Chapter 4 - The First Visitor
The stranger arrived on a cold November afternoon,
when the fog was thick enough to swallow the trees.
He was an old man,
with a coat that had seen better days,
and eyes that were milky with cataracts.
He stood on the porch,
hat in hand,
looking like a relic from another era.
"I'm looking for Evelyn Bennett,"
he said,
his voice a raspy whisper.
"She doesn't live here,"
Nora replied,
holding the door half-closed.
"I know,"
the man said,
tilting his head.
"But she gave it to you,
didn't she?"
Nora’s heart skipped a beat,
a cold jolt of adrenaline hitting her system.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The man smiled,
revealing yellowed teeth,
and a sense of knowing that made her skin crawl.
"The dark wood,"
he said,
simply.
"The box that holds the breath of the family."
Nora wanted to slam the door,
to run to the closet and make sure the box was still there,
but she was frozen.
"Who are you?"
she whispered.
"Just a man who remembers,"
he replied.
"Tell Evelyn that Thomas is still waiting,"
he added,
turning to walk back into the fog.
Nora watched him disappear,
his figure blurring into the gray,
until he was gone.
She locked the door,
her hands shaking so hard she could barely turn the key.
She ran to the bedroom,
climbed the chair,
and pulled the box down.
It was still there,
silent and indifferent.
Who was Thomas?
And why was he waiting?
She called Evelyn,
her fingers fumbling with the phone,
her breath shallow.
Evelyn answered on the third ring,
her voice as sharp as a razor.
"Yes?"
"A man came to the house,"
Nora said,
trying to stay calm.
"He said his name was Thomas."
There was a long silence on the other end,
a silence so heavy Nora could hear the static on the line.
"Ignore him,"
Evelyn said finally.
"He is a ghost of a life I no longer lead."
"He knew about the box,"
Nora pressed.
"Everyone knows about the box,
Nora,"
Evelyn replied,
her tone softening slightly,
but remaining firm.
"But only you have it."
"Keep it safe."
"Keep it closed."
The line went dead.
Nora sat on the edge of the bed,
clutching the box to her chest.
She felt like she was being watched,
not by a person,
but by the history of the box itself.
The house felt larger now,
filled with corners she didn't want to explore.
She realized then that the box wasn't just a gift,
it was a target.
She hid it again,
this time beneath the floorboards of the closet,
under a loose plank she had discovered.
She covered it with a rug,
and then her shoes,
creating layers of protection.
But the words of the old man haunted her.
"The breath of the family."
What kind of breath is kept in a box of dark wood?
Is it a scream?
Is it a sigh?
Is it the last gasp of a dying man?
She didn't sleep that night,
May you like
watching the door,
waiting for the fog to seep through the cracks.
