CHAPTER 8: THE BOX
On our way back, I take a closer glimpse at the stores against the main road. The stores consist of restaurants, pastry shops, clothing boutiques, and even hair salons; however, this town has a more vintage look. The stores aren’t covered in fancy signs and bright colors like the ones you’d typically see in a city. The store faces are painted in warm, humble, colors.
Glenworth is a prime example of a “small town”. Even Virginia has kept up with the modern generation. This town seems to be stuck in 1985. Everything here seems………how could I put this………old, yet the people are wearing modern attire. I also realize that every store has a picture of a black lion posted on their windows.
I guess this character serves as a type of marketing gimmick for the entire town. Some stores even have stuffed-animal versions of the lion hanging in their windows.
Iva, look left
As we travel along, I look to my left and see a wooden sign hanging off a storefront. It reads “Linda's Antiques” in white cursive letters. The building itself is small and painted a dark green.
“I saw an antique shop back there," I inform her.
“Wanna check it out?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She turns the car around and kills the engine in front of the small establishment.
"It doesn’t look like much. I guess it’s worth a peek," she tells me.
Two minutes later, we enter the store with the sound of ringing chimes above our heads. The inside smells like a mix between lemon air-fresheners, mothballs, and something musty. The shop is just a large dimly lit area with a bathroom behind the counter. The entire place is filled with various forsaken and lost treasures. An older woman with glasses is reading a magazine at the register.
She looks up, places her magazine on the counter, and smiles hard at us as if we’re the only customers she had all day. She’s wearing a dress with a tie-dyed shirt and sandals.
"Welcome," the woman says in a friendly tone.
"Hello," my mom replies.
"Do you need help finding anything in particular?"
"No, we’re just looking around,” my mom tells her.
"If you have any questions just ask me," the woman says nicely and continues reading her magazine.
I always had a peculiar love for things people discard. My mom often tells me that I’m a box or two away from being a hoarder, but I prefer the term Collector instead. I roll myself towards the dolls resting disorderly on the floor. Most of their eyes are missing and their dresses are ragged. I move along and spot some books stacked high in a cardboard box. I search through them with the hopes of finding some interesting titles.
“Look at this, Iva,” my mom grasps my attention behind me.
She has her back towards me as if she’s trying to conceal something. She shifts to me swiftly, revealing these glasses with long coils and eyes attached to them.
“Funny right?” she asks.
“Mom, please stop, I‘m laughing so hard it hurts,” I reply tonelessly.
Humble as ever, she places the glasses back on the shelf.
“I remember when you used to laugh at all of my jokes,” she informs me.
“You're right, but then I turned five,” I add while studying a soldier figurine. “Mom, you have used the same jokes for over two decades now.”
“Because they’re funny,” she replies.
I chuckle at her comment and not the joke itself.
“No, they’re not.”
“See, I told you,” she says proudly as she manages to get a snicker out of me.
“That doesn’t count. I’m laughing at you and not the joke.”
“What’s the difference?”
I chuckle again, but a little louder than before.
“See, I made you laugh again,” she says with pride.
I sigh and place the small more solid figurine back on the shelf. Her proving to me that she’s funny----when she isn’t------ is humorous. I try my best to not to laugh and feed into her pride.
“No, I’m not laughing at your jokes. Your jokes are not funny. I’m laughing at the way you think. Mom, I just…” I stop momentarily to suppress a laugh. “I just can’t deal with you sometimes.”
“I love torturing you.”
“I’m happy you finally admit it. Now I have a witness,” I say while giggling.
“I didn’t hear anything,” the store clerk at the counter joins in.
“You’re not helping,” I reply to the woman's comment.
I continue through the store and then discover an acoustic guitar sitting on the table. Like a child, I can’t help but run my fingers across the wires gently, creating a mild tune with every popping string. I then see this well-crafted statue of that lion sitting on top of a counter. I park myself in front of the statue to observe its fine craftsmanship. I caress its wooden surface with my fingers and feel every small nook in its design, but then I’m abruptly forced back into reality…
“See something you like?” the clerk asks.
She steps behind the counter where the statue is resting.
“Yeah,” I reply. “It’s neat. This is the school’s mascot, right?”
“Yes. His name is Mane,” she replies. “He got his name from his black fur. A couple of reports came out about a mysterious black lion lurking the woods of Glenworth a few years back. They posted a whole story about it in the Chronicle. “Glenworth’s Loch Ness Monster”, was the headline. The school made a killing off merchandizing. Then other local businesses, including myself, decided to capitalize off it as well.”
“So, did they ever figure out if it was real or not?”
“No. But I’ve been living in Glenworth my whole life and there is something very bizarre about this place.”
“How so?”
Her face suddenly turns blank as she leans over the counter and intertwine her fingers.
“Tell me, do you like ghost stories?” she whispers.
“Go for it,” I reply.
“Since I could remember, my parents always told me to stay away from the woods. Their parents told them the same. Tales of strange creatures prowling the forest can be traced back centuries ago when the Native Americans roamed this land.”
I have a wild imagination. Every time I’m reading a book or being told a story, I can’t help but paint some mental picture of said stories in my head. As she speaks, I can see a mystical dark forest forming in my mind, filled with shadow creatures.
“Some people still believe this folklore,” she continued with an eerie whisper. “Ravenous beast of unspeakable terror await people in the darkness. They claimed lives way before Glenworth was thought of. Most of them were children.”
Deep within my mind, I can see Native Americans throwing spears at these dark creatures with glowing red and yellow eyes, trying to fend them off. I imagine the disturbing sound of babies crying as the creatures flee with children in their arms.
“My grandmother, who was part Native American, told me all about the mystical creatures that dwelled within these forests; some good and some evil. The good creatures would help protect them, but it was never enough. And now, a new evil emerges. It calls himself The Hellhound.”
“The hellhound?”
“Yes. It waits in the forest to claim its next helpless victim. Some say its part demon, part wolf. It acts, talks, and dresses like a man, but it is not one of us. Just like any demon, it feeds off fear before feeding on its prey.”
I create another picture in my mind. This picture consist of a dark figure in the form of a man; watching and waiting in the forest.
“Iva…!” my mom shouts my name, which almost made me jump from my skin.
I look to my left and see my mother approaching me with a birdhouse in her hands, as if it’s the best thing in the world.
“Look what I’ve found,” she says excitedly. “How freaking adorable.”
“Oh my God,” I say in relief. “Mom, why…just why... are you shouting like someone is about to kill you?”
“Sorry, did I scare you?’
“No, it’s fine. I totally wasn’t about to shit myself,” I reply sarcastically. “And I hope you know you’re not being obnoxious, whatsoever.”
“How much for the birdhouse?” my mom ask the store clerk; completely ignoring my sarcastic remarks.
“That one is sold actually. But we should be getting more next week,’ she replies.
As they converse about birdhouses, I rotate my wheelchair and continue to look through the store’s inventory.
Look up Iva…
A thought pops into my head, as if something is telling me to look up. I look upward and discover something on top a bookshelf in a corner; a small red box.
"Excuse me,” I say to the clerk to grasp her attention. “What’s that box up there?"
The hippie looking clerk follows my finger to the rectangular box resting on top of the bookshelf.
"That’s, uh…”
She walks over to the bookshelf and grabs it. She blows onto the surface of the box, scattering dust particles into the air, which makes me cough.
"I don’t know what this is. I found it when I was gardening one day. I can't tell you what it is because I don't know what it is. It could be centuries old, maybe more. You’re the first to ask about it. It’s been sitting up there since I opened five-years ago.”
"How much is it?" I ask.
The woman shrugs her shoulders and ponders.
"Uh...three bucks," she says.
"May I see it?" I ask with my hands presented.
"Sure.”
She hands me the box, which is much heavier than it appears. The dimensions of the box are about five-inches wide by ten-inches long with a height of six-inches. I use my hand to brush off some hardened dirt from its surface.
“It's warm,” I think out loud.
"It’s always like that," the woman clarifies.
“What’s keeping it warm?” I ask curiously.
“No clue. Pretty strange, isn't it?”
I raise the box next to my ear and proceed to shake it, yet I hear nothing rattling on the inside.
"You want it Iva?" my mom asks.
I stare at the box, pondering about if I should waste my time on it or not.
Yes, take it
For some reason, my gut instinct is telling me I should buy it, although I have no clue what it could be.
"Yes," I reply, still studying the box diligently. "I'll take it.”
My mom reaches into her purse, pulls out three dollars, and then hands it to the woman.
"It was a pleasure doing business with you. Thank you and stop by some other time.”
"Thanks a bunch,” my mom says to her.
“Thank you,” I tell the woman before leaving the store.
We make it back home in no time. As soon as I get the chance, I roll myself into my bedroom with the box resting on my lap; eager to restore the box to its original state.
"Lunch will be ready in ten," my mom’s voice follows behind me as I enter my room.
“Okay,” I reply.
I place the box on my desk for a closer examination. It takes some muscle work and a damp cloth to bring the box back to life. Every inch of the box is engraved in a leaf-like pattern. I flip it around several times, trying to find an opening of some kind. Suddenly, my pointer-finger sinks into the side of the box. I didn’t notice this before.
I lift the box closer to my eyes. I press down on the small dime-sized area once more. This doesn’t seem to do anything at all; however, I do manage to discover a similar area on the opposite side. I nibble the inside of my cheek and begin to contemplate its function.
Suddenly, an idea hits me. I feel around on both sides simultaneously with my pointer-fingers. I press into both sides at the same time. Suddenly, the top of the box opens up, releasing ancient air. I place the box down on the desk in front of me. The top of the box gradually lifts at a ninety-degree angle and stops.
I’m shocked at what I discover. A spec of light is hovering inside the box and slowly rising; somewhat similar to a tiny sun.
"Whoa," I muttered underneath my breath.
With anxious hands, I lift the box off the table to examine the floating orb of light. All of a sudden, the tiny white light burst into a brilliant flash. The blinding light clouds my vision like an erupting solar flare. A second later, the light is fading away. I then see my mom coming into view, looking down at me with worried eyes.
I also see lights and ceiling tiles passing me rapidly. Her mouth is moving, but her voice is faint, like a television playing in a low volume. The white blinding light vanishes. I then realize other people are looking down at me.
Then it hits me. Although only seconds went by, I’m somehow at the hospital…