On a moody gray afternoon, Cimone and the unloved keepsake box found one another.

That was how she saw it.

Cimone considered herself an intercessor of broken and bereft things.  Her apartment was an orphanage for discarded possessions: mismatched teacups, milk glass vases, the elegant detritus of obsolete possessions.

Alongside more charming items, the mahogany box sat almost undistinguished.  Its lid was nearly covered in a patchwork of aged ivory tiles, with curling vines of inlay green fuchsite winding in intricate patterns. A brass latch shaped like an open eye held the lid shut. Time dented the corners and amber lacquer flaked along the edges.  Scratches marred the wood around the lock, evidence the key was long lost. Once treasured, it had outlasted the care of its owner. 

Reaching past the more decorative objects, Cimone gently lifted it up.  The box carried the gravitas of craftsmanship without ostentatiousness.  The further she moved up the aisle, the more at home it felt in her hands. 

Fifty dollars was a bargain and she paid without hesitation.  Once home, she settled it on her bedroom dressing table amidst vintage perfume bottles. Outside, the grey shifted to rain, bringing the smell of dark earth and wet moss. That night, she drifted to sleep while the brass eye of the lock glimmered dully under her nightlight.

Cimone sat up in darkness, wondering what had awakened her. 

Bump… Bump… Bump…

The sound was coming from the table.

She turned on the lamp, squinting as yellow light flooded the room.  The temperature had plummeted; her breath bloomed in pale clouds.  On the dressing table the perfume bottles rattled to each heavy impact.  The brass latch on the box was no longer closed. The lid was open a finger’s breadth above its housing, a glint of silver showing.

As she stared, a dark, viscous fluid oozed from around the box onto the dresser. The herbaceous scents of the perfumes were replaced by the moldy odor of decaying undergrowth and sour rot.

Then the mirror over the table rippled as if a stone had been dropped in a pond.

The reflection of her bedroom distorted, reclaimed by vines and leaves, twisting in purposeful motions.  Within the ivy screen stood a tall, impossibly thin figure, clad in a waterlogged silk burial gown clinging to gaunt, rot-blackened limbs. The face was a hollowed cavity of yellowed bone and sunken sockets, but its jaw moved with a wet, sickening squelch.

“Mine,” a voice dripped—not through the air, but in heavy, wet weight pressing inside of Cimone’s head.  A shriveled, taloned hand stretched forth, seemingly past the mirror’s surface.  “Mine.  Give it back, thief!”

Cimone screamed, scrambling backward. She hit the headboard and awoke in the darkness of her room. The air was warm and humid.  She fumbled for the light.  Everything sat quiet and unchanged.  The box sat, free of ichor, on the dressing table.

The next two nights were worse.

Bump… Bump… Bump…

First, she moved the box into the living room. The tall shape, no longer behind the mirror’s glass, squeezed out of a corner of her bedroom, dripping and shuffling along the wall, hissed its claim: “Mine… thief…”  Bolting awake in an empty bedroom filled with graveyard air, she saw the box back on the table.

The second evening she convinced Sarah to stay over.  After two glasses of wine Sarah slept like a corpse on the sofa.  Cimone dozed fitfully in the chair facing the bedroom. Through slitted eyes she watched twisting bands of ivy creep from under the door, pulling the thing with it, inch by rotting inch.  A sodden voice slithered inside Cimone’s skull.

“Mine… Myyyyyyne!”

Spidery fingers brushed Cimone’s foot, drawing a slimy trail.  Her shrieks left Sarah shaking and crying.

The third night, Cimone sat alone on her bed.  The box lay heavily in her lap.  Her head bobbed from exhaustion.  

She stared at the brass latch.  Scattered on the bedspread were her collection of little brass keys and a claw hammer.

“I’m no thief,” Cimone whispered to the corners of the room, voice trembling with terrified defiance. “Come take what is yours.”

She tried every key, but none turned the lock.  Resolutely, she reached for the hammer.

Cimone wedged the flat teeth of the claw into the seam of the lid and wrenched with all her strength.

Wood splintered and the lock snapped like a bone.  The lid fell open and Cimone saw a silver brooch pinned to the worn velvet interior.

A screech tore through the room—ringing in her head. The room darkened, stinking of wormy earth and fetid water. From behind her headboard, slimy, skeletal arms shot forward, iron fingers clutching her throat with crushing force.

Cimone couldn’t breathe. Her vision dimmed as the oily shape flowed over her, a hollow face inches from her own, jealousy and malice radiating from its sunken eyes.

With her free hand, Cimone reached into the box interior, her fingers tugging the brooch loose from its pins.

She held the brooch up to the face.

“Take it!” She screamed.  “Take what is yours!”

The face turned toward the brooch and the lock on her throat released instantly. The screeching din ended, leaving the room in resonating silence.

Cimone tumbled off the bed, sucking air into her lungs. She looked at her hand.  Empty.

She pulled herself up, catching her wild-eyed reflection in the mirror. Tarred finger marks bruised her throat.

The mahogany box lay sideways on the bed, lid open like a gaping maw. She picked it up tenderly and examined the cracked wood and dented lock.  Damaged, but…

It could still be fixed.  It could still have a home.

She set it, lid propped open, on her dressing table.

Cimone slept deeply and peacefully through the night.  Nothing oozed under the door.  No shadow stirred in the corners.

In the morning the box sat, still open, a warm shaft of sunlight glinting off the dented brass eye.