For as long as I can remember, my
mother has enjoyed collecting antiques in her spare time. If money hadn’t been
an issue, she probably would’ve furnished our entire home with the precious
items that caught her fancy at mom-and-pop antique shops, decorated with little
wooden chairs, tables, and china cats in the windows. She first developed an
interest in antiques when my sister, Dawn, and I were still young children. The
two of us shared a cramped bedroom, and my mother placed porcelain dolls on our
dressers and shelves as decoration. We hated it, always thinking that at a
moments notice, the dolls would twist their necks around and stare at us with
their cold, empty eyes. On a few occasions, I swear we saw them move when they
thought no one was looking.
Forgive me, I’m getting off track. I
only bring this up as an example; because this wouldn’t be the last time my
mother brought something seemingly harmless into the house that would prove to
be anything but peaceful.
After my mother’s doll phase, she spruced
up the living room, replacing their outdated furniture set for something
classical styled. She tossed the dusty rinky-dink lamps in favor of looming
floor lamps with elegant ceramic light covers. Wobbly end tables and
bookshelves went to the second hand store as old, dark wood replacements took
their places. After mom trashed the old couch in favor of a newer, floral style
couch, we thought her sweeping living room renovations were over, but oh, how
wrong we were.
My great-grandmother had passed
away a few years previous. She was a wonderful woman, and I consider myself
lucky that I had a chance to know her while she was still alive. My mother had
been very close to her grandmother, and while she was at peace with her
passing, she wanted to do something to carry on her legacy. My
great-grandmother quilted as a hobby when she was younger, and my mother
inherited some of the quilts and patterns that she had in her collection. Simply
having the quilts in her possession brought my mother genuine comfort and peace,
but she wanted more.
For a short period of time, my
mother attempted to continue her great-grandmother’s legacy by taking up
quilting, but the combined demands on her time from both our family and work made
a swift end to that endeavor. In response, my mother commissioned people she
trusted to finish up some of the incomplete quilts so they wouldn’t sit around
the house unfinished. This left my family with five ornate quilts worthy to
pass down in our family for generations, and absolutely no place to store them.
Not
wanting the quilts to end up as fancy cat beds, mom took matters into her own
hands one Saturday morning after I left for work. When I came home that
afternoon after a long, monotonous day scanning groceries, I found my mother
admiring an old rectangular box sitting against the living room wall, as if it
was a legendary treasure chest holding some long forgotten artifact.
My mother looked so pleased.
Finally, she had a place to store her quilts without the fear of bugs eating
holes through them, or our cat Cocoa ripping them to shreds with her claws. My
dad, who had brought the cedar chest in with his friend Jack, drank a soda at
the table, teasing my mother about, what was in his eyes, another unnecessary
purchase. My mom ignored his ribbing,
she had what she wanted.
I left the two of them as I went
upstairs to change out of my work clothes. Reaching the landing, I found Dawn
waiting for me in front of her room, the same room that we once shared as
children. She had an annoyed expression plastered on her face; and I didn’t
have to wait long to find out what was bugging her.
“Did you see it?” asked Dawn. “She
bought another piece of furniture to hog the living room when it’s cramped as
it is. Where are my friends supposed to sit when I have them over?”
Over the years, I found it best to
let my sister rant when she gets angry until she cooled down. So I let her vent,
hoping it would expel itself from her system. It wasn’t the first time she let
something miniscule blow up into the world’s biggest problem.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “It
looks nice enough.”
Dawn arched an eyebrow, then
crossed her arms and leaned against her open bedroom doorway. She lowered the
tone of her voice, not wanting to get the attention of our parents.
“I don’t like it,” she confided. “Has a weird smell, too. They can’t smell it,
but I do.”
“What kind of smell?” I inquired. I
didn’t recall smelling anything out of the ordinary, but I had only been
downstairs for about a minute. Dawn shrugged her shoulders, the most helpful of
all answers.
“Dunno, but whatever it is it
reeks.”
Opening
the door to my room, I flashed a smirk to her as I took a step inside to take
an afternoon nap.
“Well,
with all those quilts out of your room, I’m sure mom’ll be happy to put the
dolls back to keep you company,” I joked. “She knows how much you like them.” I
ducked inside my room and locked my bedroom door before she could slap my arm.
Later
that afternoon, I took a better look at the cedar chest. Mom and dad were out
grocery shopping, so I could investigate without the two of them wondering what
I was doing. At first glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The
rectangular chest had a deep brown color with a tan stripe lining that decorated
the trim around the lid. The wood had a smooth finish, slick to the touch due
to a thorough polishing with Old English from my mother.
I steadied the lid against the wall
so the wooden slab wouldn’t fall and crack my skull while I peered inside. As I
leaned over the box my nose wrinkled as a foul smell wafted to my nostrils.
Dawn couldn’t identify the stench, I could. It reminded me of the time a friend
of mine who fancied herself as a pyro burned a stray hair with our gas oven
burner. The detestable burning stench etched itself in the memory section of my
olfactory. Other less distinct odors mingled with the burnt hair smell, like
herbs or spices from my mother’s kitchen seasonings, but with a repugnant,
spoiled quality to it.
I dug through the quilts trying to
find the stench’s source, pulling them out one at a time. I figured Dawn must’ve
had the same idea, based on the disheveled condition of the top quilt. As I grabbed
and sniffed each sheet, my hand brushed against something underneath the
crumpled fabric. I dropped the quilt and drew back my hand, like touching a hot
surface. I felt it for only a passing moment, but whatever it was felt
unmistakably solid, like something had been wrapped inside of the blanket. If
it hadn’t seemed so preposterous, I could’ve sworn I touched an arm. Yet when I
pressed down on the fabric again, I felt nothing. Even after I dumped each
quilt out of the cedar chest and shook them, I couldn’t account for what I
touched. With some hesitation I folded
the blankets back in the cedar chest, unsatisfied, but unable to do much else.
The next few days were relatively
calm. Most of it was spent out of the house at school or my part time job. When
I was home, I’d casually ask my sister questions about the cedar chest as to
not cause any unnecessary alarm, but she thought I was making fun of her, so
she wouldn’t answer. Dawn was an internet addict, so she never spent much time
downstairs unless eating with my family, or while watching her favorite anime
shows. Now, with the chest in the living room, Dawn looked for reasons to
completely avoid being near it.
Midway through the week I decided
to watch some old VHS movies while working on my homework. The work was
mindless, as with most high school busywork, so I didn’t have to pay much
attention to it. As Luke was training with Yoda in Empire Strikes Back, I had that feeling where you know you’re being
watched by someone. I grabbed the TV remote and muted it, but as soon as I did I
heard the lid to the cedar chest thump against the rest of the box. Confused, I
stared at it for a moment, wondering if I was just imagining things, before
resuming my work. Not a minute later I heard shifting and rustling coming from
inside the cedar chest. I muted the VHS, but again the sound stopped.
Frustrated, I got up from the couch and opened the cedar chest. Pulling out the
quilts once again, I found the chest completely empty. Whatever was causing
this mischief was really getting on my nerves.
Later that night, I finished my
evening ritual of loading the dishes in the dishwasher while listening to music.
Some teenagers despise chores like this, but I always found it relaxing. Just a
simple task that allows you time alone to your thoughts, and I’d often use this
time to work through personal issues with my friends or family. After starting
the cycle and turning the kitchen lights off, I headed towards the front door
to check if it was locked before heading upstairs. I’d often leave the living
room lights off, as the upstairs hallway light could illuminate my path. As I
made my way to the door, I felt Cocoa brush up against my right leg, most
likely heading towards the kitchen for a late night snack. After glancing at
the door, satisfied that the door was indeed locked, I headed upstairs for bed.
The ceiling fan light in Dawn’s
room burned through the slight crack in the door she left open so Cocoa could
come in and out as she pleased. I stuck my head inside and spied her typing
away in a chatroom. I wished her goodnight, and she swiveled around in her
computer chair and wished me goodnight as well, with Cocoa passed out purring
in her lap. It took me a few seconds for the realization to wash over me, but
when it did, my blood turned ice cold.
“How long has Cocoa been sleeping
on your lap?” I asked with trepidation. Dawn smiled and scratched under Cocoa’s
chin, purring in pure bliss.
“This lazy girl’s been on my lap
all evening,” sighed Dawn. “I’ve been trying to get her to leave for the last
fifteen minutes, but she doesn’t want to go.”
My face drained in color, which didn’t
go unnoticed.
“What? You can’t just say nothing
if you’re acting like that,” she demanded, before I could slip away. With some
slight hesitation, I recounted what happened only a few minutes before, and
Dawn didn’t exactly take the news well. “That’s it; I’m not going through the
living room alone at night.”
I didn’t blame her.
Mom and dad never had an inkling
about what went on with the cedar chest. They rolled their eyes at our stories,
asking if it was the doll situation all over again. It’s not that they were
stupid or blind of our problem, like stereotypical parents you’d see on TV. The
chest possessed some kind of knowledge, and stopped its antics whenever they
were in the vicinity. The bumps ceased, and the burnt hair odor cleared away.
Yet the moment they left the house, the chest made its presence known once
again. Even our friends felt uneasy around the chest when they’d come over. One
of my friends even described the box as “nasty”, and gagged when he lifted the
lid and sniffed inside.
At this point, we both began having
strange dreams—no, more like vivid nightmares—that made us dread sleep and
stole our rest. The dreams always repeated, and the two of us would recount
them over breakfast out of earshot of our mother. In my dreams, I’d hold onto a
long rectangular Jack-in-the-box on the shape of the cedar chest; winding the
crank as some strange, unfamiliar melody played in an out of tune, metallic
tone. I’d wind the crank for what seemed like hours, feeling the pressure build
I felt the sides expand until I thought it would break. I’d wake up every time mere
moments before the box exploded, stomach tightened in anticipation for the
oncoming blast.
Dawn dreamt of digging through the cedar chest
for a quilt to sleep with for the night. She always chose one embroidered with
stars and unfamiliar symbols that reminded her of webdings. When Dawn would
spread it over her bed and try sleeping, she’d bump her foot into another foot
with long, jagged toenails, or turn over onto a wriggling arm. Every time she’d
jump out of bed and tear off the covers off, only to discover the bed
completely empty. As soon as she’d climb back into bed they’d start right where
they left off, never giving her a moment’s rest. The limbs would never attack;
just continually make their presence known, causing Dawn to toss and turn
restlessly all night. Just before morning, she’d feel a leathery hand with
twisted nails grip her wrist like a vice and yank her forward, snapping her
awake to the safety of her room.
The exhaustion from our lack of
sleep and paranoia took its toll on us in the passing weeks it stayed in our
living room. Our grades took a turn for the worse, which I couldn’t afford as a
junior in high school. I looked for any reason to get out of the house, taking
extra shifts at my job or spending the night at a friend’s house. I relished
the break, as the dreams never bothered me out of the house. Dawn didn’t have a
job, considering she was fourteen at the time. Worse, she didn’t have many
reliable friends she could count on to stay with. She resorted to barricading
herself in her room, only coming out when absolutely necessary. No longer did
we sit together every afternoon enjoying cartoons and company. We were becoming
strangers living under one roof. Not even a concerned lecture from our parents
could change the diverging paths we were taking.
One early Thursday evening, I came home from a
particularly long day of school to grab a change of clothes so I could spend
the night at a friend’s house. School was winding down, so I made up an excuse
that we were working on an important final project for class. When I pulled
into the street that I lived on, I saw something that made my heart sink like a
stone. Two squad cars with flashing lights sat outside the front of my house,
with my parents talking to a police officer. Panicked, I pulled into the
driveway and ran as fast as I could to my parents.
To my relief, right as I asked what
happened, I found Dawn sitting in our backyard, talking to two police officers,
shaken, but otherwise unharmed. My parents told me that while Dawn was home,
she heard someone breaking into the house. She got out as fast as she could and
ran to a neighbor’s house where she dialed 911. There had to be more to the
story beneath the surface, so I waited until after the officers assured us the
house was clear before bugging Dawn with questions.
I found her in her room, once again
chatting with her online friends. Cocoa napped on the edge of Dawn’s bed, content
that the strangers were out of the house. I tapped on the door and inched
inside.
“You alright?” I asked with a
sympathetic voice. Now was not the time for teasing from big brother. The question hung in the air for a brief
moment, only the tapping of keys breaking the silence.
“So, now you’re going to check up
on me?” snapped Dawn, not even bothering to turn around. “Or are you just going
to run away again once you’re sure I’m fine?” I didn’t blame her for being
angry with me. I hadn’t been around to check up on her. Clearing my throat, I
tried again, but with a new tactic.
“Yeah, sorry about leaving you
here,” I apologized as sincerely as I could. “I should’ve been here to protect
you, but I haven’t. I promise I won’t leave you here alone again.” My sister
typed out a few more sentences before pushing the slide out keyboard tray
underneath the computer desk and swiveled around.
“Fine,” she sighed. Dawn wasn’t one
to just accept an apology, so I took what I could get. With that out of the way,
Dawn filled me in on what happened to her earlier that day.
Dawn arrived home from school in
the afternoon with no one else at the house. Dad was usually home at this time,
but he had errands to run after work. As Dawn began pulling books out of her
backpack, she thought she heard scratching inside the cedar chest. Dawn jumped
and almost ran out of the house that moment, but she thought she heard Cocoa
meowing from inside the box.
Now, Cocoa constantly trapped
herself by climbing in open drawers or closets for her naps; so it didn’t seem
out of the ordinary that would’ve let Cocoa jump in the chest and fall asleep on
the quilts until she wanted out. As Dawn gripped the lid to the cedar chest,
Cocoa meowed again from inside the box. Dawn froze in her steps. That wasn’t
Cocoa’s meow, but rather, a human changing their voice in an imitation of a cat’s
cry. Dawn booked it out of the house and over to our neighbors without a second
glance.
Dawn let out an exasperated sigh, exhausted
from her lack of sleep. Apparently, since I had been out of the house, the
thumps from inside the cedar chest were loud enough that she could hear them
from the second floor. I extended an olive branch to her by offering to sleep
in the living room for the night so I could keep an eye on the chest, which she
immediately accepted. I could tell she was still mad at me for leaving her
alone, but the gesture mended the tension a bit. As I headed downstairs with my
blanket and pillow for the night, Dawn stuck her head out of her room and made
me promise I’d come up if things got too out of control. I flashed a reassuring
smile and told her everything was going to be alright.
We both knew I was lying.
That night was one of the absolute
worst nights of my entire life. I spent the first half of the night with my
eyes peeled at the lid of the cedar chest, just waiting for the first signs of
movement. You know the old adage “a watched pot never boils”? That goes tenfold
when you’re tired and need sleep. Eventually, tiredness must’ve won out, as I
slipped in and out of consciousness; but, to be honest, I’m not quite sure
where the line between dream and reality blurred. I was cognizant that I was
lying flat on the couch, yet I couldn’t move a muscle for hours. My eyes,
though, remained glued on that stupid chest. Unable to do anything, I’d glance
back and forth between the chest and the room. One moment, all appeared as
normal, like when I first came down for bed. The next moment, I’d notice the
lid cracked open, with boney, wrinkled hands and twisted fingernails curled
over the edge. From the blackness of the chest, I’d observe two beady, yellow
eyes locked in my direction. The lid of the chest rose and fell, as if the box
was alive and breathing. I wanted so desperately to close my eyes, throw the
covers over my head and hope it went away, but my body refused to cooperate.
The metaphorical crank had begun turning, and I was sure whatever lurked inside
the box would pop out at any moment.
Eventually, the sun rose over the
horizon, bringing warmth and familiarity to the room that had been my unwelcome
prison all night. I suppose I fell asleep again at this point, because the next
thing I knew my mother was waking me up for school. Part of me wanted to call
in sick, but you couldn’t have paid me to stay home alone with that box. During
a rushed breakfast, Dawn grilled me for new information, but I didn’t feel like
recounting my ordeal. Before we left for school, I told her that I’d call in
sick for work, and made her promise not to enter the house without me. I vowed that
today would be the last day we’d ever see that box.
I couldn’t focus on my schoolwork
the entire day. Thoughts of that awful cedar chest plagued my mind as I tried
preparing for my final exams. My sleep deprived mind played tricks on my
senses, as I thought I caught a whiff of burnt hair in chemistry class. I spent
almost my entire study hall period roaming the library, trying to find the
source of the jack-in-the-box melody piping in from some indiscernible
location. Between classes, students ran from one room to the next, the rumbling
floor reminding me of the jack-in-the-box in my dream, moments away from
popping open and swallowing the floor whole.
My stomach twisted itself into
continuous knots as I drove home, going over my plan again and again. Dawn and
I would pack some clothes and drive to our grandparents until we forced our
parents to get rid of the cedar chest. I knew Dawn wouldn’t be happy about staying
at a house without the internet, but there was no way either of us were sleeping
another night in that house with the cedar chest waiting to pull its next trick
on us.
Parking in the driveway, I found
Dawn waiting for me on the front stairs. I explained my plan for staying at our
grandparents, and while she wasn’t happy, she agreed it was our best option.
Unlocking the front door, we darted straight to our rooms and grabbed a change
of spare clothes, toothbrushes, and a few things to keep us occupied while
waiting for our parents to give into our ultimatum. The burnt hair smell
permeated the whole house, and we opened windows on the second floor just to
stop the nausea.
Dawn waited for me in the hallway wearing
her backpack, and after hefting my duffle bag up to my shoulder I followed her
downstairs. Upon reaching the bottom step, we both noticed Cocoa perched on the
corner of the cedar chest, wondering what we were up to as her tail flickered
back and forth. Dawn reached over to her cat and snatched the black tabby up
from her corner. I stopped in my tracks; the mental image of the
jack-in-the-box crank turned another rotation.
“No, you can’t stay on that,” she
scolded to Cocoa. “Off you go.”
Cocoa whined and leapt to the
ground from Dawn’s arms. As Dawn stepped away from the cedar chest, she stopped
and grabbed the side of her jeans. She gave it a quick tug, but the denim
wouldn’t budge. The toy crank turned in my mind once again, ever so closer to
reaching its crescendo.
“Dawn-,” I warned, urging her away
from the chest.
“My leg’s stuck,” grumbled Dawn,
giving her jeans another useless tug.
The whole scene played out in slow
motion. Dawn grabbed the lid to the cedar chest and lifted it, freeing the side
of her jeans from the splinter. The crank twists one last time, and I snap out
of my trance right as the lid of the cedar chest flies open. A figure shrouded
in grey leapt up from the chest straight from a nightmare and wrapped her arms
around my sister as if embracing her in a tight hug. I dove towards Dawn with
arms outstretched as the dusty, ragged figured dropped down, trying to pull my
sister into the chest. Everything moved in a blur, the figure pulling with a hoarse
laugh wheezing through the few teeth she had left, Dawn screaming, flailing her
arms in the air helplessly, and me, grabbing hold of the handle on my sister’s
backpack, pulling as hard as I could. As I held on, I felt Dawn’s bag coming
loose from her back. I adjusted my hold and wrapped my arms around Dawn’s
midsection, pulling with all of my might.
By now, Dawn had her upper body
over the side of the chest, sinking into the quilts like a kind of fabric quicksand.
The volume of my sister’s screams lessened, dampened by the encompassing blankets,
but she only thrashed more. As I pulled, I heard the woman’s laughter deepening
as she pulled my sister harder. The woman reached out with her other hand and
raked her long, clawed fingernails across the top of my upper right arm and
parts of Dawn’s exposed upper back and neck. I clenched my teeth in pain, but
still held Dawn with all of my might. The figure and I were playing a twisted
form of tug o’ war, with my sister as both the figurative rope and prize.
I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let go, and
if this creature pulled Dawn in, I’d allow myself to fall in as well. No way
did I want my sister alone with this hideous abomination. Just the thought of
my sister trapped with this creature made my blood boil, and a renewed strength
and determination coursed through my veins. I lowered my weight towards the
floor and pulled as hard as I could, attempting to free my sister and my arms
from the pulling fabric. Inch-by-inch I felt the figure’s grip slip, and the
feeling only energized my efforts as I tugged harder. Dawn, too, fought back,
digging her feet into the hardwood floor and gripping the side of the cedar
chest, trying desperately to pull herself out. With one last great effort, Dawn
and I worked together as a team, and with tears in our eyes and cramping
muscles we fell back onto the floor, free from the figure’s grasp.
For a moment we both laid sprawled
out on the floor, chests heaving and sobs stuck in our throats. Slowly, we
stood from the floor, blood trickling from our cuts, and knees trembling from shock.
Keeping a cautious distance, we both looked over the edge of the cedar chest
with trepidation. There, in the middle of the ruffled quilts, appeared the
woman sinking into the linen around her as if someone was lowering her down. I
didn’t get a good look at her during the fight, but now I could see her for who
she was. Her face and skin were ashen and pocked with liver spots and splotches
of hair. The eyes were as fierce and piercing as I had remembered from earlier
that morning, yellow and thin, like cat’s eyes when exposed to full sunlight.
She had wild, tarnished silver hair that draped over the tops of the quilts
like the appendages of a giant octopus lurking in the depths of the ocean. The
woman’s few remaining teeth were stained brown and bits of black. By far the
most terrifying feature were her long, winding fingernails with sharpened edges,
stained red from our blood. I don’t remember if she wore clothes, because I
couldn’t tell where her skin ended and the cream colored quilts began, not to
mention all of that straggly hair.
At first glance, she looked frail
and weak with her emaciated arms, but all this was simply a façade, hiding a
strength that could overpower any unsuspecting investigators like a trap door
spider. Had either of us been alone, I have no doubt she would’ve snared us into
her domain. We stood in silence as she sank into the quilts, unable and
unwilling to look away. The woman glared at us with seething hatred, like a
hunter whose prey slipped right from under their nose moments from the kill.
She barred her teeth and uttered a low-pitched hiss as she sank deep beneath
the quilts until the last wisps of hair slipped into the cracks and out of
sight. I stepped to the side of the chest, and then, using my fingertips, nudged
the lid until gravity took over and slammed it shut. The jack-in-the-box was now
closed, with the hideous clown trapped inside once again.
Regaining my composure, I took my
sister by the shoulder and led her away from the box. She kept silent, until we
sat in the patio of our backyard where she broke down and wept. I said nothing
and just let her cry, unable to do much else.
“I saw the other side,” she squeaked as she
quieted down. “I- I could’ve become one of them!”
“One of who?” I asked, but she
never answered.
About an hour later, our parents
arrived home, finding us sitting in the backyard waiting for them. We gave them
our ultimatum, stating that we wouldn’t go back inside until they got rid of
the box. When they protested, we showed them our cuts, which finally got their
attention. Dad’s friend Jack drove up to the house a short while later and the
two of them carried the empty chest through the front door. I didn’t know why
at the time, but dad looked spooked about the whole thing. He was relieved when
the chest was out of the house and on the front lawn. Dawn and I reentered the
house, where mom was bagging the quilts to store in my grandparent’s attic. She
was disappointed about getting rid of the chest, but one look on our faces told
her she had made the right decision.
As dad talked on the phone with the
antique store about their return policy, Jack suddenly hailed us to the living
room window in a hurry. We watched as a man and his teenage son loaded the chest
onto the bed of their pickup truck before speeding off smiling, wheels
screeching as they burned rubber. Mom looked pretty upset about losing the
money she had invested in it, but dad looked worried as he muttered a curse
word under his breath.
That night, I sat outside with my
dad, and he asked me to recount every event that happened since the chest had
been brought to the house. He sat in silence as I told him every event that
came to memory. Unlike before, it seemed like he believed my story, never
giving me a skeptical or questioning look. Once I finished, I asked him why he
wanted to know, and it was his turn to explain.
After my sister and I refused to go
back inside, my mother and father went in and emptied the quilts out of the
cedar chest. As my mother searched the house for bags to store them in, my dad
noticed that the floor of the chest appeared higher than the actual bottom of
the box. He tapped the bottom and heard a hollow sound reverberating through
the wood. Shifting the slab of wood around, he felt the board slide to one
side, allowing someone to slip their fingers between the side wall of the chest
and lift the board up, revealing a secret compartment.
Out of curiosity, he pulled up on
the board to look inside the hidden compartment. He wished he hadn’t. Inside,
he found a large circle drawn in what looked like dried blood, with odd symbols
and shapes formed inside of it. The whole compartment had ashy dust coating every
inch of the bottom, along with assorted fingernails, bits of teeth, and a knot
of grey hair with burnt tips scattered about. Now, my dad’s normally a very
stoic individual, but the whole scene rattled his nerves. He shut the
compartment and the chest lid and immediately washed his hands with hot water
for at least a minute.
“Whoever took that chest,” muttered
my dad as he gazed out in our backyard, “they have no idea what they’re dealing
with.” He paused for another sip of his soda. “But they will.”
It’s been more than a decade since these
events transpired. Dawn and I don’t talk about it much. I only told my wife
about the experience a year after we were married. Dawn and I still have
nightmares about the incident, though they’ve been with less regularity over
time. She never told me what she saw on the other side of the chest, and maybe
it’s better it stays that way. At least the whole experience brought us closer
together, and while we live in different states, we know we can always count on
each other.
Still, there are two things that
have bothered me since the chest left my parent’s house all those years ago.
Every once and awhile, Dawn will send me news articles about events that happen
in our town to keep me up-to-date. Since my last year of high school, up until a
few weeks ago, there have been eight missing children cases in our small town,
all between the ages of three to seventeen. In all instances, the parents and
police have no leads as to what could’ve happened to them. It’s as if the children
simply vanished out of thin air when the parents weren’t looking. I find this
strange for a community as small as ours. I don’t have proof that this is the
case, but I know the likely source of these disappearances. My guess is each
family came into contact with a beautiful antique cedar chest that they
couldn’t live without. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were additional cases
reported in the neighborhoods bordering our town, but I haven’t done the
research yet.
The
other part that’s bothered me occurred during the last visit to my parent’s
house about a month ago. My dad and I were spending some time together, and for
some reason the subject of the cedar chest came up in our conversation. He
revealed something to me that he neglected to share the night the chest
disappeared. While he was on the phone with the antique store, just before the
chest was taken, the person on the other line knew exactly which chest he was
talking about.
The cedar chest had been part of a
bedroom set the antique store bought from an estate sale of a wealthy old widow
that had passed away. Apparently this wasn’t the first piece of furniture from
the set that someone wanted to return. There was something the antique store
owner mentioned in an off-hand remark that disturbed my father, and it’s left
me wondering about it ever since.
He said, “You’re lucky you didn’t
buy the mirror,” and hung up the phone.
