The Box

Dorisa Fenten was moving to a new apartment and had to take the bed apart. A simple wooden box was hidden underneath, protected by thousands of malevolent dust bunnies. They watched with dead grey eyes and dared her to breathe. An anxious asthmatic, it didn’t take much to go from normal to the emergency room. Then again, she was never normal. Molly didn’t raise her daughter that way.

###

“Molly’s a strange one,” people would say. “And so’s her child.” In the small midwestern town of Riddle, Mom and little Dorisa were inseparable, often seen walking hand in hand through the town.

The Third Eye Five and Dime was a regular stop, an unusual store Molly explored alone. “This is no place for young ladies.” Mom would shop for hours while her daughter waited at the laundromat next door.

They often carried parcels wrapped in brown paper, talking about mystical arts and how important they would become someday. “Sorry, Di,” her mother would say, “but this magic is too advanced for you. Let’s wait until you’re older.”

“Yes, Molly.”

“Dorisa Fenton. We talked about this.”

“Yes, Mom.”

###

Dorisa glared at the box. Molly gave me that damned thing for my fifteenth birthday and told me to make a wish.

“Stay with me forever,” echoed in my head as the box quivered in my hands. I lifted the lid and saw hope. Looked it in the eye. Later that day, a drunk driver killed Molly. Without warning, Mom was gone, and hope disappeared with her.

Minutes of anger became hours of anguish became days of desperation became months into years of dejection.

###

Every night, her wish comes true. She dreams the box opens, blinding her with its golden demonic light, and she sees Mom die. She feels the crushing pain of impact and prays for God’s mercy at the excruciating instant just before death brings eternal emptiness. As its lid closes, the box forces her to smile and say, “Thank you for bringing Mom back.”

From the depths of its hell, the box whispers, “Forever,” and goes dark. Without fail, Dorisa awakens to unspoken pleas for death and feelings of desolation.

Finally ready to move on, Dorisa glares at the dust-covered box. Dingy. Unmoving. Uncaring. Unassuming bits of wood and glue. Powerless to resist, she picks up her wooden devil and peeks inside. Light rushes out, filling the room in a brilliant golden sheen. Walls pulse with anticipation, a mist of expectancy clings to the ceiling. Cowering by the bedroom door, she curses the glowstorm, afraid it might demand another wish.

Summoning every bit of her rapidly failing courage, Dorisa slams the lid and wraps the box all around with packing tape. Laughing at her unexpected bravery, she screams, “It doesn’t own me, Mom. The box will be harder to open next time.”

There’s always a next time.The words echo in her head as the box quivers and the lonely woman collapses.

###

Sixty days later, the landlord finds Dorisa Fenton’s shriveled body, its mummified hands holding a simple wooden box. Riddle’s medical examiner estimates the teenager died soon after the accident that took her mother’s life. “Appears to be natural causes,” he reported. “Some might call it broken heart syndrome. I read about the theory in school but never bought into that tommyrot.”

###

“It’s about time you got here. Wake up, silly girl.”

The voice sounds familiar somehow, but it can’t be. The box must be up to its old tricks. “I should never have opened the damn thing.”

“It’s a good thing you did. I was thinking you’d never finish the wish.”

“Molly?” she whispered with eyes closed.

“Dorisa Fenton. We talked about this.”

“Mom?”

With an all-too-familiar squeal, Molly pulls her daughter upright. “Di, look at me.”

It has to be. The girl finally watches the world come into focus through a golden-tinged light that shines from nowhere and everywhere. “Mom, what the hell have you done?”

“Welcome home. Just like you wished, we’ll always be together.” Molly smiles.

“Where exactly is home?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “The box, child. We’re in the box.”