The rain pounded furiously at my window, I looked outside and wondered when it would stop. I knew that it wouldn’t though; it never did, not here.
I was sitting on my bed and looking around my room, it was really more of an attic but my aunt wanted me to be out of the way just in case and guests or friends come over to visit, they never did. I arrived at her old rotting excuse of a house a few years ago; my parents told me that I would “benefit” from the fresh countryside air. But we all knew that the real reason they wanted me to go here was because they were both too obsessed with their work to even remember that I had to eat every day, so this was their solution.
I practically lived in the attic to be honest. I mean, there was a bathroom and a small working fridge so there was no need for me to even go outside which was handy since the weather wasn’t exactly wonderful. I stood up from the window ledge where I was sitting to get a drink from the fridge when I spotted something from the corner of my eye, it was back. I had gotten this jack in the box as a present for my 4th birthday from a distant relative who I really don’t remember, but I was actually just more of a box. It didn’t have a handle so you just had to open the lid to see what was inside, I never did. Now all the paint had peeled of and the smiling faces of the people drawn onto it were looking more like frowns. It used to be bright red as well, but now it just looked as if this jack in the box was dotted with tiny specks of ruby red blood. It made me shiver a bit but I tried to ignore it, I looked towards the clock on my wall only to realise just how late it was.
I didn’t want to sleep because I knew that I would hear that sound again. I never told anyone about it because they would most probably not believe me. It started a month ago, the same day that I tried to get rid of that jack in the box. I put in in the bin but the next day it was back again. After that I started to hear this faint noise, as if someone was humming a tune in the distance and although the voice seemed innocent and sweet, I could taste the bitterness every single time that I heard it. It had gradually gotten louder over time, and it always seemed as though it was getting closer and closer. Last night when I heard it I felt as though it was coming from my room.
I tried to close my eyes and forget about it but just as I was about to fall into the hands of sleep, it returned. It wasn’t a tune anymore though, it was a voice. It was a twisted sound to hear, the innocence was paired with a raspy wheeze, as though it was clawing at its own throat, desperate for me to listen to its cries.
“Open the box” it hissed.
“What box”
It was silent for a moment, as though it was thinking about how to answer my question
“Open the box”
“I don’t know which box you’re talking about”
It seemed sterner this time, more vicious. I tried to hide my fear and kept my eyes closed.
“Open the box”
The last words had all the innocence drained out of it. It was more of an animal now. High pitched screaming like someone had just scratched their long nails along a chalkboard. I opened by eyes and sat up, there was no one there, but I finally understood the box that it was talking about. The jack in the box, it was on my bed, last time I saw it was lying on the floor. I picked it up with my trembling hands and the paint disintegrated as I held it. I bought it closer and stroked the lid trying to control my breathing but I couldn’t. I didn’t think, why didn't i think.
It’s already been 3 years since that night. It was raining again, as usual. I sighed and slowly turned my head to look at the box, it was closed again, on the floor next to my bed, untouched. It was just left there, I saw people come and go, police, private detectives, CSI, the lot. But nobody ever noticed the jack in the box; nobody saw the crimson blood decorating the lid, no one, except me. I turned my attention back to the window and touched the pain, cold. I bought my other hand up towards my neck and took hold of it, running my fingers along the ugly scar of the knife that had sliced through my throat.