"Gift Boxed" by Andrew Nicolle
Gift Boxed
by Andrew Nicolle
It was Christmas Eve, and at least half the houses in this affluent neighborhood were vacant for the holiday. Asher figured the rich nobs who lived here were either attending Christmas parties at the houses of other rich nobs, or they were snowbirds who had long since fled south for warmer climes. In his mind that made them ripe for the picking.
He’d looted two places already, and was on his way to a third. He pulled up around the corner from his next target, a large house with imposing white columns and a wide front porch. He shut off the engine, grabbed his duffel bag and strode briskly to the front door.
Asher gave a quick knock and glanced around the front porch while he waited for a response. No obvious security cameras, alarm system logos, or beware of dog signs. Not that it would matter. He was wearing an N95 mask and a high visibility vest and had a believable story about gas leaks being reported in the area in case anyone questioned him.
Just as he was about to whip out a lock pick, he noticed the front door was slightly ajar. He gave it a gentle tap with his gloved hand and poked his head inside. All the lights were out, aside from above what appeared to be a basement staircase. The place was deathly quiet. He pulled the pistol from his coat pocket and crept carefully down the stairs.
A lit ON-AIR sign was affixed to the door at the base of the stairs. Maybe he’d stumbled upon the home of a podcasting bro or live-streaming video-gamer? He put his ear to the door, but didn’t hear a peep.
Carefully rotating the door knob, he peered around the edge of the door and was surprised by what he saw. The sparsely furnished room contained a large oak table, upon which sat an ornate wooden box, a wrist watch, and some other random items. Facing the table was a tripod-mounted video camera, and scattered around the room were various lighting rigs with umbrellas.
Before he could start stuffing as much as he could hold in his duffel, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A smiling man sat in the center of the couch against the far wall, watching him. In one hand the man held a giant butcher’s knife.
“Easy there, fella.” Asher aimed his pistol, ready to fire.
The guy waved him off. “Take whatever you want. I’ve seen more than enough!”
Before Asher could respond, the man plunged the knife into the side of his neck and slumped back into the couch. Blood sprayed over the couch in a series of spurts.
Asher leaped back to avoid the blood fountain. “Yo, what the actual fuck?”
He’d been prepared for violence, but nothing like this. He spun around and looked for anything of value on his way out. The video camera was still recording, so he mashed the stop button and popped it out of its tripod mount. He swept the stuff on the table into his open duffel bag, including the wooden box, before fleeing the scene like his life depended on it.
Back in his car, he threw the duffel into the passenger seat and peeled out down the road, anxious to put as much distance between him and the suicide house as possible.
Once he’d reached highway cruising speed, he turned on the radio and cranked it up loud. AC/DC were talking about their dirty deeds and how they were done dirt cheap. Asher grinned. He could relate.
As he hummed along to the music, Asher felt his seatbelt unlatch. He absently tried to plug it back in, but without success. It was then that he noticed some odd sounds coming from his duffel. He lowered the radio volume and rummaged around in the bag, until he located the video camera. Screams alternated with guttural chanting, as the camera played back its recordings.
Asher glanced alternately between the road and the camera screen. The guy he’d seen earlier was sitting on that same couch, rocking back and forth and yelling gibberish. This continued for several minutes before the guy stared at the camera, then abruptly leaped up and turned the camera to face the box on the table. The box now glowed a sickly orange color.
“This will all be over soon,” the guy crooned into the microphone. This was followed by silence, then a short time later footsteps and the sound of a creaking door. Asher heard his own voice and his exclamation as the guy plunged the knife into his neck.
Chills ran up and down Asher’s spine. The chills turned into abject terror as he glanced up just in time to see his car heading straight into an overpass pylon. He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The last thing Asher felt was his body catapulting headfirst through his car windshield.
A homeless man sitting on the embankment beside the overpass pylon was the sole witness to Asher’s final moments. The man hurried toward the wreck, but stopped when he saw the tangled mess of limbs and organs scattered around the middle of the highway. Nearby, a black duffel bag had also been ejected from the vehicle. The homeless man grabbed it and returned to the embankment.
He turned the bag over in his hands, marveling at how much better this would be for carrying his few possessions than his hole-filled plastic shopping bags. As he began to load the duffel, he noticed a strange wooden box inside. The box glowed and smelled faintly of sulfur. As his hand brushed it, his mind was filled with visions of vast riches and exotic locations.
The homeless man smiled. He just knew things would be different from now on.