Chapter 4

The old Buick’s engine coughed and rattled to a stop in front of his trailer. Brian Abell sat there for a moment. He gripped the steering wheel. He stared at the lopsided shack he called home. It looked worse than usual tonight. It was like even the trailer knew what he had in the trunk. Its rusted panels groaned against the wind. One of the storm shutters flapped loosely, banging against the metal siding with a hollow, lifeless sound. The porch light flickered in a lazy rhythm, fighting off the desert night.

It wasn’t much. It never had been. But tonight, the place felt smaller, more fragile. Brian popped the trunk and climbed out. The Arizona night hit him immediately. The air was dry, sweltering, smelling of dirt and gasoline. A far off coyote howled, and the sound echoing across the nothingness around him. He glanced toward the horizon; only endless black desert and a sliver of moon stared back.

When he opened the trunk, the towel wrapped box sat where he had left it. It was buried under his junk like a secret. For a moment, he hesitated. There was no logical reason for the hesitation, no reason at all for the pounding in his chest or the sudden chill in his fingertips. It was just a box. Just old junk. So why did it feel like it was waiting?

Brian grabbed it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. The weight surprised him. He cradled it against his chest, careful not to drop it, and carried it up the crooked wooden steps of his porch. The trailer door shrieked on its hinges as he pushed it open. Inside, the stale air hit him. The smell of himself. The smell of old sweat, reheated takeout, cheap air fresheners that stopped working months ago. It was suffocating, but familiar. His kingdom.

He shut the door behind him and locked it, sliding the bolt with a loud, decisive clack. Silence. Brian walked to the kitchen table. He pushed aside a pile of unopened mail and left over food. He set the box down gently. He stared at it. The towel wrapping it was damp from his sweaty palms. It clung to the corners. He peeled it away, slowly, like undressing something delicate. The wood beneath was dark and smooth. The surface was carved with symbols he did not recognize. Ancient, looping designs, almost serpentine.

The room seemed quieter than usual. It was much quieter. Even the hum of the refrigerator felt distant, muffled, as if the world itself had pulled back to give this moment space. Brian sat down heavily in the nearest chair, staring at the box. His heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to open it. God, he wanted to open it. His hand hovered over the lid.

“Open it.”

The softly spoken word was a whisper. It brushed against his thoughts like a fingertip trailing over skin. Brian recoiled, glancing quickly around. But he did not see anyone. Nothing. No one. But the feeling lingered. Like someone was in the room with him. Like someone was waiting for him to take the next step.

Brian stared at the wooden box on the table, his breath shallow. Up close, the carvings appeared even stranger; they clearly weren’t just random decorations. The looping lines reminded him of snakes devouring their own tails, runes from a language that did not exist anymore. The patterns almost seemed to move when he wasn’t looking directly at them, shifting in some subtle, nauseating way that made his stomach turn. He ran his fingers along the edges. No latch. No seam. No obvious way in. He felt along every side, pressing, prying, but nothing.

“Fuck!” He muttered under his breath.

He stood, walked to his old metal toolbox by the door, and dug through its clutter. There were rusty wrenches, stripped screws, and a half-empty can of WD-40. He kept rummaging until he found his hammer. Brian gripped the handle tightly and returned to the table. His palms were sweating. The moment felt bigger than it should have. It was like the box should not ever be opened. The thought unnerved him. But he brought the hammer down anyway. The wood splintered with a loud crack. The sound echoing through the trailer like a gunshot. Dust plumed into the air. He struck it again, then pried the fractured top off with the claw of the hammer.

Inside was another box. This one was Smaller. Heavier. This one was not wood. It was wrapped in some kind of cloth. It was brownish, fraying at the edges, the fibers brittle with age. Brian reached out and carefully unwrapped it. The moment his fingers touched it, he flinched. It did not feel like any cloth he had ever handled. It was soft. Supple. It felt like human skin. A shiver crept up his arms.

“Gross,” he muttered.

But he kept unwrapping, each fold revealing more of what lay beneath. The inner box emerged. It was made of dark metal, cold even to the touch. It bore intricate engravings, sharper and more complex than the wooden box. The spirals and intersecting symbols that hurt to look at too long, as if his brain refused to process them. And at its center, a lock. Not a padlock. Not any kind of latch he recognized. An ancient, alien mechanism with a dial etched in those same writhing symbols. Brian leaned closer, his breath fogging faintly against the cold metal. That’s when it came.

“Three to the left. Two to the right. Seven to the center.” A very sultry voice whispered in his head.

The words slipped into his mind like a soft exhale. Brian froze, jerking his head up. No one was there. He looked around the room quickly, could not find anyone in his home.

“What the hell!” Brian said.

He was confused. Maybe a little scared. The numbers stuck in his head. He glanced around to make sure he was not seeing things or hearing things. It did not help that Brian was a horror fan. Some of his favorite movies were Amityville, Insidious, Poltergeist, and The Ring just to name a few. He took a deep breath. His hand moved on its own. He gripped the cold dial, turning it exactly as instructed. Three left, two right, seven center. It was like he had known the combination his entire life.

When the last number fell into place, there was a faint sound. The lock came undone. Brian’s heart hammered in his ears. The box practically hummed against his fingertips now, vibrating faintly as if something inside was awake. He slowly lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a dark velvet cushion, there was a beautiful and majestic amulet. It was shaped like a teardrop. It was forged from blackened metal traced with fine emerald inlays. At its center sat an oval stone. A deep green, flecked with gold and black that shimmered and shifted when he stared at it, like liquid trapped in glass. Brian reached out. And froze again.