Curiosity Killed Me

The alarm clock screams at me with a 7 a.m. wakeup call. Beep, beep, beep. Yes, it’s an actual clock with an alarm and not a feature on my phone. In fact, my phone sits on the desk in the spare bedroom I’ve designated as my office. I lay in bed listening to the offending contraption for a full minute before switching it off. I slide out of bed, my bare feet touching the cool wood floors before stepping into my slippers. Making the bed takes just another minute.

As I walk into the kitchen, I flip on the light. I start the coffee maker and walk into my office to grab my phone. I check my messages as I make my way back to kitchen. Drip, drip, drip. It’s the percolator’s invasion into the silence of the space. No messages. Good. As it should be.

I grab the coffee mug out of the cabinet. It’s the only one I own. I don’t need any more than that. Two spoonfuls of sugar go in first, the fresh coffee follows. Stir, stir, stir. Spoon down, blow a breath across the surface. Sip the bitterness, the hot liquid burning my throat. I close my eyes and repeat the action. And then once more.

Leaving the mug on the counter, I walk through the open concept kitchen, past the living room and to the front door. I walk out and survey the street. Karen Morrison walks by with her dog, waving at me and slowing her gait just so. “Good morning, Allen. How are you this morning?” she says in a cheery tone. “Good morning, Karen,” I call back. Molly, her German shepherd, tugs at her leash. I cross my arms and lean against the post, not engaging further and waiting for her continue.

When she reluctantly continues, I walk down the steps and walk to the end of the walkway, where a single newspaper awaits. I know what you’re thinking. A newspaper? In this day and age? Well, it is needed. It’s purpose is there in the three sections I’ve been reading for the last nine months. Because the next three months are mine.

A giddy sense of excitement fills me, as it does every year at this time. The sound of an airplane draws my gaze. I track it, like a predator tracks its prey, until it disappears into the clouds. Another sound catches my attention. A steady buzz, getting lighter and lighter. I spot the drone as it flies higher and makes its way over the trees behind my house. Curious.

I start to walk back into the house. A trip to my storage unit is on the agenda for this morning. But my feet falter, tripping on nothing at all. On the top porch step sits a box, a box that wasn’t there before. I look around me but the neighborhood is still waking up. I approach, cautiously.

It’s a simple, small brown packing box. No postage. No address. Except for neat, block letters in the bottom right corner. Open me.

I look around again. A blanket of quiet has settled over my street. No cars passing. No people chatting. No dogs barking. Just me and this mystery box with its subtle taunt. Open me.

I hesitate for another minute, a standoff between me and the box. Frustration that my schedule is now off, my coffee probably cooled too much. Open me.

Curiosity claims its first victory and I pick up the box and take it inside, closing and locking my front door. I trek through the house to the counter, setting the box down and picking up my coffee. Tepid. Of course. I pour out its contents and set the mug in the sink. I no longer need the caffeine to wake up. The box has my full attention.

I sit in front of the box. It continues to mock me, sitting mutely, guarding its secrets. I pick it up and shake it, carefully. Nothing. No noise. No rattling. No hints as to its contents. Just open it already. You need to get back on schedule.

I examine the box a little closer. There is no tape. Brown string keeps it closed with three knots. I grab a knife from the drawer and cut through the twine that’s holding the box closed. Slice, slice, slice. The string falls away and the flaps of the box open slightly.

The smell of earth wafts from the box. A familiar scent. Stop, stop, stop. I should stop now. Something nags at me, a forewarning that if I look inside, something will change. I look down at phone. 7:33 a.m. My schedule has already been altered.

But curiosity claims its second victory. I open the flaps and inside is second box. A gift box nestled in dirt, fresh and moist. I roll some between my fingers, feeling the still wet earth crumble back into the box. The gift box is also brown and unassuming but this one comes with a lid. I push away the first box and set the small box in front of me.

Don’t, don’t, don’t. I shake the small package. Again, it doesn’t make a sound. But I can feel the weight of whatever lies inside. The inner protest continues but curiosity claims a third victory. Opening the box, I find a phone.

Curious. It’s the last thought I have before I feel a pinch on my neck. There’s a slight burning sensation before my vision blurs. My mouth becomes dry and limbs heavy. What is happening? I hear muffled voices behind me. They sound like they are far away and I cannot make out their words. Black fabric covers my eyes. I can feel my consciousness slipping away.

My body falls off the chair, my head bouncing the hardwood floor. Hands and muffled voices surround me. Told you not to look. And then I fade.

* * *

Darkness. I’m enveloped by it. My eyes are open and the fabric is gone but the blackness remains. My mouth is dry but the leaden feeling in my arms has subsided. I try to sit up but my head hits something. I bring my hand to my aching head and that’s when the realization hits.

Trapped. My body may not be bound but my mobility is limited nonetheless. A few inches above me, there is a ceiling. At my sides, I can touch the walls. I’m trapped. I’m cornered in this small room. No. Not a room. A box.

The smell of earth surrounds me, triggering the memory of the small box. When was that? How long have I been here?

I close my eyes even though I have no need to so. There’s no light. But the action lets me focus. I struggle to make sense of what has happened. That’s when I feel it. The weight on my stomach. Not heavy. I reach for it. A phone.

As the phone screen glows, offering a reprieve from the dark, it also lights up my memory. The box within a box. A mystery within a mystery. I turn to the phone. If I can make a call, maybe I can have enough time to figure everything out.

There is no service. There will be no phone call. No help. Resignation settles inside me. I don’t panic probably because I am still numb. But what is the purpose of the phone? My mind is still groggy. Drugged. I must have been drugged. My thoughts are slow and I trudge through them, logic and clarity evading me.

I pick up the phone again. The screen is blank. There are no extra apps on this phone. I attempt to open the browser but without cell service or wi-fi, the message asks me to retry. I take a deep, frustrated breath. When I open the files, I see the folder. Open me.

For the first time since that box showed up on my porch, a sense of apprehension grips me. I open the folder. It is filled with documents. The first one catches my eye. Allister. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my true name. But there it is. I open the file.

Allister. You thought no one knew. But we knew. You thought no one saw. But we saw. You thought no one cared. But we cared. You thought you could hide. But we found you. You thought you would be able to continue forever. But your forever ends now. You thought no one would remember them. But it is you no one will remember. —The Three

There are twenty-six more documents. I open one. A news article. Missing woman found in shallow grave. Mary. I open another. Local baker missing. Jacob. And another. Nurse goes missing after overnight shift. Heather. And another. College student found dead. Blair.

By the time I finish the final story, the phone battery is almost expended. I shut off the phone. No need to conserve the three per cent left of battery. I close my eyes. I struggle with who my executioners could be and how they found me. What mistakes did I make? But those are mysteries I will not solve, at least not before…

The air in this box is thinning. My head hurts. It’s getting hard to breathe. I fight against a force that keeps tugging at the edges of me, threatening to drag me under. Mary. Jacob. Heather. Blair. A never-ending parade of names echo in the recesses of my mind on a continuous loop. And like quicksand, they pull me under. Until I’m… Gone, gone, gone.