RANDOM STORY:
The night was darker than he thought it would be. The chilly air stung at Jack’s face, like so many tiny wasps. Cold drifted through his veins like butterflies fluttering through a sunny sky. How Jack wished he was there, with the butterflies, instead of here, with the fog and the trashcans and the inky black alley. He was supposed to be meeting someone here, but hey, who knew if that would work out?
He cursed his stupidity over and over. Who would fall for such a stupid-
(Though, if he was honest, he would admit that he loathed saying it,)
-junk e-mail?
He had discovered it three days ago, buried in his inbox. He had no idea why it had caught his eye, especially when he noticed that the list of recipients stretched on for forever. He didn’t even remember the sender’s email address.
The advertisement, so odd he couldn’t look away, lead him to bounce an email back. It had read “Everything you ever wanted in one small box!” followed by a request for interested parties to do just as he did, and send a message in return.
Suddenly, from the darkness, a figure emerged. And that is exactly what seemed to happen. The man on the other side of the ally had simply materialized, with shreds of night sky seeming to cling to his clothes, as if they were merely burrs. Butterflies of darkness floated around him, and as he walked-
(Well, “walked” isn’t exactly the right word. Maybe “drifted” or “hovered”)
-chills ran up Jack’s spine. He regretted his decision more than ever. What if this box contained some insane black market commodity? Something like that could get Jack into serious trouble with the law, and this just wouldn’t fly. He decided that it was necessary to call the whole thing off, before someone got-
(He didn’t even know why this came to him,)
-hurt. The man was wearing dark, dark clothes, black jeans maybe, and definitely some kind of top with a hood. The hood was drawn, almost closed, around his face.
“Hey, man, I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m just going to go back home, and we can forget this ever happened.” Jack was shaking in his boots as the man came closer.
Frosty air seeped from the man’s mouth as he began to reply. His voice sounded just as cold, if not colder, than the December air.
“Oh, Jack, you don’t want to disappoint me, do you? Besides, I think you’ll find that cancellation is quite impossible. You’re in too deep.” With this, the man was finally standing directly in front of Jack. Jack’s blood turned to ice, frozen in his veins, or so it seemed. Jack turned to run, but instead of the long alley he distinctly remembered seeing earlier, there was merely a brick wall.
The man began to laugh. It was the kind of sound that you would rather become deaf than ever hear again. It was the kind of sound that could stop a butterfly's heart cold, emptying the colors from its wings. It was a gruesome sound.
Jack felt a warm wetness trickling down his legs-
(Judge him as you will, but I guarantee that if you had seen this man, you probably would have pissed yourself as well,)
-and the man began to laugh even louder.
Suddenly, the hideous cackling just cut off.
“So,” the man breathed, “don’t you want to see what you came all this way for? Your greatest desires will come to light, tonight, Jack.”
With a start-
(Though he probably should have remembered it sooner,)
-Jack realized that never once had he revealed his name, not even in emails. More than anything, Jack just wanted to go home.
The man eased his bony fingers into the folds of his black clothing and drew out a box. It was a simple box, a crystalline silver color, with a decorative black butterfly adorning the top. It wasn’t large, in fact, for a box that was supposed to hold Jack’s every desire, it was much too small.
The man held the box to Jack, offering it, a gift. Jack noticed that the man’s hand appeared to have been badly burned at some time or another. The scarring was so bad that the hand probably should have been amputated. With a chill, Jack realized that there was another explanation for such a disfigurement. A hand that had been rotting would look the same way.
Nevertheless, Jack took the box, hoping that with this the transaction would be completed and he would be able to leave. However, the man motioned for Jack to open the box.
Every cell in Jack’s brain was screaming for him to stop before it was too late, before he did something that he would regret later. Still, he fingered the tiny latch, holding the box closed.
Unclasping it, he slowly, cautiously, started easing back the lid.
Inside, to Jack’s complete astonishment, he found absolutely nothing. No beating
heart, no small yet vicious animal crouched to attack, no bloody knife. He wasn’t-
(As he had to remind himself occasionally,)
-a character in a horror movie. Jack looked up, confused, at the man who had
frightened him so. He had not turned away. Maybe Jack’s imagination was getting the best of him. Maybe he had been mistaken about the events.
The wetness staining his pant leg told a different story. As did the still rotten hand beckoning Jack to peer inside the box again.
This time, Jack looked closely, inspecting the hinges, the clasp, and finally, the bottom of the box. Jack gasped.
Somehow, he could see straight through the bottom of the box! Squinting-
(It was still dark out, of course,)
-he realized that what lay through the glassy bottom was not his shoes, but instead, what appeared to be a scene from some other reality. Jack could see what looked like a minuscule version of himself. Instead of the December night, it appeared to be a mid-April day, sunny and bright.
Suddenly, Jack noticed a distinct change in the lighting around him. The bottom of the box became opaque, and Jack looked up. Incomprehensibly, Jack was inside of the box.
He was standing in front of a modest two story house. The lights in the upstairs windows were on, and Jack could see someone moving around in one of-
(What he assumed were,)
-the bedrooms. A walkway led to the door, lined by flowers and frequented by dozens of butterflies. Jack was stunned.
The front door opened with a bang. A woman stood, backlit by a cheery hallway leading to the rooms beyond, and looked at Jack for several seconds before rushing, bare feet pounding on the bricks, and finally coming to rest in his arms.
Jack stared straight into the house, too happy for words. His free hand-
(The one not holding the box,)
-drifted up to stroke the auburn hair of his late wife.
“Chelsea?” he murmured, tears running down his face.
“Honey!” her voice was the epitome of pleasant cheer. “You’re home early today!”
She lead him into the house without really looking at him. The way she might have done if she had not been killed in an automobile accident. The anniversary of the event had been fast approaching, Jack realized idly. He allowed her to sit him down at a large white oak table, adjacent to a yellow painted kitchen.
To Jack’s complete and utter delight, his son came bustling down the hallway, apparently having smelled the same delicious looking pot pie that was currently sitting in front of Jack, steaming on a perfect white ceramic plate.
Jack stood. He wanted nothing more than to hold the small boy in his arms, finally, after so long. He had been only seven years old when he was taken, killed in the same crash that had parted Jack and Chelsea.
Upon realizing that he still had the small box, clutched in his white-knuckled hand, he dropped it, as to better hold on to his boy.
As soon as the box left his hand, however, he realize that he was no longer standing in that yellow kitchen in the modest, two story house, lined by butterfly adorned gardens. He was in the alleyway, surrounded by trash cans, and faced with a man who was nothing if not Satan himself. The box was nowhere in sight.
“So, Jack, did you enjoy your box?”
Jack sank to his knees, sobbing. He was crying so hard that he began to choke on his own tears. Coughing, spluttering, and wishing so hard, that he could just go back.
“Was that not enough, Jack? You seem… ungrateful.” The man’s demeanor had not changed. It infuriated Jack, that this man could be so, so, cold when Jack was hurting so, so badly. Butterflies of anger crawled down his arms, and his fists clenched. “Oh, no, Jack, that won’t be necessary,” and with those solemn words, Jack’s anger dissipated.
“Can I get back there?” His voice shook, he was anything but sure of himself.
“Oh, Jack, I’m afraid there’s just no way. Well… unless… hmm. I take that back. There is one way.”
“I’ll do anything! Just tell me, tell me now, what do I have to do?”
“Step forward, my friend. Come closer, and all will be revealed to you.”
Completely at the wraith’s mercy, Jack forced himself to his feet and stumbled into death’s cold embrace.
LYK ZOMG
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