The Box

Boston, MA | January 2024

Zachary Owens sat in the driveway inside of his idling, government issued, green Ford Fusion sedan smoking a cigarette and listening to the Dave and Chuck the Freak morning show.

Satisfied with their daily discussion about the asshole of the day, a crude conversation about another billionaire calling himself an astronaut after making a quick fifteen minute trip into space, he killed the engine.

Removing the dangling keys from the ignition, he pulled down the sun visor and removed a laminated memorial prayer card clipped to the visor's flap. As he stared hard at the old face on the card, he reached down into a secret compartment beneath his seat and pulled out a silver flask with a faded Marine Corp sticker on the front.

He unscrewed the tin cap and took a long gulp. With a heavy-hearted sigh he twisted the cap back onto the flask, returned it to its hiding place then stared hard once again. Except this time he was staring at himself through the mirror.

Slamming the visor shut with anger, he plunged his right hand into his pants right pocket, removed a pack of evergreen chewing gum and popped two pieces inside of his dry mouth. Chewing vigorously, he gathered his cellphone from the magnetic dashboard dock, stuffed the prayer card into the breast pocket of his blue button-down dress shirt and exited the vehicle.

Zachary hastily entered his late father’s house through the front door.

The door was old, and heavy, and made a horrendous squeaking sound anytime it was opened or closed. He tossed his keys into the wicker basket which always sat on a flimsy wooden shelf he mounted himself many years ago on the poorly plastered wall beside the coat hangers. He continued on through the front hallway, passing by two rooms on each side.

One opened into a large living room area, filled with nauseating lampshades, unplugged lava lamps, and molded plastic furniture. The other room was a full bath. Adorned with tacky paintings of seascapes, and a repulsive avocado green bathtub sitting in the far corner.

At the end of the dreadful hallway, Zachary waltzed into the outdated kitchen. The entire house seemed to be forsaken to the 70's. Especially the kitchen.

The chipped wood cabinets, peeling floral wallpaper, the canary yellow tiled floor, and the goddamn gold and olive-green appliances gave Zachary the chills every time he stepped inside. He shook his shoulders, as if shaking off evasive insects, then stepped to the refrigerator.

Before opening the heavy door, he took a moment to admire the old, black and white Marine Corps photos of young men holding rifles which were being held up by a tacky, Support our Agents magnet.

To his surprise, the fridge was filled with fresh Budweiser beer bottles. Grabbing two, he quickly twisted off the caps. He chugged the first one in a matter of seconds, which he ignorantly tossed into a red recycling bin resting on the floor beside the trash can. He took his time with the second bottle, nursing it while absorbing this strange time warp.

Zachary grabbed one more bottle from the fridge, stuffed it into his back left pants pocket, then made a beeline for the main staircase.

Once up on the second floor, Zachary entered the spare bedroom at the end of the hall. An old, splintered, white, wooden door, submerged by a slew of cardboard and plastic boxes was the main focus of his attention.

After about five minutes of moving and restacking the boxes, Zachary could finally yank the door open. The wood had swelled over time so it carved an arching depression in the carpet when he opened it.

He flicked the switch on the inside wall, and light illuminated the cluttered closet. He craned his neck in all directions and laughed at how ridiculous his father was when it came to collecting clutter. To his right, his main objective presented itself once again. Another door.

Removing the archaic vacuum and burnt ironing board, he lifted the brass latch on the even older, mahogany door, and pushed it open. Stepping over the threshold, he lifted his muscular right arm to the ceiling, clasped his fingers around the dangling chain-link light switch, then pulled it down.

Dim light depressingly began to illuminate the creepy and narrow stairwell, as a series of old bulbs pinched to life. His eyes adjusted, then readjusted at the harrowing sight of the web infested, burgundy stair-liner.

"I can't believe this rug was ever popular," he mumbled to himself.

Zachary cautiously made his way up the narrow staircase, carefully molesting each carpeted step with his dirty work boots. At the top, was greeted by the mission's final door.

Missing the handle, he quickly chugs the rest of his Budweiser then comically wedges the empty bottle, neck first, into the hole where the knob used to be. With a heavy laugh, he uses his newly engineered handle to open the door.

Thick swarms of dust envelop him as he stepped into the large and mysterious attic. The room is dark, but unlike the staircase, has adequate lighting installed. He scanned the wall with his left hand, and found the switch. An improved series of LED lights ignited, booming the room to life.

Taking in the hoarders impressive stockpile, Zachary meticulously inventories the room.

Most of the stacked brown boxes had the letters, MISC, written across their faces. So he quickly began organizing everything that was irrelevant to his search. Because he was looking for valuables. The prized possessions. The secret stashes of old cash, and caches of expensive jewelry. His father always used to joke with him when he was a little boy about how the attic was off limits because it hid his grand fortune. And to never go looking for it or else horrible things will happen.

Zachary was no longer a little boy. He was an FBI field agent, and his father was dead. So here he was. He had come to claim his inheritance.

As he searched and searched, he continued finding nothing but junk. But then, beneath a mountain of old papers, Christmas decorations, winter hats and gloves, was a weathered brown box with the words, OPERATION FORTUNE, scribbled across its face in a barely recognizable script. The first word, OPERATION, was far more faded than the second, which is why Zachary was overly attracted to it.

Finally freeing the box from its captivity, he unfolded the cardboard flaps, and began sifting through its contents. His elevated heart rate died from the disappointment. The box does not hold the life changing fortune he was hoping for. The box was instead filled with decayed journals, folded and unfolded handwritten letters scribbled in impossible cursive, and rubber banded stacks of old waterlogged photographs of young men in military outfits posing with large rifles with a familiar, yet foreign landscape in the background.

"Vietnam? -- He was a soldier? Wow. He looked just like me."

He took a moment to remove the rubber bands from each of the three bundles, and slowly sifted through each photograph.

"So I ended up following in your footsteps after all."

Finished with the pictures, Zachary continued to meticulously search through the rather large brown box. Beneath the plunder of journals and letters, he found a small, rectangular glass case with a Navy Cross resting inside of it. Beneath the medal was a ragged, old, folded American flag. Realizing what he was looking at, he delicately removed the medal with both hands. Standing up, he lifted the case high to one of the blazing lights, and carefully inspected the engraved sailing ship on the rough waves.

"He was a war hero. A goddamn war hero."

Zachary's gnarled mind started to wander into the past while consciously using his right hand to vigorously rub his hip. Placing the medal back down into the box, he loosened his brown leather belt, untucked his navy blue dress shirt from his beige khakis, then lifted his shirt to reveal a large rib tattoo of the words, We The People, which was attempting to cover up a large section of scar tissue.

"So much for my Purple Heart."

Twirling down his mind’s own rabbit hole, he noticed a medium sized black folding table and chair were nestled behind a musty pile of brown boxes. He engaged the four legs on the underside of the table, then placed the flag and prestigious medal down onto it. He removed the final bottle of Budweiser which had been keeping his ass cheek cool from his back pocket, twisted off the cap, took a generous sip, then placed it down onto the table beside the flag. Preparing to stay for exactly one hour, he proceeded to remove his cellphone, holstered Glock 9 millimeter pistol, a set of steel handcuffs, and a golden badge with the letters FBI engraved on its face, and set them all down onto the now cluttered folding table.

Rolling up both sleeves he continued his treasure hunt by inventorying the entire time warped attic. After rummaging through ten plastic bins of clothes, boots, shoes and socks. Five heavy chests of books. Seven black bags of old toys. And two more boxes of his father’s old military gear. Zachary finally accepts the fact that there is no lost treasure among the remaining clutter.

The stories his father used to tell him were never true. He was just an injured, and lonely old man with a gullible son.

That's at least what Zachary told himself to reconcile this raid.

Walking back over to the overflowing table to do one last walk through of his findings, his left foot suddenly crashed through the floor.

Letting out an aggressive shout, which sounded more annoyed than actually painful, Zachary cursed himself for falling victim to the one house he hated more than any other house on Earth. He tried to wiggle his foot free, but he was stuck pretty good. But being six feet and three inches tall had its moments. He stretched out his frame, and was just able to reach one of the legs of the folding table. Gripping it firmly, he carefully pulled it closer until he was able to reach the large screwdriver he found in an old tool box inside one of the bins filled with work boots. Bending down, and mustering every fiber of engineering in his body, he wedged the screwdriver beneath the snapped floorboard behind his left heel and popped it up.

He knelt down to inspect his foot and ankle for any injuries. Relief washed over him as his inspection came up all clear. No breaks, no sprain, no punctured nails or screws, and no blood. No injury. He was about to stand up when something hiding deep beneath the broken floorboard glinted against the LED’s, catching his eye. He slowly lowered himself down on his hands and knees, placed his face as close as he could, and studied the shrouded silhouette shape of the hidden object.

Springing to his feet, Zachary hustled back to the table, grabbed his cellphone, engaged the flashlight feature and aimed the light down into the open crawl space. Two feet in front of his eyes, a wrapped rectangular object stared back at him from the forgotten shadows. Well protected by thick spider webs and modest mounds of rodent droppings, the object was just as undesirable as it was desirable.

Flashing back to his three tours in Afghanistan, he mustered what he needed to, then plunged his hand into the abyss – snatching the mystery object from its resting place. Lifting it free from the floor, he pinched his lips, filled his lungs, then blew off the contaminants. Dust clouds, and silvery webs go flying through the attic air. A few of the webs floated their way up to the room’s main light, which was not LED, just an exposed bulb, and singed against the omitting heat. A couple cowardly strands of hair on the nape of his neck started to stand. He didn't scare easily, especially considering what he’s been through as a soldier and FBI agent. But he was beginning to get creeped out.

Taking the cloaked container back to the table, he shoved his cellphone into his pants pocket, then cleared out a wide spot and placed the package down. He set up the folding table in the most concentrated area of light, then like a doctor in his lab, pulled up the chair, sat down, and began to unwrap the cloth.

It felt like silk. His large fingers delicately worked the folds over and under until its mysteries were revealed. Wrapped inside of the black silk cloth was yet another brown paper box. Except this one was different from the ones he had already purged. This one was smaller. Only about four inches deep, and about a foot wide in each direction. His mind instantly went into pirate mode. Considering its hiding location, and the shape of the box, he was convinced he'd found the loot.

"Jackpot."

The box was old but in relatively good shape. It had no markings other than a small hand scribbled symbol in the center. The edges had slight water damage but the box had no holes or breaches so whatever was inside did not appear to be damaged by time. The box's single flap was reinforced by three pieces of scotch tape, so he reached for the screwdriver and used the sharp edge to slice through it. Sitting in absolute silence, his nerves began to dance, making his hands tremble. Seeking relief, he reached for his beer, which was surprisingly still decently cold, and chugs the rest. Letting out a Marine sized burp, he shook away the nerves, took a deep breath, popped open the fold’s tongue, then lifted the top of the box open.

Peering into the box, he's frozen in place. His cell phone started buzzing against his thigh from an incoming text, but he ignored it. His confused gaze continues to remain unbroken as his phone immediately begins to ring. Ignoring the call as well, he reached his fingers into the box, and removed a single digital photograph. Consumed with confusion, and shock, his iPhone begins to frantically buzz a second, third, forth, and fifth time from a wave of text messages all sent by the same person.

AGENT SINCLAIR

"Zachary, answer your phone!"

"We have new information on the serial killer."

"Call me back ASAP!"

"Zachary!"

Still in awe, Zachary has no idea of Agent Sinclair's frantic stream of text messages.

The photograph in his trembling hands has two familiar faces on it. One is the same face from the laminated prayer card he has stuffed in his chest pocket, the other face was his own. This was the last picture he had ever taken with his father before he left to fight the war in Vietnam. He hadn’t seen this picture in years. His mother always told him that she lost it. Zachary accepted her reasoning because in reality, he loathed his father for leaving. So finding this photograph here, now, truly destroyed him.

His cellphone continued to buzz, and he continued to ignore it. Placing the eerie photograph aside, he searched through the rest of the box. To his disbelief, Zachary found a stash of macabre photographs depicting numerous mutilated bodies. Two of the photographs showcased two men hanging upside down from heavy meat hooks with their intestines spilling out of their stomachs, concealing their faces from the camera. The other two photographs each displayed two other men tied to separate steel bed frames, bleeding out from missing limbs. But the most shocking photograph of all was the one of a man who was still alive. The fear in his eyes for what he knew was about to happen to him was a thousand times worse than looking at the already dead corpses.

His phone buzzed again from the same person.

AGENT SINCLAIR

"Zachary, we know who is responsible for murdering the four retired Army rangers. We were able to connect the DNA found at the crime scene to DNA found last month in Quincy where a retired Marine vet was murdered outside of an AC Hardware store."

"Zachary, answer me, please!"

As Zachary rifled through the grisly photographs, an old, mud coated Jeep Cherokee pulled into the driveway, and parked behind his green Ford Fusion, blocking him in.

Zachary hated his father for many different reasons, but mainly because he left behind a cancer-stricken wife and a young son to fight a foreign war.

He could never forgive his old man for missing her funeral. After losing his mother, Zachary vowed to create a new life for himself. One completely free from his father. That path led him to a career in the Marines and eventually a thrilling life as an FBI agent.

His phone buzzed again.

AGENT SINCLAIR

"It's your father, Zachary. The DNA analysis took a few weeks to complete but the lab has confirmed a 93% match. We finally got the hit when we ran the samples through the military's DNA databases. Your father's Army enlistment file popped up as a damn good viable match."

"His death. The wake, and funeral you attended this morning were all fake. Do you understand what I am telling you, Zachary? Your father is the serial killer we have been looking for."

"Zachary, your father is ALIVE!"

Lost in waves of disgust, he starts to analyze the meaning of the photographs, and tries to make connections. Not wanting to assume the worst, and the most probable, he shuffled the photographs back into the box. Pissed off with himself for not wearing gloves, he needed to now make sure he properly dusted any lingering evidence of his fingerprints before collecting the photos as evidence. Taking an old Metallica tee shirt from one of the bings, he diligently wiped down every picture from the box, as well as the box itself, and silk cloth. He had gloves in his car, so before he could safely haul out any evidence from the attic, he needed to get them.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. Except this time it wasn't Agent Sinclair, this time it was the timer he set for one hour.

Placing everything back down onto the table, he shoved his hand into his pocket and retrieved his cellphone.

While his brain contorted trying to make sense of the impossible stream of text messages from his partner, a distant floorboard creaked from shifting weight. The sound is debilitating, yet Zachary manages to shift his eyes in the direction of the noise. Standing at the entrance to the attic, half in shadow, and half in light, is a large scruffy figure with the same exact face as the man in the prayer card stuffed in his chest pocket.

"Hello son."