my bitten arm. The trapper remained open stairs,
descending into partial darkness. I picked up the flash shight
from where it had fallen during the fight, tested it
with a click, and started down the stairs. Each step
sent fresh pain through my injured leg. The wound, reopening
with movement to the bottom. I paused to catch my breath.
The air felt colder than before, carrying the same metallic
s end had noticed stirring previous visits. The corridor stretched,
the head door was branching left and right, ending at
the room containing the black box. The humming intensified as
I limped forward, by averting through the concrete floor and
up into my bones. My teeth aped from the resonance,
a high pitched wine joining the lower frequencies. As I
approached the final doorway, the light box sat exactly where
it had been when Emmely touched it, a seamless cube,
approximately eating in on each side, its surface so dark
it seemed to absorb light rather than reflected. The flashlight
beam dimmed when directed at its surface, powut raining visibly
as I watched. I set the light on the floor,
pointing away from the box. The sledgehammer felt impossibly heavy now,
my arms trembling with the effort of holding it upright.
Blood continued trickling down my leg, forming a small puddle
around my boot. You took them all, I said to
the box, voice echoing in the concrete room. Whyan Emily Arbra,
you don't get anyone else. The humming shifted slightly, modulating
in patterns that almost resembled language. The temperature drop noticed
my breath, forming visible clouds that hung suspended in the
still air. I planted my feet shoulder with the part,
ignoring the protus from injured muscles. The leather gloves creaked
as I adjusted my grip on the hammer handle, positioning
my hands for maximum leverage. I drew a deep breath,
lifted the hammer above my shoulder, and swung with every
remaining ounce of straight The hammer connected with the box's
surface with a sound like struck crystal. High pitched and
resonant vibrations traveled back through the handle into my arms,
numbing my hands instantly. The box remained and marked not
even a scratch where the metal headd struck. I swung again,
aiming for the same spot. This time, the impact produced
a deeper tone, like a massive bell run underwater. The
vibrations intensified, rapping my teeth and blurring my vision. Still,
the box showed no damage. The third swing landed with
all my weight behind it. Something changed. A hair line
fracture appeared along one edge of the box, no wider
than a human hair, but definitely there. The humming shifted
to a high register, taking on an urgent quality that
hadn't been present before. You can break, I said, through grita'teeth,
You are not invincible. I targeted the fracture with my
next wing, connecting precisely where the line met the corner
of the box. The crack widened slightly, spreading perhaps an
inch long the surface. The humming became a shriek, painful
enough that I nearly dropped the hammer to cover my ears.
Each subsequent blow expanded the network of cracks, spreading like
ice forming on the pond. The box began to vibrate fisibly,
lifting slightly off the concrete floor before settling again. The
air around it shimmered as if feuded through heat waves
despite the freezing temperature. My arms burned with fatigue, shoulder
screaming from the repeated impacts. Blood loss made my head
light vision narrowing to a tunnel. Focused entirely on the
fracturing box. I lost count of the blows, fifteen twenty more,
each one producing new cracks in the once perfect surface.
The hammer connected one final time, striking the weakest point,
where multiple fractures intersected. The box split open with a
sound like the world tearing apart, a deafening crack, followed
by absolute silence. Light poured from the opening, not illumination,
but its opposite, a darkness so complete a glowed. The
sensation defied logic, yet I could find no other way
to describe the energy emanating from the broken shell. Cold
air rushed outward in a physical wave that knockt me
backward against the concrete wall. Something moved within the fractured box,
something that wasn't solid or liquid or gas, but some
state of matter I had no language for. It flowed
upward like smoke, but maintained cohesion like a liquid cowling
into complex patterns that twisted in impossible ways. The substance
recognized me. I can't explain how I knew this, but
certainty filled me as it oriented toward my position. It
assessed me with senses I couldn't comprehend, reaching tendrils of
not quite matter in my direction. My vision blurred darkness
creeping in from the edges. The last thing I registered
before consciencens failed was the substance flowing past me toward
the stairs, moving with purpose to warred the house above.
I woke to silence. The basement. Light flickered overhead, casting
uneven shadows across concrete walls. I lay sprawled where I
had fallen, one arm bent awkwardly beneath me, legs played
across the cold floor. The sledgehammer rested beside my head,
its head gleaming dully in the unsteady light. Blood had
pulled and partially dried beneath my thigh, creating a tacky sensation.
When I tried to move, my watch showed eleven forty seven,
nearly two iurs. Since I descended the stairs, Each muscle
protested as I pushed myself to a sitting position, using
the wall for support. The black box lay in pieces
across the floor, shouds of material that resembled obsidian but
felt more like ceramic. When I coartsely touched one with
a glove finger, the largest fragment measured perhaps six inches across,
the smallest no bigger than a thumb nail. Together they
formed an incomplete puzzle, with pieces missing. The humming had
stopped completely. The basement felt ordinary, now cool, slightly damp,
smelling of concrete and dust rather than metal. Whatever had
emerged from the box was gone, leaving only broken remnants behind.
I gathered the fragments, collecting them in the canvas top
I'd brought from the workshop. Each piece felt unnaturally cold,
even through leather gloves. When I collected all visible shouts,
I tied the corners of the top together, created in
a makeshift sack. Standing required three attempts, my injured leg
buckling twice before supporting my weight. The stairs loomed ahead,
an impossible vertical challenge given my current state. I topped
the bundle of box fragments under one arm and began
the climb, using the hammer as an impromptu cane. Half
way up, unnoticed something at the top of the stairs,
a dark shape blocking the rectangle of light from the
living room above. My vision, still blurry from blood loss
and unconsciousness, couldn't immediately identify the form. Three steps higher,
recognition hit like a physical blow. Author lay sprawled across
the top step, one pole hanging over the edge, eyes
open and glazed with death. His fer Pierre dull in
the overhead light. Blood dried to black cross around his
ears in mouth. Now the word emerged as barely a whisper.
You were upstairs, you were, memory returned in fragments, author
attacking the hammer, connecting his body on the living room floor.
I'd left him there, dead or dying, before descending to
destroy the box. Yet here he was positioned as if
he had been dragging himself toward the basement when death
finally claimed him. His legs stretched behind him, creating furrows
in the dust and the wooden steps, as if he'd
used his front poles to pull himself forward. The spy
catastrophic injury. I climbed the remaining steps, careful not to
disturb his body. Up close, I could see what I'd
missed from below, the dark lines spreading from his mouth,
and as identical to the patterns that had marked Ryan
and Emily effort. They touched the box. It got you two,
I said, voice breaking even without touching it. Whatever it
emerged when I broke the box, mast had encountered Arthur
on its way upstairs. The substance had recognized him as
a threat, the creature that had tried to prevent me
from reaching the basement, and eliminated him as it did
the others. I sat on the step beside him, balancing
the bundle of fragments on my knees. His fur felt
call beneath my finger's body already stiffening with rigor, I
stroked his head, gently, avoiding the wound where the hammer
had struck and the strange dark lines that marked his transformation.
I tried to protect you, I told him, knowing the
lie even as I spoke it. I hadn't protected anyone,
not right, not Emily, not Arthur. I'd failed them all
through ignorance, hesitation, and ultimately violence. The living room beyond
the trap door appeared unchanged, Emily's body still on the couch,
covered by the gray blanket. The blood stained hardwood where
Arthur and I had fought smeared an ox and footprints
that told the story of us struggle. I needed to move,
to continue collecting the pieces of the broken box, to endure.
Nothing remained that could harm anyone else, But exhaustion pressed
down like a physical weight, making even the thought of
standing against seem impossible. The deputy's cruiser would still be outside.
Soon his replacement would arrive, perhaps wondering why Emily's car
remained parked in my driveway. Overnight questions would follow then investigations,
then discover as I couldn't explain. Arthur's body grew heavier
as I lifted him, cradling him against my chest despite
the pain in my bitten arm. I carried him into
the living room, leaving the bundle of box fragments and
the stairs temporarily. His weight seemed wrong to light, as
if whatever had killed him had taken something essential beyond
just his life. I laid him beside the couch where
Emily lay, arranging his legs to look natural, as if
he'd simply fallen asleep in the rug. The dark lines
cross his face seemed less prominent in the living room light,
almost invisible unless you knew to look for them. I'm sorry,
I whispered to them both. I should have left this
place when I had the chance. Blood loss and exhaustation
made the room till slightly as I turned back toward
the trap door. I needed to finish what had started,
gather every fragment of the black box and dispose of
them where they could never be reassembled. But first I
needed to rest, just for a moment, tis long enough
to gather strength for what came next. I sunk into
grand pass arm chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight.
My injured legs stretched before me, the blood soaking the
denim from thigh to ankle. I sat on the concrete
floor of the basement, my back against the colt wall,
surrounded by obsidian like fragments of the box. Blood had
pulled and dried beneath my thigh, forming a tacky's heel
between denim and skin my watch shirt. Twelve eleven, the
sirens started as distant whales, barely audible through the basement walls.
Some one had called the police. Perhaps a neighbor had
spotted Emily's silver accord in my drivery overnight. Perhaps the
deputy had reported suspicious activity after watching me stumble to
the workshop before dawn, returning with tools and a pronounced limp.
Or maybe someone had heard the sledge hummer connection with
Arthur's skull, the sound carrying through the morning stillness. The
sirens grew louder, moving up the country road toward the house.
Four minutes maybe five before they arrived, not enough time
to explain three bodies in a basement that shouldn't exist.
I gathered the scattered fragments with trembing hands, collecting each
shard into the canvas tap. Some pieces crumbled at my touch,
turned into fine powder that clung to the leather of
my gloves. Others remained solid ad just sharp enough to
slice through canvas where they pressed against the fabric. The
largest piece, roughy the size of my palm, still hum
faintly at a barely perceptible vibration that travel through the
gloven into my bones. I wrapped it separately in a
sharp rag before adding it to the bundle, then tied
the corners of the top together, creating a mate of
sack that weighed perhaps twelve pounds. Standing required two attempts,
my injured leg buckling under my wait before grudgingly supporting me.
The stairs looked impossibly steep. Each wooden tread smeared with
Arthur's blood, where he dragged himself down toward the basement,
toward me, a client using the wall for support, Wondle
clutched against my chest with one arm, the hammer dangling
from my other hand. At the top, I paused to listen.
The sirens had stopped, replaced by the sound of tires
on gravel and carrid doors opening. Arthur's body remained where
I had last seen it sprawled across the top step
with his front poles extended, as if reaching for something.
In death, he looked more er somehow, his ferdile under
the overhead light. The black lions spreading from his mouth
had darkened further, turning from great to true black in
the iris since had found him. I'm sorry, buddy, I whispered,
stepping carefully over his cooling body. I can't fix this.
In the living room, Emily lay beneath the gray blanket,
their face exposed to the afternoon light, filtering through half
closed curtains. The black lions had spread across her entire face,
now creating an intricate with that disappeared beneath her hair line.
Her skin had taken on a waxy quality. I sunken
into darkened sockets. Voices cared from outside, a woman giving directions,
several men responding with clipped acknowledgments. Car doors slammed in sequence,
radios crackled with despatcher coats. I moved to the window,
peering through a gap in the curtains. Three patrol cars
had parked in a loose semicircle around the front yard.
Emily's accord and my truck remained where we left them.
Six officers moved across the clearing with practiced efficiency, establishing
a perimeter around the property. At the center stood Detective Martinez,
pointing toward the workshop while speaking into hand held radio.
There was no way out the front. The back door
remained my only option. I leaned through the kitchen, the
bundle of fragments clutched against my chest, leaving blood smeared
footprints across linoleum. Kane flared with each step, fresh blood
sweeping through the fabric wrapped around my thigh. The hammer
felt impossibly heavy in my hand, its metal head scraping
against the floor. When my grip weakened. Through the kitchen window,
I could see two offices approaching the workshop, weapons drawn
but pointed downward and ready positioned. A third moved along
the tree line at the property's edge, scanning the underbrushed methodically.
James Miller. Martinez's voice carried clearly through the morning ere
This is Detective Sarah Martinez. We need to speak with you.
Please come to the front door with your hands visible.
I east the back door open, checking the immediate area
for officers. The gap between house and fort measured approximately
forty yards of open ground mongrass, offering no concealment. The
closest cover was a stand of white pines at the
property's eastern edge, the lower branches starting six feet above
ground level. Mister Miller, we have reports of a disturbance
at this address, Please respond Martinez. His voice had moved
closer to the house. I slipped through the door and
pressed my back against the seed of siding, keeping the
structure between myself and the officers at the workshop. The
bundle of fragments shifted against my chest, individual pieces grinding
together with a sound like crushed glass. Three options presented themselves.
Surrender an attempt explanation, hide somewhere on the property, or
run for the tree line and disappear into the forest beyond.
The first would inevitably lead to arrest when they discovered
the bodies inside. The second merely postponed the inevitable. I
chose the third. Twenty eight seconds later, I pushed away
from the wall and moved toward the trees and a
limping run, each foot full sending lightning bolts of pain
up my injured leg. The hammer swung in my right hand,
its weight throwing off my balance. Bundle pressed against my chest.
With each labor breath, individual fragment shifting and settling. I'd
covered perhaps fifteen yards when a shout came from behind me.
Move many side, suspect fleeing toward the tree line. I
didn't look back. The pines grew closer with each louching step.
Their trunks offer in potential cover if I could reach
them before police stop right there. This voice came from
my left one of the officers who had been checking
the workshop. He stood thirtieth away, weapon raised, shoulder level,
stance wide and balance. I kept moving. Last warning, stop
or I will fire. The trees stood just ten yards
to add. If I could reach them, the underbrush beyond
might provide enough cover to disappear. The officer wouldn't have
a clear shot. Once I entered the forest proper, something
whistled past my ear, close enough that I felt the
displacement of air against my skin. The crack of the
gunshot followed a milli second later, echoing across the clearing.
Birds erupted from near by branches, their wings beating frantically
against morning air. The trees enveloped me in shadow and
the scent of pine resin. I ducked beneath low hanging branches,
putting solid trunks between myself and the pursuing officers. The
forest four dropped away in a gentle slope, carrying me
downhill toward denser cover. More shouting behind me, the voices
overlapping with urgency. Suspect entered the woods east perimeter cut
him off at the axis road K and I knew
n it. En route to fourteen minutes, I moved deeper
into the forest, my pace slowing is under Brush thickened
around my legs. The bundle of fragments knocked against my
chest with each step, some pieces grinding to powder inside
the canvas. Blood from my various wounds left the clear
trail behind me, drops on leaves, smears on tree trunks.
Were I steadied myself, A trained dog would have no
trouble following the slope. Steep in his eye descended loose
oil giving way beneath my boots. Pine trees gave way
to mixed hard woods, maple, oak, and birch, creating a
dappled canopy overhead. The hammer caught on hanging vines, nearly
pulling from my grip before I tucked it into my belt.
A stream appeared ahead, perhaps six feet across an eight
inches steep water moving swiftly over smooth stones. I waded through,
gasping as cold water reached my knees and serked into
my blood crusted jeans. The current hugged at my injured leg,
nearly toppling me before I reached the opposite bank. Water
might temporarily mass my scent from tracking dogs, but it
wouldn't hide the blood trail. I needed to move faster,
put more distance between myself and the pursuing officers. I
checked my watch twelve thirty eight, seventeen minutes since I'd
fled the house. The officers would have found the bodies
by Neir Emily on the couch, Ryan's absence, Arthur's cooling
form by the basement stairs. Enough blood smeared across hard
would suggests serious injury. Their investigation would shift from malness
teck to homicide. The pre cimeter expanding accordingly the terrain
level briefly before rising again toward a ridge visible through
thinning trees. If I could reach higher ground, I might
orient myself, perhaps find a road of trail leading away
from the search area. My leg had begun to stiffen.
The makeshift binded sook through with fresh blood. Each dep
required conscious effort, the pain constant and sharp. The bundle
of fragments seen heavier, now pulling out muscles already taxed
beyond endurance. I reached the ridge forty three minutes later,
merging onto a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below. From
this vantage point, I could see ground post property, the
cedar shingle tas surrounded by patrol cars, the light bar
spinning blue and red in the early afternoon sun. The
workshops stood open, Officers moving between buildings with purposeful strides.
A quarter mile beyond the house, officers and civilians formed
a line at the forest edge, preparing for a systematic
search of the area. I had fled through three canine units,
moved among them, handlers holding leases taut. As the dogs
caught my scent, I needed to keep moving. The ridge
can ttinued west for perhaps half a mile before curving
salve toward a second valley. If I followed it, I
might avoid the search part as forming below the rocky
ground would leave fuur traces than for soil, potentially confusing
the dogs. If wind direction corporated. The bundle shifted against
my chest, individual fragments settling into new configurations. The largest piece,
the one that still hummed faintly, pressed against my sternum.
Its vibration penetrating led a gloves and shook fabric to
resonate with my heartbeat. It couldn't stay with me, None
of it could. The box had killed Ryan and Emly
with a touch, had infected Arthur with the same black
lines even after being broken. Carrying the fragments meant risking
further contamination. I had to bury them, scatter them across
miles of wilderness where they could never be resembled. The ridge,
off of limited options for disposal, explored rock with minimal
soil accumulation. I needed to reach the valley beyond find
softer ground that would accept what I carried. I moved
west along the ridge, keeping my profile against the sky line.
The bundle knocked against my chest with each step, individu
your fragments grinding together inside the canvas. The lard continued
seeping through the bandage around my thigh, leaving sporadic drops
on stone that dried almost immediately in the afternoon sun.
Three hours later, I reached the curve wither ridge turned south.
My watch showed three hundred fifty two. The search partis
had spread through the forest below. There for recent vests
visible through gaps in the canopy. As they moved in
a great pattern out board from the house, dogs barked occasionally,
the handlers call in confirmation when they detected traces of
my passage. I descended into the second valley, moving from
exposed rock to mixed forests in gradual stages. Ou come
Maple dominated here, their leaves forming a thick carpet underfoot
that most of my foot deepths but retained clear impressions
of my passing. Dogwood and red but grew in the
under story, their spring flowers long since fallen. A game
trail appeared, winding between trees in a roughly southern direction.
I followed it for twenty minutes before veering east toward
higher ground. The bundle seemed determined to return to the valley.
It fled, its weight, pulling against my grip as if
possessing its unwell nearest den of young beech trees. I
found what I needed, a section of groundsoft enough to
dig with minimal tools. I set the bundle aside and
used the hammer's claw end to break through surface roots,
exposing dark soil beneath my injured leg. Protested as I
knelt fresh blood soaking through denim where scabs had crept.
With movement, the hole grew slowly each strike of the
hammer against earth, producing small advances six inches deep eight
hundred twelve. The sides collapsed partially as I worked, soil
falling back into the excavation with quiet rustling sounds. When
the hole reached it ing in, I untied the canvas
bundle and removed the largest fragment, the one wrapped separately
in the shop rack. It hummed against my gloved palm,
vibration traveling up my arm to set teeth on edge.
This piece couldn't stay with the others. Whatever power remained
in the box seemed concentrated here. I recealed the main
bundle and placed it in the hole, covering it with
soil tamped down using the hammer's flat side. When the
earth looked and disturbed, I scattered leaves and twigs across
the surface, obscuring any sign of recent digging. The largest
fragment remained, humming in my hand with a mistakable hunger.
I tucked it inside my sure pocket, its vibrition continuing
through multiple layers of fabric. This piece would need its
own burial sight far from the others, night approached. As
I moved south through thinning woods. My watch showed seven
hundred twenty six. When I reached another stream, this one
wider and deeper than the first, Hunger had begun to
gnaw my stomach, reminding me that I had eaten nothing
since the previous evening. The stream offered clear water, at least.
I knelt on smooth stones and drank from cupped hands,
the cold liquid momentarily easing the dryness in my throat.
Fish darted between underwater shadows, brick trap measuring perhaps six inches,
the spotted backs almost invisible against a rocky stream bed.
I had no means to catch them, no fire to
cook with. Even if I succeeded. Thought of row flesh
turned my stomach. Despite growing hunger, I followed the stream
east for half a mile before finding a suitable campsite,
a small clearing beneath over hanging pine boughs that would
provide minimal shelter from overnight dew fallen branches. Yielded enough
material to contry routed lane to the structure bailly large
enough to cover my up a body if I cult
into a tight ball. The hammer served at both ten
steak and defensive weapon, driven into soft earth arm's reach
from my intended sleeping position. The box fragment hunt in
my pocket as I worked as vibration, a constant reminder
of what I carried. Full darkness arrived at eight hundred
forty five. Aircraft sounds passed overhead at a regular intervals,
helicopters moving in search patterns across the forest, their spotlight
sweeping between trees approximately a mile north of my position.
They would continue searching through the night, expanding their perimeter
until they found me or determined and had left the
immediate area. I removed the fragment from my pocket and
placed it on a flat stone beside my mature shelter.
Its humming seemed louder in the darkness, almost conversational in
its modulation. The surface no longer appeared purely black, but
contained subtle variations, patches of deeper darkness that shifted and
flood like oil arm water. Sleep came in fragments each
period of unconsciousness broken by sounds both real and imagined.
Twice I woke to find myself reaching for the box fragment,
my hand hovering each above its vibrating surface. Before conscious
control reasserted itself. Dawn arrived at fog, clinging to the
stream and drifting between trees and ethereal wisps. My watch
showed five hundred seventeen. Every muscle protested as I pushed
myself to sitting position injurers from the previous day, having
stiffened over night into near immobility. The box fragment had
moved approximately four inches from where I had placed it,
now resting against a small rock at the edge of
my sleeping area. I had no memory of touching it
during the night. Hunger had become a constant presence, my
stomach cramping with emptiness. The nearest potential for rootsource lay
miles away graham PA's panetry. Now certainly under police surveillance,
I would need to find sustenance elsewhere, or risk weakness
that would make continued evasion impossible. I tucked the fragment
back into my share pocket, as umming immediately resuming against
my chest. The hammer came free from the earth with
a whit sucking sand, soil clinging to its metal head
and clumps. Aircraft's arms returned with daylight. Helicopters moving in
systematic patterns across the forest canopy there remained focussed on
their inn off of my position, suggesting a search had
not yet expanded to include this valley. Dogs would present
a greater threat, their tracking abilities extending beyond visual range.
I broke camp at six hundred five, racing signs of
my presence as thoroughly as possible, before continuing southeast toil
Ang the stream. My injured like function marginally better after rest,
though each step still produced charpagne where Arthur's teeth had
torn flesh. The day passed in careful movement, punctuated by
extended rest periods whenever aircraft sounds approached. I located a
BlackBerry thicket of round mid day, the fruit not yet
fully ripe, but edible enough to temporarily ease hunger bupple
due stain my fingers and less smears across my already
filthy shirt. By a late afternoon, I had covered approximately
four miles According to Landmark's tract against the sun's position.
The fragment hung constantly in my pocket, its vibration occasionally
shifting in intensity. When I changed direction, it seemed to
pull westward, back toward the valley where I had buried
the other pieces. I found the second burial site as
a light began to fade, a rotting stump surrounded by
loose all that yielded easily to the hammer's claw. The
whole reached twenty four in deeper than necessary for the
single fragment, but somehow appropriate given its continued humming. When
I removed the piece from my pocket, its vibration intensified immediately,
the surface ripping with those oil like patterns of deeper blackness.
I placed it at the bottom of the hole, covering
it with soil and six inch layers, each tamp down
before adding the next. The humming continued through eighteen in
of earth. I added more soil, packing it tightly with
the hammer's flat side. The vibration diminished slightly, but remained perceptible.
Only when the hole was completely filled in the surface
disguised with scattered leaves, did the sound finally fade near
an audibility. As I turned to leave, something shifted beneath
the freshly disturbed earth, a subtle movement, like a creature
burrowing upward. I stood motionless, watching as a small dum
formed in the soil, rising perhaps half an inch before
settling again. The fragment wanted out. I placed the hammer
head directly over the disturbance and pressed down with my
full weight, compacting the soil until resistance suggested bedrock beneath.
The movement ceased, the earth becoming still once more. Night fell.
As I moved away from the burial site, each step
carrying me further from the harming that had become my
constant companion. The absence felt wrong somehow, as if I
had left behind something vital rather than dangerous. I made
camp four hundred yards from the buried fragment, constructing another
rudimentary lean to beneath the stand of seed of trees.
Their aromatic branches provided better shutter than the previous night's pines,
though the ground beneath contained more exposed roots that pressed
to comfortably against my back. Sleep came easier without the
fragment's presence, Though dreams filled the darkness with images, I
couldn't escape Emily's face, with black lines spreading across pale skin.
Ryan's contorted body in the police photograph afterose final moments,
teeth bared in protective fury before the hammer connected with
his skull. I woke at four hundred thirty eight to
the sound of voices carrying through pre dawn stillness, flashlight
being sweat between trees approximately two hundred yards north of
my position, search parties working through the night, the patterns
more thorough than I had anticipated. I broke camp quickly,
erasing signs of my presence, before moving southeast through darkness
punctuated by occasional moon light. The voices faded behind me
as distance increased. The aircraft sound suggested the search perimeter
continued expanding in all directions. By mid morning, hunger had
become debilitating, my thoughts increasingly focused on finding fruit rather
than evading capture. I hadn't eaten, and that is the
end of this story. Thank you for listening, and I
will see you in the next one.