The Box

Legend spoke of a ravenous evil, deep in the rotting tomb of an ancient god. Supposedly there was a box there, a box of hatred, darkness, cruelty and sin. A box, vengefully forged in the fires of anger by the gods themselves. For centuries, few dared venture near the surrounding countryside, fearing evil curses and dark enchantments. The bravest men laughed at the believers, condescendingly casting tales of the box aside, while drowning their nightmares in the tavern. The superstitious dared not speak of it, preferring not to even grace the box with their thoughts. The brave fools who did seek out the tomb were consumed by fear and either disappeared forever or returned raving mad, their minds carcasses.

But one girl, no more than a child, was different. She was blessed with angelic quality, a subtle quality that only the brightest tended to notice. She was immensely curious. So curious that she had a habit of making rash, sometimes dangerous decisions in attempts to satiate her curiosity. Her name was Pandora.

Pandora learned of the box at a late night dinner party, hosted by her parents on a snowy winter's night. She was supposed to have been asleep in her room, but she'd snuck downstairs to hear stories from the passing travelers. They spoke of the box in hushed voices, the fire casting their shadows theatrically against the stone wall opposite the hearth. She listened in silent awe, her heart racing and spine shivering. She had nightmares that night. Her demonic shadow had laughed at her, laughed and laughed and jeered, "don't open the box Pandora, don't open it. You'll never open it, will you Pandora? You'll never know what's inside." The box lingered in her mind, an incurable splinter of curiosity.

It wasn't until the next summer, when Pandora's family was traveling across the country to visit family, that fate brought Pandora to the box. Nightmares tormented her once again. Her shadow was still laughing and jeering, "I know where it is Pandora, I know but you don't, you silly girl." Pandora woke up in a panic, or at least she thought she did, but the demon was still there, still laughing. It started to skip, away from the safety of the campsite, away from the road, into the blackness of the night. Pandora knew that if she didn't follow the shadow, she'd go mad with curiosity, it was her gift and her curse.

Half awake, half asleep, Pandora began to run. Into the woods, after the shadow. She'd lost sight of it in the dark, but she could hear it laughing up ahead. Branches scratched at her face and little arms as she stubbornly pressed through the trees. The mud gripped at her boots, a heavy, paralyzing sludge. She pulled them off, running barefoot now, the demon's cackling and jeering leading her through the dark. It was a warm night, but her periwinkle nightgown wasn't enough to combat the growing cold as she ran. No garment would have been enough; this cold was more than physical, it was soul chilling.

The cackling stopped suddenly as Pandora stumbled into a clearing. Her vision was blurry and dreamlike, but she soon realized the clearing was dead. Dead brush, dead trees, this clearing was death. She felt its grip on her, pulling her downwards, downwards into the cold. She saw a hole in the ground, barely large enough to fit through. With scattered breath, she followed death down into the dark.

As she tumbled down the hole, all her demons appeared to her, screaming. Evil apparitions from the blackness taunting her, laughing, reminding her how horrible she was. They threatened her and everything she loved, promising eternal suffering and pain. She hit the ground, bruised and muddy from head to toe, but uninjured. Terrified, she looked up. A cold, heavy mist hung over a great stone tomb. Atop the tomb, carved with satanic images and runes, sat a black box. It was open. Demons and shadows danced from the box, cursing, chanting, and laughing in an evil fantasia. Shivering almost to the point of paralysis, Pandora stood up and took a step toward the box. Her shadow's laughter echoed through the tomb, "you'll kill them all Pandora, they will all die if you touch the box. You will be the one to kill them. You're the angel of death Pandora!"

The child lifted her hand to the lid of the box. As her hand neared the box, her skin grew even colder and began to wrinkle. Dangerously close to the box now, the skin fell from her hand, leaving only her small, skeletal fingers and forearm. With her final vestige of courage and strength, her skeletal fingers gripped the lid of the box and slammed it shut. A ghastly chorus of anguish rose in a thunderous crescendo as the demons spiraled into the vacuum of the box. It was a black hole, pulling the mists, the cold, the darkness and the evil into it. Evil memories, horrible thoughts, dark preconceptions and vestments of sadness were torn from Pandoras mind, and absorbed by the box. Monsters and terrors, demons and curses alike were drawn irreversibly into the box. Then the dark symphony ended, and the box was gone. Her skin warm, her hand youthful, and the sun shining down into the tomb of evil, Pandora started giggling, and woke up.