You obscure aunt has died. leaving you her only possession—a mysterious trunk. You think you hear noises from it. . .
It’s what’s called a steamer trunk. You see knockoffs of them at furniture stores—much flimsier than the genuine article, of course. In and of itself, it’s not terribly valuable. At best, a few hundred dollars if restored.
What’s more interesting is what’s in it. That’s a mystery. Something inside is bumping back and forth when you lift it.
There is, of course, no key. You could pry it open, or unscrew the hinges, but you don’t.
You could call a locksmith, and maybe you will, but you have to think that locks like this aren’t too challenging, and it’s a fun way to spend a little bit of time, so you watch a few videos on YouTube and with a bit of bent wire you finally manage to click the lock open.
The hasp is seized with rust, and you need a screwdriver to pry it clear of the latch. And the hinges are stiff, too, but you’ve got the whole lid to provide leverage, and with a protesting squeal, it comes open.
Inside is a smaller but otherwise identical chest. It’s also locked.
You’ve got the whole lid to provide leverage, and with a protesting squeal it comes open.
Inside is a cardboard box, stickers on each side indicating it’s fragile. There’s packing tape across the flaps, several strips to make sure it stays secure.
“What’s in the box?” you can hear Brad Pitt saying.
You don’t want to open the box.
You have to open the box.
You lift the box up out of the chest and wonder just how heavy a human head is anyway? Ten pounds, maybe a bit more? About the same as a bowling ball?
Your Swiss Army Knife makes short work of the tape and you cautiously pull the flaps open.
It is a bowling ball. A custom Brunswick. You shrug. You never knew your aunt was a bowler.
The hasp and hinges work easily; they’ve been oiled recently. Inside is a box, a nondescript cardboard box with airholes in it.
You open the box that was in the chest and inside is a light blue rainbow-maned filly pegasus pony . . . it’s My Little Dashie.
It’s a lavender unicorn in a box. Not Twilight Sparkle: it’s Amethyst Star, a.k.a. Sparkler, a.k.a. Amey the Hoof, and she’s got her Sig Sauer and she’s pissed.
“This had better not be Flint again,” she mutters as she steps out of the box.
Inside is a small metal chest. Some kind of ammo box, most likely; it’s got stenciled numbers along the side and top and where it isn’t rusted it’s still an olive drab.
The writing isn’t in English, it looks like Cyrillic and your great-uncle fought in World War II, so maybe this is some war souvenir. Eagerly, you flip the latch and lift the lid.
A tentacle comes out.
You try to slam the lid shut but it’s too late; now there are two tentacles then four then a dozen or more and some abomination that never should have been able to fit into the box is squeezing its way into the world and you’re utterly powerless to stop it.
A nice wooden box is inside, and it helpfully says “Open Me” on it.
You very carefully pick the box up out of the chest and examine it from all sides. It’s really too small to contain anything particularly dangerous, but you’re wise enough to not take chances. You gently set the box back inside the chest and shut it back into darkness. You will guard it for your whole life, and then you will pass it on to someone else who will do the same, because that’s how it works.
Inside the chest is a single National Geographic magazine, August 1938.
The leading article is titled Our Search for the Lost Aviators, and you assume that’s Amelia Earhart, so you crack open the magazine and quickly learn that it isn’t about her at all.
There’s a coffin in the chest. A small one, certainly smaller than an adult human would fit in. It’s quite ornate. It’s probably something you shouldn’t open, but you do anyway because you’ve gotten this far.
Inside is your aunt. She’s smaller than you remembered.
She sits up and looks you right in the eye, and then says, completely deadpan, “Surprise, motherfucker.”
Inside is a red helium balloon. It bumps briefly against the lip of the chest then floats up to the basement ceiling.
“We all float down here,” you hear a voice whisper, so you burn your house down and move to Slab City and that’s the end of the story.