Danny’s eyes peeled open to the sound of muffled screams. The dull red glow of his alarm clock maliciously beckoned him to check the time, which he obliged with a groan—4:32 a.m., an hour and twenty-eight minutes before it was set to go off. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the cloying cries of Rachel McIntyre’s children in the unit below. Sadly, the saboteur inside his skull had decided that, regardless of how badly he needed it, sleep would elude him this morning.

An hour-long wave of irritation swept over him as he got up and performed the usual morning rituals—the three S’s his father used to say: a shave, a shower, and the toilet. Each task chipped away at his flinty morning exterior, slowly cooling his bubbling anger. He had to get up, sure, but Rachel had to do the same and tend to the unintelligible and myriad needs of howling mini humans. Besides, an early start meant more time to stave off his impending homelessness.

He pulled open the drapes, letting the sunrise bathe his living room in a warm amber glow. The east-facing view wouldn’t be a perk for much longer. A line of condo towers was quickly being erected in the abutting neighbourhood. The proliferating monoliths encircled his small mid-rise like jail cell bars, threatening to lock him away until the relentless machine of gentrification could finally take him.

He gloomily mused about moving into one of the shiny new towers—double the rent for half the space. Sure, you couldn’t hop out of bed without hitting a wall, but hey, free gym access. The thought spurred him to redouble his efforts. He needed a new job, fast.

Entertainment was supposed to be an evergreen industry; wars, recessions, or famine—none of that would stop someone from wanting to see the latest rom-com; in fact, those probably helped. Turns out, the line for the hitherto untouchable TV and film biz was drawn at plague. Throw some very bad germs into the mix, and suddenly nobody wants to sit next to a hundred strangers in a dark room. So Danny cracked open his laptop like he had every morning for the past eight weeks and looked for work.

Spam. Spam. Bill. Oh look, someone took the time to email a rejection, nice of them. Bill.

Of the dozens of applications he sent out each day, maybe one would lead to an interview, which in turn led to a rejection. These came in the usual flavours: more suitable candidate was found, overqualified, underqualified, position no longer available, go fuck yourself. When he had reached his daily limit for being crushed by the Sisyphusian boulder of job hunting, he switched to a more fruitful means of avoiding eviction: liquidating his shit.

The shotgun minimalism of his apartment had paid last month’s rent, but he was quickly running out of AV equipment to sell. Moreover, there were some pieces he was loath to part with. What was a painter without his easel and brushes, after all? This led Danny to a side hustle he had never considered in all his twenty-six years of life: vintage resale. He snapped the laptop shut, grabbed a jacket, a backpack, and his emaciated wallet, then hit the street.

The neighbourhood was a hodgepodge of old bungalows, five-story apartments, and million-dollar carbon-copy new builds. The sheer number of luxury homes popping up induced as much confusion as it did despair. Was there a glut of millionaires piling into the city? If not, how were people affording this? And what would happen to all the people being wiped out of the area like an offensive stain?

“Hey, you’re Joanne’s kid, right?”

Danny blinked, suddenly shaken from his brooding. A man about ten years older than him stood in a driveway amid an assortment of glassware, dining sets, and other things rendered obsolete by IKEA. The man’s amicable face looked familiar, but Danny couldn’t quite place him. Shadows danced across the property as wind rustled the leaves of the sugar maple on the lawn. Danny’s eyes were drawn to a little heart carved into the bark—E plus H.

“Eric? Margaret Evans’ son?”

Danny had been invited over to swim in the Evans’ pool a few times when he was a gangly preteen. He didn’t recall much about Eric other than being punched in the gut by him. Deservedly so, as Danny had been openly hitting on his girlfriend, Heather.

“That’s me. Been a long time. How have you been?”

Oh, you know, same old, same old. Struggling to make ends meet, about to be evicted. “Pretty good, how about you?”

“Not bad,” Eric said, turning to look back at his mother’s house. “I mean, not great, but getting better. Mom disappeared ten months ago. Police couldn’t find her.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, thanks. I still don’t know how to feel about it. She’s gone, but her bills and real estate are still here. So I’ve gotta deal with it.” He swept an arm towards the assembly of his vanished mother’s belongings. “I’m trying to unload some of it before the house goes up for sale.”

“You’re not keeping it?”

“Oh god, no. Only a few photo albums. Who has room for anything else these days?

Danny presently did, but he didn’t say it.

“You see something you like?”

The collection of goods laid out on the plastic tables screamed “vintage.” Margaret’s aesthetic, while ancient, was presently, lucratively, in vogue. The number of quality items on display made Danny keenly aware of the heft of his wallet, or lack thereof. He had to choose wisely and quickly before the vultures started circling Eric’s display.

He perused dresses and postcards, cross-referencing them with a mental catalogue of hot-ticket items. He picked up some barware and an equestrian painting just as a couple of silver hairs strode onto the driveway and began aggressively rummaging. The two items were likely all he could afford, and he didn’t want to get into a bidding war with someone who had a pension. As he prepared himself to haggle with an old acquaintance who had recently lost a mother, something caught his eye.

An old wooden box was nestled between a pile of vinyl records and a Zippo display. A thin line of frosted glass wrapped around the box, just below the lid. Spiralling lines were etched into the top of the cherry-stained wood, covering every bit of its surface, save for a space at the center. There, a human silhouette was encircled by a tangle of thorn-like engravings, its limbs splayed out like it was holding them at bay. Danny hadn’t seen anything quite like it before but guessed the craftsmanship alone would warrant a good price.

“No idea where that came from,” Eric said, stepping next to him. “Mom liked garage sales.”

“I think I have a spot at home for something like this,” Danny lied. “Any chance I could get these three for fifty bucks?”

Maybe it was his unshaven face or two-day-old clothing, but Eric offered Danny a piteous smile and said, “Sure. I think that might have been a music box or some kind of old-school noise machine. Hold it to your ear.”

Danny set down the other items and brought the box up to his ear. There was nothing at first; it was hard to hear over the two gabbing sixty-somethings standing a few feet away, then a soft, undulating white noise blossomed. He turned the box around, inspecting it for a little hatch that might house a crank, but found nothing. He pulled at the lid, but it didn’t budge.

“I haven’t been able to open it,” Eric said. “I thought about trying to pry it open, but didn’t want to damage it, you know?”

I’m glad you didn’t. That would mean less money for both of us. “Good call. It’s a very nice-looking piece.” Danny wrapped the other two items with packing paper and gently placed them in his bag, opting to carry the box. “It was good seeing you again, Eric.”

“Yeah, you too. How’s Joanne doing?”

“Enjoying the warm weather. She cashed out and moved away a few years ago.”

“Everyone is doing that. Well, everyone with the sense to have bought houses twenty years ago.”

“You too, soon enough.”

Eric’s expression soured a little, and he looked back at his family house, saying, “Yeah, I guess so.”

—

Danny, despite a crippling lack of funds and his better judgement, bought a coffee on the way home. Estelle’s was a little, hole-in-the-wall cafe that had been in the neighbourhood longer than he had. It had been struggling under the shadow of the colossus that was the nearby condo Starbucks, so Danny felt it was his duty to support the tiny cafe. May my two dollars shield you from future bankruptcy.

He popped open the lid, let the rich aroma fill his apartment, and got to business. The barware was a hot ticket item and sold in minutes; anyone with a liquor cart and thirsty friends needed a half-decent set of glasses for serving—one hundred dollars. The equestrian painting took all day to sell. The buyer showed up to Danny’s apartment in a trenchcoat and cowboy hat, which almost made up for the paltry payout—thirty-five dollars. That left the box.

Pricing the thing was a challenge. Deep dives into Marketplace and Etsy proved unsuccessful, and vintage databases were scoured in vain. The one clue he found was a set of initials carved into the bottom lip: B.B. A quick search online indicated that A) There were too many fucking things with those initials, and B) He needed to speak with an expert.

That would have to wait until tomorrow. Garage sales and getting his ass kicked by job rejections really took it out of him. Besides, it was dark and most shops were closed now. Danny leaned away from his laptop and looked out the balcony window. Bright neon light pierced the gloom of the night and saturated the apartment. The obnoxious sign was for some fancy bar spa that had even more obnoxious hours. Several complaints had been lodged against the eyesore, but for the time being, it remained. Until he could afford blackout curtains or succumbed to the temptation of taping garbage bags to the windows, the light would be an aggravating impediment to his sleep.

Above the blinding sign, a tableau of humanity filled the glass panes of the towering condo. Some leaned out into the autumn wind sweeping across their balconies. Some danced. Some were enjoying company. Some were really enjoying company. Danny briefly considered binocular resale as a new avenue for making cash before shutting the ineffectual curtains in his bedroom and going to sleep.

—

Danny’s eyes opened to a wholly unfamiliar sensation: silence. Daylight framed the curtains of the bedroom, signaling that he had, against all odds, overslept. Schedules weren’t exactly the hallmark of unemployment, but he kept to one for his mental health. Hauling himself out of bed every morning helped him feel like he had some control of his life.

The vacant display on the alarm clock suggested there had been a power outage—fine, but what about the always-reliable floorboard alarm? You could set your watch to the 4:30 screaming match between the McIntyre boys. Danny decided to treat the unexpected feeling of restfulness as a rare blessing and hopped out of bed with a spring in his step. Maybe this was a sign that life was about to take a positive turn. Careful, wouldn’t want myself turning into an optimist or anything—gross.

He ambled into the living room to pull back the curtains and was surprised to see a blanket of white thrown over the fall sky; there was no fog in the forecast. The streets below, usually teeming with the bustle of people getting to work, were empty. His eyes scanned upward, surveying the windows of the nearest condo tower, and found they were also bereft of activity—all but one. The dark outline of someone looked down on him from the eighth floor.

Danny raised a tentative hand at the figure and waved—no response. Maybe he didn’t see me? Kinda hard to believe since I appear to be the only thing moving in the neighbourhood. He let his hand fall, wondering if the person was a creep or actually just a mannequin placed there by a creep.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the weather app—no network connection. His annoyance was cut short when he looked back up to find that the person in the window had vanished. Suddenly feeling both uncomfortably alone and somehow terribly unsafe, he walked over to the apartment door and secured the chain lock.

As the metal slid into place, something shrieked from behind him, and he spun, expecting a shadowy figure to crash through his balcony window. The burst of adrenaline quickly faded and was replaced by profound embarrassment when he realized the shriek had been his alarm clock. He strode into his room and slapped the device off.

After the shock wore off he decided to cut himself a little slack. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound due to the McIntyre boys. Compound that with having some weirdo staring into the apartment from afar and you had a great reason to be jumpy. Danny stepped out into the living room after collecting himself and immediately dropped and scattered said collection.

The fog had lifted. Moreover, the street below had regained its usual amount of dog-walking, stroller-pushing bustle. He checked his phone—three bars. The weather app indicated a stretch of partly cloudy days on the horizon with a small chance of rain; there was no fog in today’s forecast.

Questioning whether the stress had finally cracked his psyche, he pulled up the hours for a local appraiser. There wasn’t much he could do if he was losing it; he had nothing against therapy except its impenetrable financial barrier. The best he could offer his troubles was the possibility of a payday that bridged the gap between his unemployment cheque and rent; Carousel Auctions and Appraisals opened in half an hour.

Danny grabbed his jacket and the box and left his apartment. It would take at least thirty minutes to walk to the shop, and he was possessed by a fresh, manic desire to make some cash. The morning, which had such a calming start, took yet another turn for the worse when he got to the lobby. His landlord stood at the door, casting an oppressive five-foot-three shadow over his escape.

“Hello, Mr. Borgins.”

“Your rent is due next week, Daniel.”

“Yes, it’s coming. I’ll pay on time.”

“I don’t give extensions. It’s not to be cruel; I’m running a business.”

The only “business” Jakub Borgins cared for was cashing out. Developers would pay millions for land in the city if they were able to build on it. Sadly for Mr. Borgins, selling an apartment meant the buyer took on the tenants at the same rent—a pill too bitter for most developers to swallow. While the meagre and dwindling tenant protections of this municipality were frustrating for the landlord, they hadn’t crushed his dreams of fucking off to a beach somewhere in Florida. He would get there one eviction at a time.

“You’ll get the rent,” Danny said, brandishing the statement like a crucifix before a very short vampire.

He opened the door and stepped into the fall air, leaving the disaster of a morning in search of better fortunes. The comfortable heft of the box gave him a good feeling about its value. The problem wouldn’t be the payout, which would very likely allow him to make rent and maybe even splurge on the fancy instant ramen; it would be finding a buyer in time. With any luck, the appraiser would not only have answers about the value but also connect Danny with prospective purchasers.

The gentle woosh of the wind was muffled by a barrier of trees as he cut through an empty park. In its absence, the slap of his sneakers hitting the asphalt path filled the air; only there was something else. He paused and listened, catching a sound that could have been the breeze blowing past his ears, but he felt no wind. Still unsettled by the events of the morning, he looked around the park to see if someone was there, even looking up to see if someone was flying a drone—nothing.

The more he listened, the more it sounded like the noise was behind him. Couldn’t be. It wasn’t this loud yesterday. He unslung his bag, pulled the box out, and lifted it. The white noise swelled as it approached his ear, but the volume wasn’t the only difference. The soft rise and fall had modulated into something else: a sustained burst of noise that dropped off and quickly resumed like someone pausing to take a breath.

A curious impulse tugged at his hands, daring him to try and open it. His fingers glided across the smooth exterior, finding a groove that must have been the lid, and pushed inward. The sounds abruptly stopped as he met resistance. In the ensuing silence, he set the box back down inside the bag, took one last look around, and half walked, half jogged to the store.

Brass bells jingled as he opened the door to Carousel’s. Antiques and memorabilia filled the shop like a precarious and expensive hedge maze, compelling him to take off his bag and hold it to his chest. One wrong move and his lofty dreams of enjoying a roof over his head would come crashing down with whatever he knocked over. It almost happened when a brittle voice spoke from amongst the clutter.

“How can I help you, young sir? Looking for vinyl? Record player? Vintage camera?”

An old man with a bright smile emerged from behind a bronze bust of a regal woman in a strapless dress. Danny nearly jumped out of his skin at the greeting but quickly regained his composure. Much like everything else in the room, the shopkeeper’s attire was a snapshot from ages past: brown pinstripe pants held up by suspenders, cream-coloured dress shirt, suede shoes—he was all-in on the aesthetic. Hopefully, the style was backed up with some knowledge.

“Uh, hi. No, I’m not here for any of that. I’m Daniel by the way,” he said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

The old man shook it with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Daniel. I’m Tom Mugford, an old man who likes old things. How can I help you?”

Danny set the bag down and pulled out the box. He knew to ask about the history of the box before letting on that he wanted to sell it. Pawn shops had burned him a couple of times by downplaying the value of his goods and exploiting his need for cash. Haggling wasn’t a skill he expected to need, but it was something he had to learn. Tom Mugford didn’t give off any asshole vibes, but Danny wasn’t in a position to fuck up a sale.

“Well now, there’s an interesting piece. May I inspect it?”

“Yes, please. That’s actually why I’m here, Mr. Mugford.”

“Call me Tom,” he said, gingerly taking the box. “The wood is black alder. The style and engravings are European, maybe German.”

Tom’s fingers slid around the box, gently trying to pry the lid.

“It won’t open,” Danny said. “I mean, maybe you have a method for it, but I couldn’t get the lid to budge.”

“Hmm, no, I wouldn’t want to damage the piece, but I might know someone who could do it. She’s a specialist and charges accordingly.”

Danny wasn’t in a position to afford anyone with the title of specialist, so he kept his mouth shut. The silence probably hinted at his financial situation, but he wouldn’t shoot himself in the foot by confirming it.

Tom continued, “The good news is that it’s old. Pre-1860. You can tell by the saw marks and the shellac. The engravings are very well done, too. The maker’s mark is unfamiliar to me; I don’t know anyone off-hand with the initials M.E.”

“You mean B.B.?”

“No sir, check for yourself.”

Danny took the box and inspected the bottom edge—M.E. He was certain they had read B.B. How could he have mistaken the letters that badly? Another oddity to chalk up to stress.

“You’re probably looking for a price,” Tom said, rubbing his chin. “It’s hard to say without knowing what’s inside, but as is, I’d pay $500 for it.”

The individual lines of an internal wishlist exploded to the forefront of his mind: rent, coffee, new shoes, fresh fruit and vegetables—all items that, in a less turbulent age, would be common expenses, not wishes. He felt the breath pass his lips and realized he had dropped the disciplined haggler’s facade. Close your mouth, tighten up your jaw, and stop looking like you haven’t eaten an apple in two months. You need to get as much as you can, whenever possible.

While Danny steeled himself for a bout of bartering, Tom’s expression softened. His eyes took Danny in as if seeing him for the first time. The wrinkled clothes, the rough stubble that came from using an old razor, and more than anything, the wide-eyed desire he just let slip, painted an obvious portrait of someone down on their luck. Tom preempted the forthcoming battle and quashed any attempt at haggling.

“You know, I have a good feeling about this piece, young man. There’s a good chance I can find a buyer without needing to open it. How about $650?”

Danny had a number of tactics for obstinate buyers: the blank stare, the walkout, the “Hey man, this was my grandma’s and she would want at least twenty more.” All of the means of squeezing a few more dollars from an exchange fell apart when confronted with the unbearable rebuke of someone else’s pity. Broke as he was, Danny had been managing to struggle free from the ever-tightening economic restraints placed on him; he was proud of that defiant independence. While he told himself that there was no shame in taking charity, he couldn’t help but feel that pride crack.

“I, yes, $650 would be great. Thank you, Mr. Mugford. Tom.”

“Always happy to get hold of an interesting piece, Daniel. Thank you for bringing it.”

Any emotional baggage Danny carried away from Carousel’s was dropped after he got back to the apartment. The stout spectre of his eviction stood outside the doors, making a show of cleaning the glass while ignoring any number of other repairs the place needed. Mr. Borgins noticed Danny approach in the reflection of the glass and cleared his throat—preparing yet another “reminder” about rent. Danny didn’t give him the chance.

“Hello, Mr. Borgins!” he said cheerfully, whipping out his wallet and producing a wad of cash. “I’ll be down with an envelope in ten minutes. Thank you for your continued patience.”

The old landlord’s mouth went slack as Danny stepped past him into the apartment. Crestfallen would have been the wrong description for Jakub Borgins; if anything, he looked betrayed, like Danny had condemned him to another month of vacuuming halls and washing windows. Another month of dreaming about the beach for you, another month with a bed and a roof for me.

Danny spent the rest of the day listening to music and streaming movies; there had been enough hustle today, and he needed to decompress before another round of job applications and bargain hunting. When night came, he collapsed onto his bed with a content sigh. Tomorrow’s problems would rise with the sun, but not before he could enjoy a well-earned rest. He let his thoughts wander in search of sleep. They strolled past the normal fixations—food, sex, work—before settling on the box. His mind traced the lines of the grain, gliding over the polished wood, and he listened to the soft, indistinct noise inside.

Danny shifted onto his side and forced his eyes open. The clock didn’t provide the usual ruthless report of a dismally early hour—in fact, it provided nothing at all. He stared at the blank screen and gathered up the dizzy bits of his brain that hadn’t woken him. The power was out. Which meant no wifi. Which meant he’d have to go to a coffee shop to job hunt. He rose with a groan, spurred forward in equal parts by the need for work and the need for a dark roast.

Dawn pressed its subdued light into the apartment as he got dressed, and a wall of ash grey caught his eye through the window. An impenetrable sheet of fog had fallen over the world outside. Danny walked over to the glass, seeing his reflection grow as he approached. He searched for the outlines of the houses and condos he knew were out there but found nothing.

He looked at his laptop sitting on the end table, then looked back outside. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of leaving the building and he quickly began finding reasons to remain: Maybe the power was out for the whole neighbourhood. Maybe the phenomenon would simply go away—it did the last time. As he latched onto the hope that the fog would lift and willed it to be an irrefutable fact in his head, a sudden bang sounded from his bedroom.

Danny grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen and cautiously crept towards his room. He peered around the doorway, expecting someone to have broken through the window, and found the room empty and undisturbed. Holding the knife out in front of him, he stepped into the bedroom and approached the closet. With one swift motion, he thrust the door open and brandished the knife—nothing was there. He thought about the bed and a pang of fear caused him to spin around, expecting someone to have crawled out from underneath. Seeing no assailant, he ducked down and confirmed the only thing below his bed was a box of broken AV equipment.

Bang! He jumped up with a yelp, swinging the knife in front of him. The sound came from the wall. The neighbouring unit was occupied by a reclusive man in his sixties. He might have been younger than that; the reek of rye on the man—on the rare instances he was seen outside—suggested he had likely pickled a few years off his lifespan. Beyond the periodically unpleasant odour, the man had all the characteristics of a perfect neighbour: he was quiet and kept to himself. Danny tentatively thumped the wall with a fist, but there was no response.

Fuck, what if he’s hurt? Looks like I’m making a house call.

Tucking the knife into the waist of his pants and feeling foolish for it, Danny turned the handle of the door and stepped out into the empty hallway. He paused in front of the old man’s unit, trying to summon an explanation for when he answered. Hi, sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t dropped dead of liver cirrhosis or whatever. He knocked softly, then harder when there was no response. Maybe he is dead. That was a landlord’s responsibility, right? Checking apartments to make sure someone hadn’t keeled over?

Danny approached the stairwell, eager to pawn off the wellness check on Mr. Borgins, when he heard a noise from down the hall. It was something he had heard before. Curiosity overcame the growing impulse to run and find another human to commiserate with over the bizarre morning. He followed the sound to a unit at the end of the hall and pressed his ear to the door. A soft and familiar white noise escaped the barrier, ebbing and swelling like a heaving breath. Swallowing, he turned the handle.

Inside was a unit much like his own, empty save for a few pieces of dated furniture. There were no photos of family, no bills on the fridge—nothing to identify the person who lived here. Danny inhaled, ready to let out an obligatory, “Is anyone in here?” when the window caught his eye. The fog still permeated the neighbourhood, but it had lifted enough to reveal something. A house sat just a few dozen metres away, somehow parallel to the unit despite Danny being on the third floor.

The white noise fell away as he tried to make sense of what was in front of him. The fog covered the ground in a thick blanket, blotting out everything except the bungalow. He leaned into the glass and looked out, trying to discern what he could about the building in front of him. The possibility that he might be dreaming crossed his mind, but he had never had such a vivid dream in his life.

The white noise whelmed in his ears as a figure emerged beyond the bay window of the house. It twisted from side to side, as if examining the room, then threw its arms at the glass. Bang! It was the same sound he had heard in his bedroom. The figure pounded at the glass, each impact sounding like it was right next to Danny. The white noise modulated into a sharp staccato, rising and falling with the actions of the person in the house, then stopped abruptly. The figure’s arms fell to its sides and it turned around. From behind it, something loomed into existence, thin and twice its height.

A sharp blast of sound wracked Danny’s skull, causing him to buckle over and clutch his ears. The pain was so intense that his eyes filled with tears and his vision blurred. Just when the agony brought him to the verge of unconsciousness, the sound disappeared. He stared at the parquet floor, shuddering as he felt the phantom reverberations in his head. After a few shell-shocked seconds, he wiped his eyes and looked up.

The house was gone. Mist had consumed the entirety of the outdoors, concealing whatever horrible event Danny had witnessed. Whoever was in that house was trying to escape something inside it, something that filled them with dread—filled him with dread. As he looked out into the white haze, something began to take shape. For a moment, he thought the person had managed to flee and was coming to him, then the outline came into focus. Nine feet tall, with too-long limbs, a head as thin as its arms.

Danny bolted from the window, running out the door and into the hall. He crashed into the stairwell door in an attempt to shove it open, only to impact the unyielding portal with enough force to knock him on his ass. He got up and shook the bar across the door, but it wouldn’t budge. There’s no lock; it should open. Out of the corner of his eye, the ceiling light in front of the unit he fled began to dim. He stepped away from the stairwell entrance and watched the light wink out. A moment later, the next light approaching Danny faded and went out. He shook himself from his terrified stupor just as the encroaching darkness swept over him. All the warmth in the hall was carried away with the light, leaving a bone-chilling cold in its absence, and in the frigid embrace of the dark came a familiar sound.

Danny spun and sprinted back to his unit, hoping that the door would open. The sound swelled, threatening to pierce his ears as it had done just moments ago. He grasped the doorknob and twisted, simultaneously shoving his shoulder into the door. Light bloomed as he scrambled through the doorway, pushed the door shut, and turned the deadbolt. He stared, horrified, expecting something to try and bash its way through, but nothing came. When the thrum of blood pounding through his body slowed, he turned around to see a bright autumn morning through his window.

—

It took Danny an hour to work up the courage to enter the hall again. To his relief, the lights were on and the temperature wasn’t threatening frostbite. Wanting to be anywhere but the apartment, he hit up Estelle’s for a croissant and a chamomile tea—coffee was the last thing his nerves needed. He spent the better part of the day there, periodically looking up from his laptop to make sure the world outside hadn’t been enveloped in ashen mist. He sat in the little coffee shop until his legs fell asleep, weathering the looks from the barista that seemed to ask, “You’re still here? Going to buy another tea anytime soon?”

The door chime jingled and a man stepped into the coffee shop. It took Danny a moment to recognize the face. Eric looked nothing like the person he had met at the yard sale. His composure and laid-back nature had given way to wrinkled clothes and dark circles framing his eyes. He ordered a coffee and caught Danny’s gaze as he fished for his wallet, then abruptly left the barista before paying.

“Hey Danny,” Eric said, pulling up a chair.

“Hey Eric. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a little sleep-deprived. You?”

“A little bit of the same.”

Eric shifted in his chair. It looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find a way to start the conversation. The barista walked over to them and placed a coffee on the table. She cleared her throat and Eric looked up as if just realizing there was another person present.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” he said, slapping a five on the table. “Keep the change.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I mean no, I’m not alright, actually, but I’m glad I found you. Look, Danny, I need that box back. Can you sell it back to me? I’ll pay whatever you want.”

A chill climbed up Danny’s back at the mention of the box. Did Eric know something about what was happening to him? All of the fucked up dreams started happening after I bought that thing. He paused, reaching for a way to explain how he immediately flipped the antique for ten times what he bought it for. He had even lied about having a nice place for the piece at home.

“I sold it to a place called Carousel Auctions.”

Danny needn’t have worried about offending Eric. The man absorbed the information with a nod, pulled out his phone, and looked up the address. Without saying a word or taking a sip of coffee, he got up and turned to leave. Danny stood and grabbed Eric’s arm.

“There’s something strange about that box.”

Eric’s face was a cascade of quick emotions: surprise, dread, and finally pity. “Walk with me.”

Eric strode along the sidewalk, his gait landing somewhere between paranoid and predatory. He periodically shot a glance backward and almost looked frustrated when no one was seen following. Danny nearly had to jog to keep pace with him. After a few minutes of power walking, he spoke.

“You know how I mentioned my mom disappeared months ago? I got a call from her the other day. It was just before the yard sale.”

“That’s great news! Where is she?” Danny asked. Eric slowed and bit his lip. “It is great news, isn’t it?”

“When I picked up the phone there was a lot of static; I couldn’t make out her voice until she called my name. She wasn’t calling to let me know she was okay; she was afraid. She said that someone was chasing her and she couldn’t get out.”

“Get out of where?”

“I asked her that. She said she was in her house, Danny.”

Danny took a breath, afraid to ask his next question, “Why do you want the box, Eric?”

“It took me a while to pin it down, but that sound I heard on the call? It was the same sound the box makes. I need to get it back.”

“There’s more, isn’t there? You’ve been having dreams.”

A cool breeze blew past and Eric frowned like an oncology patient on the receiving end of some bad news. “Yeah. Nightmares more like. You’re having them too, then?”

“Yeah, there’s fog everywhere, strange sounds, and weird things outside.” Something clicked when he finished the sentence. The nightmare had rattled him and he hadn’t wanted to scrutinize the details of it, but he knew the home in the dream. “I saw your mother’s house.”

Eric winced at the discovery, then ran the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes, wiping away tears before they had a chance to fall.

“I’ve seen it too. We’re almost at the shop.”

The incandescent lights inside Carousel’s bled a warm glow into the grey autumn streets. A twinge of anxiety struck Danny as they entered. Eric was about to be hit with a hefty bill that Danny was in no way capable of contributing to. That wasn’t Danny’s fault, obviously; Eric could have done a bit of research and sold it for more. But the rationalization did little to blunt how awkward the exchange would be.

“Back so soon, Daniel?” Tom Mugford asked cheerfully.

“Hi Tom, yes. I brought someone interested in the box.”

“Is that so? Pleasure to meet you, Mr…?”

“Eric.”

“Eric. Welcome to the store. I’ll go grab it.”

Tom Mugford disappeared through a door in the back, leaving the pair alone amongst a collection of relics. Danny felt an urge to blunt the incoming news about the price tag but kept silent. The shopkeeper returned a moment later and motioned them to a counter where he set the box down. Eric ran a hand over the wood and let his fingers hover over the shape of the person etched on the lid.

“Are you a friend of Daniel’s? Is that how you found out about this?”

“No, it was my mother’s. I sold it to him recently.”

“Oh, I hadn’t realized this came with some family history. Did your mother speak about it?”

“No, and I don’t have any memory of it either, so it wasn’t an heirloom. I need to buy it back.”

“Well, if this item means something to you, I’d be hard pressed to haggle. I’ll give it to you for $50 more than what I paid—that’ll be $700 even.”

“Done,” Eric said, slapping a credit card on the counter.

If he was bothered by the price, he didn’t show it. If anything, he looked relieved that the box was still at the store. He keyed in his pin on the POS terminal and Tom printed his receipt. Without a word, he turned and made for the door.

“Not a man of many words?” Tom asked Danny.

“Yeah, he’s a bit preoccupied. Thanks Tom,” Danny said, hurrying after Eric.

He exited the shop in time to see Eric lift the box over his head and aggressively hurl it at the ground with a loud clatter. The sound drew the surprise of all who were shopping nearby, but none were more surprised than Danny and Eric. Danny knelt down and gingerly lifted the object; there wasn’t a single scratch on it. He looked up at Eric and saw that the man’s mouth was open in disbelief.

As if needing to confirm what he had witnessed, Danny pulled out his keys and tried to gouge a line across the wood. When he withdrew the key, the glossy surface was as pristine as when he first saw it. He tried again, this time setting the box down and leaning over it for more leverage. As the key reached the corner, the box slipped out from under his attempted defacement, causing him to stumble and land on top of it.

A faint white noise drifted out of the object, causing him to scramble away from it. The sound that was a curiosity a day ago had quickly rooted itself in the part of his brain that governed his terrors. As Eric stepped forward and cautiously picked up the box, another gentle wave of noise rolled out of it. Something clicked.

“Come back to my place.”

—

Eric had reluctantly agreed to come to the apartment. Danny got the feeling he would rather be exhausting every means of destroying the box, but their preliminary violence hadn’t yielded any success, so some research was warranted. A flash of pity crossed Eric’s face when he entered the apartment. It was buried behind a stoic mask a moment later, but Danny had absorbed the judgement. He’d have felt something if circumstances weren’t what they were: resentment, embarrassment, defensiveness. Those feelings were neatly hidden by the shadow of his nightmares.

A collection of AV equipment surrounded the antique like a wiccan ritual circle. Danny plugged in the mic, connected it to his laptop, and booted up the audio processing software. He inched the mic next to the box and a wave of static emitted from the laptop’s speaker. After a few minutes of recording, he began to edit the track, earning a curious look from an otherwise impatient Eric.

“Is this film equipment? What are you doing exactly?”

“Yes, I work in film—worked in film. Freelance. I’m trying to isolate portions of the audio. I think I know what the sound is.”

“You don’t sound pleased about your hunch.”

“I’m not.”

Danny adjusted sliders for a few minutes, modulating the static from shrill to low until finally hearing what he had anticipated. A single, coherent sound was pulled from the din and played low through the speaker. He tapped the keyboard, increasing the volume by alarming degrees and revealing the sound for what it was. At first, the man’s voice was pleading, begging for someone to stay away from him. It rose to shrill, comprehensible shrieks, each punctuating the unseen horror that befell the man. A chilling cry tore from his lungs and the track ended.

Danny’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, shaking. Tentatively, he re-entered the track and repeated the isolation process. A young woman screeched, “No, no, no! You’re not real! Please, no, leave me alone! Let me out of here!” He paused the track and tried again, this time hearing a man scream for his mother. The last voice pulled from the cacophony was a familiar one. “This isn’t right! Let me out! Let me out! Eric! ERIC!”

“Turn it off!” Eric shouted from behind.

Danny paused the track and looked at the shaken man. Tears ran down his cheeks, highlighting his mortified expression. Neither of them said a word until Danny picked up the box. He flipped it around to look at the bottom. ‘M.E.’—Margaret Evans.

“The white noise is people’s voices,” Danny said. “Hundreds, maybe thousands of voices. What is this thing?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out what’s inside. One way or another.”

“I think anyone that touches it gets,” Danny paused, disbelieving his own words, “cursed.”

Eric frowned. “I’m so sorry, Danny. I had no idea. I’m sorry for bringing you into this, but I’m going to make it right.”

Eric snatched the box and strode out of the room and into the hall. Danny followed quickly behind.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to pick up a few things, then I’m going to destroy this box.”

“I should come with you.”

“No, I think you’re better off researching whatever the hell this is. You’re obviously good at it. If I can’t crack it open, maybe you can learn something about it. I’ll meet you here tomorrow at 9 a.m.”

Eric stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed with a metal clunk. Danny watched the digital display of the numbers tick down until they reached G. A light flickered at the end of the hall and he flinched, remembering last night. He turned and ran back to his unit, locking the door behind him.

—

Dawnlight spilled into the bedroom. As the mental fog cleared, Danny jolted upright and looked out the window. White clouds drifted across the blue sky without a trace of mist in the air. He heaved a sigh, letting the sudden panic drain from his body. He had been expecting to wake up inside another nightmare. Had Eric done it? Had he broken the box and put an end to the viral curse that had befallen them both?

Cautious optimism began to quell the anxiousness that had built up over the last few days. He got dressed, made breakfast, and even sent out a resume before 8:00 a.m. It almost felt like the start of a normal day. He was shocked to find comfort in the normally stress-laden routine of unemployment. That feeling soon shrivelled like a dead spider.

Nine o’clock came and went without Eric’s arrival. Danny, cursing himself for not getting the man’s number, posted up outside the apartment. After two hours of loitering and after earning a glare Mr. Borgins reserved for “crack merchants”—because it was still the 80s in his mind—Danny decided to seek out Eric Evans. The meagre list of places he had seen the man began with the coffee shop and ended with his mother’s house. He chose the latter.

The bright autumn sun warmed him against the chill breeze. Doubt over Eric’s success built with each step towards the Evans’ home. There was something surreal about seeing other people enjoying such a beautiful day while fear had overwhelmed his life. It made him want to shake someone and say, “Hey, don’t you fucking see what’s going on? This could happen to anyone. It could happen to you!” The thought, satisfying as it was, couldn’t be acted on. If not for Eric, he would have thought he was losing his mind. No one would believe that a monster was stalking his dreams.

When he arrived at the house, he was pleased to see that a light was on in the living room. He stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. Perhaps Eric was still asleep, getting all the rest that his nightmares had stolen from him. When no one answered the door, Danny knocked more forcefully. He pounded on the entrance two more times, then tried the doorknob. The door opened with a creak.

Danny warily stepped inside the quiet bungalow. The entrance led to an empty kitchen that adjoined a dining room. Incandescent light from a chandelier washed the room in an amber glow, illuminating the table and the box that sat atop it. A collection of tools surrounded the object: knives, a hammer, drills, a torch. Eric hadn’t been able to destroy it.

“Hello? Eric? Are you here?”

Danny checked every room in the house, calling out the man’s name. He returned to the dining room and stared at the box, working up the courage to pick the thing up. A low static blossomed in his ears when his fingers finally touched the wood. He felt the engraving underneath the box as he lifted it and hesitantly turned it upside down. Dread clutched his chest as he read the letters—E.E.

His eyes were inexplicably drawn to the bay window, and the memory of the person—Margaret—banging against it came unbidden. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was terrified—terrified of the thing that had stalked her, the thing that had appeared behind her. The static swelled, and Danny spun, fearing the shadowed figure had come for him, but the room was empty. He tucked the box under his arm and fled the house.

—

Hours of wandering the streets led Danny to Carousel’s. In the flurry of his troubled thoughts, he realized that he had inadvertently exposed Tom Mugford to the box. It wasn’t Danny’s fault, much as it hadn’t been Eric’s, but if the man had been cursed, he had a right to know. Brass bells jingled as he stepped inside.

“Greetings Daniel, back again? No friends this time?”

“No, Mr. Mugford—Tom. I came to see how you were doing.”

“I’m just fine,” Tom said, puzzled. “I see you’re holding your friend’s box. Was there something wrong with it?”

In a manner of speaking, yes, horrifically so. “There is something strange about it. This is a weird question, but have you been sleeping well?

“Yes. In bed by 9, up at 5:30.”

“You haven’t had any weird dreams?”

“None at all,” Tom said, smiling in a way one might smile to placate a lunatic.

“Oh, well that’s good. Did you happen to find out anything about the box?”

“Unfortunately not. That’s quite the mystery you’ve gotten a hold of.”

“Yeah, a mystery.”

“The piece picks the person in many cases. Certain objects draw in particular people. Maybe you’re a bit mysterious yourself,” Tom said. When Danny didn’t respond, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

“I’ve just been losing a little sleep lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Daniel. If I find out anything about the box, I’ll let you know. Just scribble your name and number here,” he said, pulling out a business card.

Danny walked the streets until the sun set, running the situation through his head again and again until the cold forced him home. The thought of being in the apartment made him ill and fearful. Every fucked up dream he had recently was tied to it. The irony wasn’t lost on him; he had been struggling desperately to keep the place, and now it felt more like a prison than a home.

He needed to know how the box worked. Tom, for whatever reason, hadn’t had any weird dreams. That was strange because Danny had immediately started having them after he touched the box. Eric had disappeared and his initials had appeared on it, like the thing had decided it was done with his mom and needed something new to torment. Danny didn’t know if that meant he was next or if the box needed to line up a new victim before drawing him in. If that were the case, why hadn’t it chosen Tom?

The AV equipment was still laid out from yesterday’s awful discovery, a reminder that every new detail he learned about the box was worse than the last. He grabbed the mic to put it away and stopped. He laid the box down and connected the mic to his laptop, following a morbid idea that had taken shape in his mind. After booting up the software, he began methodically isolating each voice.

The collective terror of men and women buzzed and crackled from the laptop speakers. There were pleas for help, for god, for an end. There were moments of silence shattered by shrieks. There were sustained, hysterical screams, like someone had been strapped down and forced to witness the worst atrocities. Finally, after an hour of searching, there was Eric.

“Let me out! Oh god, why is it locked? Please, anyone. Mom? Danny?”

Ice ran through Danny’s body at the mention of his name. He wanted to help, but what could he do? The thing couldn’t be broken; Eric had tried and failed. He leaned over the box.

“Eric? Can you hear me?”

Eric continued as if he hadn’t heard, then, after a minute, said, “Is that you? Danny, are you there? Help me!”

“I’m here, Eric, I don’t know how. Where are you?”

Another long delay followed before the words seemed to reach him. “I’m at home. Please, you have to get me out. I’m locked in. I can feel it watching me. Danny, please, break it open. You need to break it, pl-… it’s here.”

“Eric?”

Rapid footsteps thudded somewhere unseen. A door slammed shut, accompanied by a series of rattling breaths. The metallic shutter of a doorknob being turned was immediately followed by a boom—Eric’s body slamming against the door to stop whatever was trying to enter. There was silence—a long silence—then a scream tore from the man’s throat, distorted by the speakers.

Danny snapped the laptop shut and sat in the quiet of the apartment. He was next. If what he surmised was true, the dark presence inside the box needed another victim lined up before it drew someone into its nightmare world. Tom Mugford was likely to be next in line, though he hadn’t started having the dreams yet.

Thoughts of the misty dreamscape swirled in his head, prompting him to look out the window to make sure there was no fog. Light from the condos radiated nearby, colouring the night. He wouldn’t sleep. Sleep was a death sentence. He would just stay awake until he figured it out. There had to be a way to destroy the box or remove its hold over him.

He flipped open the laptop once more and began assaulting the search engine with every query that could possibly help him: “occult,” “haunted boxes,” “cursed objects,” “homemade explosives.” As the minutes bled into hours, he felt himself start to fade. In response, he sat on his knees in the most uncomfortable fashion possible and continued with the computer on his lap until dawn. The fruits of his all-night toil were an expanded knowledge of entirely useless ghost stories, a migraine, and a guarantee that he was now on a government watchlist.

He lumbered off to the washroom to splash some water on his face and rouse some life back into his body, but the bleary-eyed reflection that stared back at him in the mirror suggested he was in need of stronger liquids. There were no 24-hour coffee shops in his neighbourhood, but Danny figured the early morning walk would help. If anything, being out of the apartment was a weight off his mind, and it wouldn’t be too long before Estelle’s opened. He pulled on his jacket, packed his backpack, and set out.

That was the routine for three days. Stay outside as much as possible, struggle through the night inside his apartment with an ample supply of caffeine, and desperately search for answers that never came. During that time, he tried everything short of a bomb to destroy the box: beating it with a hammer, broiling it in the oven, tossing it off a bridge onto rocks. The box met every attempt at its destruction with stoic invulnerability.

On the third night, a manic energy came over Danny. He had never gone so long without sleep, even in university when he had a strict do-it-the-night-before policy for assignments. His legs jittered, jostling the computer on his lap. His fingers tapped idly on the mouse buttons. He found himself forgetting what he was doing the moment he started doing it. The inability to focus was a problem, but less so than what came after it.

Time skipped a beat, and Danny’s vision shifted from the computer screen to his lap. His head bobbed up and he scrambled to his feet, fearing he had slipped briefly into unconsciousness. The world outside his window was still mercifully dark. It would be hours before the sun would rise and the city’s plentiful amenities would open. He had to stay awake.

Exercise had been a reliable means of staying alert the past few days, but he couldn’t find the strength to work out for more than a few minutes. Moreover, the moments after exercise were proving increasingly dangerous. His body wanted him to rest and took every opportunity to remind him of it. Coffee was experiencing similar diminishing returns. The warm and comforting rejuvenation it used to produce had vanished, replaced by a caffeine-fueled heartbeat that tapped like a snare drum and somehow did nothing to keep his eyelids open. He had to leave.

Clouds of breath puffed from his mouth in the brisk night air. The cold stirred him, sharpening his weary senses and bringing his thoughts back into focus. He brought the box with him on the off chance he miraculously figured out how to break it. If a solution was found, he wasn’t going to risk slipping into unconsciousness before he had a chance to use it.

Exhaustion and the gnawing cold made minutes on the street feel like hours. His forced journey took him deeper into the sleeping city. A handful of restaurants were open, defiantly ignoring the utter lack of customers. Passing by the windows, he caught warding looks from the employees, obviously concerned he was going to come in and ruin an otherwise peaceful shift with his patronage. He didn’t. The thought of sitting down with a hot meal in his stomach terrified him.

He kept on the streets, occasionally pausing over a subway grate for warmth. Dark figures moved in the alleyways, setting off fresh waves of paranoia that sent him speeding away. Anyone observing might assume he was having a bad trip, which he wished was the case. His body would simply eventually purge itself of the poison and he could move on.

When the cold became too much for him to bear, he decided to take a bus home. Dawn was coming and he wanted a hot shower to wash the grime of the city off before renewing his battle with the box. A pleasant wave of warmth hit him as he stepped onto the bus, which was empty save for the driver. He took a seat and a dangerous surge of relief spread through his legs and back.

Danny bit his tongue, not wanting to let comfort overcome him. He had used this technique several times over the last few days, each bite requiring more pressure than the last to keep him from fading. He had tried stabbing himself with a pen on several occasions but found that self-harm in public drew much more attention than in the privacy of his mouth. As he mulled new tortures to keep himself awake, a sudden alarming force tugged his head backwards.

The bus had stopped, and the black, neon-speckled night had been replaced by bright, dense fog. Danny shot out of his seat, eyes darting to the front of the bus to find that the driver was gone. He looked at the veiled world around him in disbelief. Had he really fallen asleep?

He slung his backpack over his shoulder and noticed it felt significantly lighter. Unzipping the bag and peering inside, he found the box had vanished. Solitary footsteps tapped against the floor as he approached the driver’s seat and pulled the lever that opened the door. Mist spilled across the steps of the bus and Danny stepped out into a dream.

The outlines of buildings loomed into focus, emerging like stone titans from the ivory shroud. Within the darkened windows were empty rooms, motionless portraits of a city robbed of its vitality. Particles of mist hung undisturbed in the breezeless air until Danny passed through. For a time, all he heard was the sound of his feet against concrete and his heart beating its frightened rhythm. Then the static came.

He flinched, the noise hitting him like a shot to the gut. With each step the sound grew, like his head was being forced towards the box. He scanned the buildings around him for the source of the noise and found none. The din swelled and frayed like a rope being untwined until he heard it for what it was—screaming.

Voices cried in torment as he sped through the streets. The city looked alien in the fog; familiar paths warped into foreboding corridors. He turned down an alley and, to his surprise, the static began to fade. Walls on either side confined him as he followed the route that led to a wide intersection. The sound had all but bled away, filling him with the hope that he might find a way out.

He passed another monolith of a building and stopped. Something took shape at the fringe of his vision. The fleeting hope that the silhouette might be another person dissolved as it glided forward with a long stride. It towered above Danny, eight—no—ten feet high. Its limbs extended like dead tree branches, connecting to a lithe body that terminated in a too-thin head.

Danny spun and ran back to the intersection. His first instinct was to go back to where he had come from, but the thought of being caged in by the narrow alley sent him sprinting down another street. He slowed as he approached another intersection, choosing a direction that would bring him farther from the static, but as he started down the street, the thing in the mist emerged once again. Danny tripped as he came to a stop and fell to the ground. The figure strided towards him faster than it had before. He scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

Buildings materialized from the fog and quickly vanished as he raced away from the creature. He ran until the towers of the city sank into low rises and two-storeys. Screams swelled with every footfall until a strange neighbourhood sprung up around him. The houses were spaced in odd intervals, sometimes unusually far from each other, sometimes with as little as an inch between them.

Danny slowed amidst the screams, catching something in his periphery. Something writhed and jerked within the window of a crooked house. He approached, keeping an eye on the surrounding mist. Inside, a woman hung from the ceiling, her arms and legs bound by ropes connected to the corners of the room. A wave of nausea crashed over Danny as he picked out the details of the scene.

The skin of her abdomen had been cut and splayed, held open by hooks connected to the walls. Her insides spilled to the floor, dangling from her in a cluster. The ropes shook, and her head snapped upward, locking eyes with him. At first there was fear, then a desperate look of pleading.

“Help me! Please! Help!”

He tried to open the door, knowing that there was nothing he could do for her, and found it was locked.

“Help me,” she cried as he returned to the window.

“I can’t,” he said, stepping back.

Her pleas dissolved into shrieks that mingled with a chorus of torment. As he ran from the wretched scene, he caught glimpses of other tortured souls. Each was its own portrait of agony. Some people had been propped against windows, allowing them to throw their bloodied fists futilely against the glass. Other victims lay slumped in shadow with trails of gore alluding to the butchery they endured. All of them were somehow alive, sobbing and screaming their anguish.

Danny continued down the twisted avenue and its patchwork assembly of homes turned torture chambers. The bombardment of screaming reached a fevered peak as he came upon a familiar house. His throat tightened as he passed the Evans’ home, trying not to look at what was inside. A muffled cry broke through the cacophony like a radio dial being tuned to someone’s suffering. He stopped where he stood.

Through the glass, Margaret Evans hung suspended in her living room. Her body had been split in half from the stomach down, freeing her insides to spill onto the floor—onto Eric. His hands had been bound and positioned in front of his chest, cupped like a parishioner receiving communion. A thick rope encircled his neck, preventing him from turning away, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The skin had been peeled from his face, leaving lidless eyes with no option but to bear witness to his mother’s desecration.

Margaret glanced out the window and Eric’s eyes swivelled up to Danny, wordlessly beseeching him to end their suffering. He tried the door, knowing it would be locked, then found a rock on the ground. He stepped in front of the window and flung the stone with all of the strength his exhausted body could yield. A hollow bang followed the impact, and the stone rebounded off the unharmed glass. He immediately thought of his futile attempts to destroy the box and how nothing would damage it. As he bent to pick up the rock and try again, the screams returned in full, bringing with them a shadow from the mist.

Fear gripped Danny and he abandoned the hope that he could somehow spare Eric and Margaret from their torment. He flung the stone at the figure in the fog, only to see it bounce away, just as it had against the glass. He spared one last glance through the window and saw the family despair. The creature took another step and Danny ran.

His flight took him deeper into the howling madness. Houses and buildings began to fade, leaving him in a world shrouded by fog. His pace only slowed when the shape of a solitary building took form. The apartment was structurally no different than he remembered, but it took on a menacing appearance in the fog. A towering figure emerged behind him and Danny bolted for the door, throwing it open with one arm and fleeing into the dim lobby.

He sprinted up the darkened stairs as the creature approached the entrance, casting a long shadow through the glass door. His heart pounded as he climbed the stairs to his floor. Entering the blackened hallway, he discovered a single source of light radiating through an open door—his door. He surged towards the light, desperate to find safety and lock the creature out.

He took a single step into the light and stopped. His mind raced as he looked into his apartment from the hall, pulling together threads that had been lost in the fugue of his terror. The AV equipment he had used to extract individual voices from the box lay on the floor. Their voices echoed in his memory, breaking through the ever-present tumult around him. The voices had something in common—they all begged to be let out. He withdrew from the doorway with the sudden belief that if he entered his apartment, he would never be able to leave.

The metal whine of a hinge pulled his attention to the hallway door. Something shifted in the darkness, and he knew the creature was coming. He darted away from it, entering the gloom towards the second stairwell at the end of the hall. The door flew open as his body crashed into it, the momentum nearly sending him tumbling down the stairs. He thundered down the steps and out into the world of mist.

The fog had grown so dense that he couldn’t see more than the asphalt under his feet. It didn’t stop him from sprinting away from the apartment at full tilt. If he were thinking straight, if his mind and body hadn’t been pushed to the limits of exhaustion, he might have had the foresight to reign in his pace. In his frantic state, he didn’t notice the curb that caught his foot and sent him colliding with the ground.

The impact painted his hands with blood and dirt and sent waves of pain cascading through his arms. Picking himself up with a groan, he noticed something had moved next to him. The chorus of agony faded into the background, leaving only the sound of something breathing. Danny couldn’t bring himself to look at the thing standing in his path, fearing it might provoke some terrible violence. Legs trembling, he somehow found the courage to dash past it, resuming his escape.

He ran until the pain in his legs eased into numbness and entered the city once again. The monster waited for him at every turn, blocking his path. Whenever there was enough space between them, he kept course, giving the creature a wide berth. Each time he did so, it simply turned and followed him.

The hard city streets gave way to soft grass and trees cloaked in mist. The din died down to a whisper and Danny stopped, as much to catch his breath as to confirm a growing suspicion. The creature was there a moment later, coming partially into focus like a mirage taking shape. Danny stood with his back to a tree, leaning against it for whatever little support could be found inside the nightmare.

“You can’t touch me here, can you? You’ve been chasing me for hours. You’ve been close enough to catch me, but you haven’t. You can’t. You’re only allowed to hurt people in their homes. That’s why you’ve been leading me there.”

The thing in the mist closed the remaining distance in one gliding stride and towered over Danny. What had been obscured by the veil of fog was laid bare in all its menace. Its jet black skin was covered in swirling patterns of thorns, just like those on the box. Its arms ended in fingers with too many joints, each tipped with a wicked claw. Four lidless black eyes bore into him with hunger and malice, and a cage of needle-tipped teeth glistened in the ambient light.

Danny shrunk back, fearing he had made a terrible mistake about the creature’s nature. What if it had all just been part of the torture? What if it could have dragged him back to the apartment at any time? He looked to his left and considered running deeper into the woods, but something began to burn in his chest. He stood to his full height and looked up at the creature defiantly.

“You will never have me. I won’t live in fear of you. But you should be very afraid. I will spend every night of my life sleeping outside if it means you can’t have me, and every day I will be searching for a way to kill you,” Danny said, leaning towards the creature. “And I will kill you.”

Two arms flew past Danny like whips as the creature buried its claws into the tree behind him. The bark of the tree cracked and split as the creature raked its rage down the trunk. It brought its face next to his and the sound that came from its throat was the torment of every victim, the simultaneous discord of a thousand screams. Danny’s eyes slammed shut and he covered his ears, trying to shut out the horrid sound. He fell to his knees, body trembling and skull reverberating like a glass about to shatter.

The sound vanished and a cold breeze swept over him. Danny shuddered and slowly opened his eyes. The fog had lifted, unveiling the amber of a dawn sky. He was in the wooded area by a ravine near his apartment. Frost coated the grass he knelt on in all except one spot. Just in front of him, a square the size of the box was untouched by the ice.

It would be weeks spent in the cold before Danny worked up the courage to sleep inside. It would be years before he ever felt safe going to sleep in his room. The box had vanished, releasing him from its curse and leaving only questions to haunt him. He would find the answers one day.

—

“Fear is a very primal thing. When confronted with the threat of oblivion, one fights, if able, or flees. You fled to the safety of home—and don’t pretend this isn’t home. You are part of a very special family.”

Tom Mugford caressed the polished wood of the antique box, picked it up, and placed it among a collection of other relics. “Though I think it’s time your brothers and sisters had a chance to stretch their legs.”