The Covenant of Blood

The damp hung around Elias like a second skin. It oozed from the peeling wallpaper, a testament to forgotten floods and neglect, rising up from the dark stains on the floorboards like ghastly blooms. They called this room Number 66, but Elias figured it had long lost any real meaning, now just a vessel for his fading hope.

He was a figure of sharp angles and muted hues – his pale skin stretched tight over bone, while darkness loomed in his weary, hungry eyes. Outside, the city roared with indifference. Inside, the air was thick with the musty scent of mildew mixed with something older and unsettling, an undercurrent to the stale atmosphere.

In the corner, like a silent guard, stood the trunk. Made of heavy, dark wood, its surface told a story of scratches and dullness. For weeks, it had been just another pointless object in a room already overflowing with them. Much like Elias, it seemed forgotten and empty.

The rent was overdue. Again. Every polite cough from Mrs. Henderson, the landlady, echoed in Elias’s mind like a grim reminder. He’d walked the streets, answered every faded “Help Wanted” sign he could find, but the city had slammed its doors shut on him. The hollow ache in his stomach was a constant reminder of his struggles.

His entire world had shrunk down to these four walls. The grimy window, a blurry lens to the outside world, brought no comfort. The rhythmic drip of a leaky faucet in the shared bathroom became the soundtrack to his despair. He felt like he was lost at sea in poverty, with Number Seven as his flimsy lifeboat.

Then, one night, the stillness shattered. A soft creak, barely audible over the distant hum of the city, came from the corner. It resonated deep in Elias’s bones, like a whisper from something long forgotten. He froze, his heart racing like a frantic drum in his chest.

A chill of fear swept through him, sharp and penetrating, cutting through his exhaustion. He hadn’t touched the trunk. No reason to. It was just… there. Yet that creak, faint as it was, felt intentional, almost like a call.

Days turned into weeks, fueled by weak tea and gnawing anxiety. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the trunk was somehow watching him. Was it his imagination? Building settling? But the creaks continued, sometimes soft, sometimes louder, stirring like a slow awakening.

One especially bleak evening, the hunger clawed at him like a wild thing. His vision blurred, and dizzy weakness threatened to knock him off his feet. That creak returned, a bit more urgent this time. Desperation grew within him, frantic and alive.

Driven by a mix of fear and morbid curiosity, Elias approached the trunk with caution. He hesitated, hand hovering over the tarnished iron latch. What could be inside? More disappointment? More emptiness reflecting his own?

With a deep breath, he lifted the latch. The lid groaned as it opened, revealing a treasure… food. Not just any food, but a warm loaf of crusty bread, its aroma a tantalizing promise. Next to it was a sunny-hued hunk of cheese and a pitcher filled with cool, clear water. Tears sprang to Elias’s eyes. He devoured the food with a ravenous hunger he hadn’t realized was within him.

This was only the start.

Days blurred into weeks, and the trunk continued to work its odd magic. Food appeared consistently, each meal a work of art. Worn clothes were swapped out for fresh ones, replacing his ragged attire. Coins popped up too, just enough to pay the rent and ease his worries about life on the streets. He even stumbled upon a well-loved jacket that fit him just right, perfect for hiding his skinny frame.

He stopped looking for a job. The city outside, with its chilling indifference, held less allure now. His existence was limited to Number Seven, but surprisingly, it had turned into a comfy kind of prison.

Then the dreams began. Vivid, intoxicating visions of achievement, respect, and a life he'd only seen reflected in others' eyes. These dreams felt so real that he woke up tasting victory. Sometimes, when he opened the trunk, he’d find a bottle of rich, dark wine, or a book filled with fantastical stories, or even the fleeting warmth of an imagined embrace from a beautiful woman, a ghostly touch that lingered on his skin.

But there were rules. They weren't spoken, yet he could sense them clearly.

The first became clear when he attempted to take a loaf of bread outside. He had planned to share it with a beggar shivering in the alley. But as soon as the bread crossed the threshold of Number Seven, it disappeared. He tried with coins, an extra shirt, a half-finished glass of wine. Every time, the outcome was the same. The trunk’s offerings were meant to stay confined to that room.

Yes, he was trapped, but was it really a trap if it provided such comfort and relief? He talked himself through it, justifying his imprisonment. The city had given him nothing but struggles. This room, with its strange benefactor, had rescued him.

Then he noticed a subtle change. The whispers.

They began as faint rustles from within the trunk, like dry leaves skimming over wood. Gradually, they grew clearer, softer – whispers just out of reach, teasing at the edges of his mind. He couldn't catch the words, but there was an undercurrent of... longing.

One night, the whispers grew louder, more demanding. Sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned, the unseen voices closing in around him. Sitting up in bed, his heart raced as he stared at the trunk. It seemed to pulse in the dim light, a dark, breathing entity.

A wave of cold dread washed over him. The sumptuous meals, the comfy clothes, those flickering moments of warmth – they must come at a cost. He just hadn’t realized what it was.

The hunger came back, not in his stomach but in the whispers, in the very air of the room. It felt… expectant.

That night, the trunk was empty. As he flipped it open, he noticed the familiar scent of roasted meat was gone, replaced by an unpleasant metallic smell that made him wrinkle his nose. The whispers had gotten louder, no longer soft but sharp and demanding.

A primal instinct surged through him—repulsive yet oddly compelling. A sickening realization dawned on him: the trunk’s bounty came at a cost. It wasn’t just about receiving; it required payment, a gruesome sacrifice.

Days turned into a terrifying internal struggle. He locked the door, pulled the thin curtains closed, and curled up in the corner, desperately trying to ignore the persistent whispers and the gnawing emptiness that mirrored the trunk's own hunger.

He attempted to escape. He packed up his few belongings and reached for the doorknob, but it felt like an invisible force held him back, a tightening pressure in the air, a silent warning. He was trapped in that room, bound to the thing lurking in the corner.

The hunger became unbearable, but it wasn’t his own; it was the trunk’s. It filled the space, a choking presence. His dreams turned dark, haunted by shadowy figures and the echo of suffering.

Then, one frantic night, pushed by madness from starvation and fear, he broke. He couldn’t recall how he found his first offering—a stray dog, lured in with scraps of the trunk's magically provided meat. The trunk rattled, a deep, satisfied rumble resonating from within as the creature was pulled inside. By morning, the trunk was full again.

The descent happened fast and was downright terrifying. The dog was followed by a drunk, easily lured in with the promise of cheap wine. Next was a vagrant, a forgotten soul who wouldn’t be missed. Each offering left Elias shaken, his conscience screaming in protest. Yet the allure of the trunk, the comfort it offered, and the dread of returning to crushing poverty urged his hand forward, clicking the latch closed on each horrifying act.

One evening, there was a sharp, impatient knock at the door. Elias hesitated to answer, relishing the fleeting moment of peace, the last remnants of his former self. He could hear Mrs. Henderson shifting her weight, the rustling of her thick coat.

He opened the door to a rush of cold air and Mrs. Henderson’s disapproving face. Her eyes, magnified by thick glasses, scanned his worn clothes and the mess of his room with predictable revulsion.

"Elias," she said, her voice a dry rasp, "it’s time again. I trust you’ve… made arrangements." She didn’t need to finish; the weight of her demand lingered in the air, heavy and accusatory.

Elias forced a smile, a chilling, unnatural twist to his features. "Indeed, Mrs. Henderson," he replied, his voice surprisingly calm, almost serene. "I have a rather… unique solution this month."

He gestured vaguely towards the trunk in the corner. Mrs. Henderson followed his gaze, her brow furrowing with confusion.

Elias took a step back, allowing her to enter the room. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a silent promise of something terrible. He could feel the trunk’s silent urging, a cold tendril of influence wrapping around his will.

"It's more valuable than it looks, Mrs. Henderson," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "It provides… everything."

Before she could fully process his words, before the flicker of suspicion in her eyes could ignite into alarm, Elias moved. It was a swift, desperate act, fueled by months of simmering resentment and the trunk’s insidious influence. He lunged, his thin arms surprisingly strong, and shoved her towards the waiting maw.

Mrs. Henderson gasped, her eyes widening in dawning horror. She quickly raised her hands in a defensive manner to protect herself., a choked cry tried to escape her lips. She stumbled, her back hitting the rough wood. The trunk, with a groan that sounded like insatiable hunger, seemed to open just enough.

Elias’s face was a mask of grim determination, the last vestiges of his humanity flickering like a dying ember. He pushed again, his hands finding purchase on her shoulders, the fabric of her thick coat rough beneath his fingers. He could feel her resistance, the desperate scrabbling of her hands, the muffled protests that turned into strangled gurgles.

The air filled with the sickening sounds of tearing fabric and snapping bone. The room, moments before thick with the tension of impending confrontation, was now choked with the raw, visceral reality of violence. Elias squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. He didn't want to see it, but he couldn't look away.

Then, silence. A heavy, oppressive silence that settled over the room like a shroud. The trunk was still, its surface smooth and unblemished once more. The air, though still thick with the metallic tang of blood, no longer held the frantic energy of struggle.

Elias stood there, panting, his body trembling. The headache that had plagued him for months, the one that seemed to throb in time with Mrs. Henderson’s monthly visits, was gone. A chilling calmness washed over him, a perverse sense of relief.

He looked at the trunk, his eyes no longer filled with fear, but with a strange, disturbing sense of gratitude. His benefactor had been appeased. The rent was paid, in a currency far more gruesome than coin. And Elias, in his descent into the abyss, had just taken another, irreversible step. The chilling acceptance that followed, the unsettling peace found in committing the ultimate transgression, all in the service of his silent, wooden god nestled in room number 66.

The cycle never stopped. The trunk provided, and the trunk demanded. His morality crumbled, piece by piece, under the weight of its insatiable hunger. The city outside faded into a distant hum, irrelevant to the horrors unfolding within the confines of Number 66.

He became a creature of the night, his pale face gaunt, his eyes haunted. Muffled screams sometimes pierced the thin walls of his room, quickly silenced. A peculiar odor began to permeate the air, a sickly sweet, metallic tang that his neighbors attributed to faulty plumbing or the general decay of the building.

The moment of truth arrived with a knocking that echoed through his apartment. It was Mrs. Henderson’s eldest daughter, her voice tinged with worry about her mother’s disappearance and the swirling rumors; “The last time I saw her, she was going to Elias’s room to collect the monthly rent,” said the elderly woman from the third floor. "From my window, I witnessed him escort a disheveled man into his apartment, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him," another one added. "It was that smell. Metallic, like blood." said the next door neighbor.

What started as knocking quickly escalated into a frantic pounding, each thud resonating with a desperate urgency, threatening to splinter the door. Fear coiled deep in Elias’s gut, morphing into something primal and terrifying.

Then the door gave way, splintering before bursting open. Mrs. Henderson’s daughter stood there, eyes wide with shock and horror. Two policemen followed her in, their faces grim and serious.

“Elias!” she cried, her voice quivering. “What on earth…?”

They stepped over the threshold, eyes scanning the chaotic scene. Elias hunched low, dreading that they would discover the nightmare he had become.

What faced them was beyond comprehension—a horrific tableau spread out across the floor. Body parts lay scattered like macabre decorations, limbs and organs mixed in with the worn rugs and battered furniture of the room. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood. Elias, his face smeared crimson, crouched over a severed arm, gnawing on it with an intensity that was almost animalistic.

“It was the trunk!” Elias howled, pointing wildly into the dark corner of the room. “It’s over there!”

As they pulled him away, he cast one last look at the empty corner where the trunk had been. Oddly, the air felt a bit lighter, but that chill still lingered, buried within him.

Much later, within the sterile confines of the institution, Elias would sometimes catch a faint whiff in the air—a hint of roasted meat or a metallic tang. And in the silence of the night, he could swear he heard a soft creak from somewhere lost in the shadows, a reminder that the hunger never truly vanished, only lay in wait for another tenant, another room, another offering. The true monster, it seemed, wasn’t the trunk itself, but the void it filled, the desperate emptiness within a man willing to trade anything for a fleeting reprieve from the gnawing despair of existence.