The Package on the Table

Dinner with my young protégé had gone about as well as I had expected it to go. The fool girl is meddling in forces that she does not fully comprehend. In any event, things are proceeding as has been prophesied. I watched her sporty coup drive away, she rounded a corner and was gone.

My home was only three blocks away. I'd taken a stroll here and I was glad that it was a very clement evening, the sun was just below the horizon and there were beautiful bands of pink across the sky. There was only the slightest breeze, I could smell the sea in the air though it was nearly fifteen miles to the coast.

Wellesley was truly the most beautiful suburb of Boston. The peach trees that lined the sidewalks were in full bloom, filling the evening air with their beautiful aroma and dropping their vibrant pink petals onto the path. It was almost magical in its beauty. Babson, where I had spent my entire career, teaching engineering to young, creative minds, was just a few blocks away. Occasionally, I’d go eat my lunch there or feed the birds. I was enjoying my well earned retirement.

Frankly, my services would have been much better spent at Miskatonic, our rival school; but, Professor Pabodie had held the position until his disappearance in the 30’s and it never felt right to take his place.

Engineering was always a passion, but the occult was my true calling. I’d spent my life’s work behind the scenes creating a magnum opus on summoning, reincarnation, necromancy, and demonology. My pen name was affixed as a reference or co-author to over twenty treatises of various related fields and subject matters.

My house was in the middle of a well manicured cul de sac, my walk was lined with Eden roses, hollyhock, and campion. My late wife had an obsession with flowers that had bordered on the fanatical, we still had a greenhouse in the back that I kept up and it had become a facet of my daily routine to water and prune the flowers out there that reminded me of her. I was the last of my line, childless, alone. We had always planned to have children, but the time was just never right; eventually we ran out of time altogether. Now all I had to remember her was those flowers.

I unlocked the front door and let myself in. As an older man who had just eaten a large meal and then taken a walk, there were matters that needed to be taken care of in the lavatory that are best not documented. When I was complete with my business, I washed my hands and splashed a little bit of water on my face. Wiping my face with a towel I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

It had been a good long time since I really looked at myself and I was not prepared for the old man who was looking back at me. I’d never imagined that I would live to be as old as I am now. The creases and lines in my pink face told a story about all the laughter and sorrow that I’d earned in equal measure, my white hair told a story of all the friends that I had lost. The tattoo that started on my chest and moved up my neck was of a bull. I had gotten it for my own reasons on my thirty-first birthday. It was sagging and wrinkled, the once vibrant lines had faded with time and the once jet black ink had faded to a navy blue.

I retired to the den to find a good book to spend my evening enjoying and I noticed that there was a strange package on the table in the den. The mail was beside it, most probably brought in by the maid before she had departed for the evening. It was a large box, about a foot-cubed.

The package was wrapped in brown paper and was encircled with brown twine. There was no return address, the postmark was from Innsmouth. I only knew one man in Innsmouth and there was nothing but bad blood between us, and he was dead. The package had postage in the form of eight stamps, each with a different bull on it.

A shiver passed over me. What would he have sent me? I never would have thought that he would have left anything to me in his will. This was very strange. I drew out a pearl handled letter opener and cut the twine. I carefully unwrapped the package and found a simple wooden box. I completely unwrapped it and left it nude upon the table. I pushed the mail to the floor and threw the paper aside.

I watched the box for a good long while, it was just a box. I poured myself a highball from a bottle of a 12 year scotch on the nearby desk. I sipped it and sat across the room, just watching the box. I would not have been that shocked if it suddenly sprouted legs and ran at me. The box just sat there staring right back at me.

I finished downing the drink and wound up my courage. I approached the box, pried open the lid with my bare hands. I looked inside, not knowing what to expect. Inside, was a bust of a rusted iron bull. I looked at it with apprehension but was compelled to take it out and review it in the light. It was heavy, solidly cast.

I held it to the light and read the inscription on the plaque under my breath, something in Latin, EST REX UNUS TANTUM EST IN INFERNO.

The idol shifted in my hands. The eyes began to glow a terrible red. The mouth yawned open. I suddenly felt so cold, like a strong cold wind was blowing through the room.

I was so cold.

This piece was written for the "Brown Paper Box" challenge. In my current style, this was written in a single sitting. This is the third part in an eight part series. You can read the first part "The Barn" and the second part "Dinner and Diary" here on Vocal. Look forward to part four, "The Field Where They Found Him" in a few days.