The Boys with the Boxes

Moving into the old cabin my grandfather owned was the worst choice I ever made. With his presence permanently in a hospital, he’d asked for me to maintain the residence. Swayed by the picturesque scenery and tranquil forest right outside, I quickly made arrangements and humored the 70-something-year-old man. Maybe if I’d just waited a few more months, I could’ve avoided the entire thing. What my grandfather hadn’t updated me on was the fact that, in the time that passed since I’d stayed over as a child, the closest town had developed a strange superstition. Sightings of ghosts, particularly seven young boys who’d gone missing within a single week during late July fifty years ago, were now commonplace. Their bodies had never been found despite countless search parties that scoured the nearby woods. Of course, they eventually had to be pronounced legally dead, but I thought those claims were quite disrespectful to the families.

Staying up late was routine for me, as I could squeeze in a few chapters of the book I was writing before another shift. Just a catalogue of flora and fauna in the area — nothing groundbreaking but it was certainly interesting to me, even if it was also tedious in its own right. The clicking of my keyboard began slowly lulling me to sleep, and before my head could fall onto my hands, I decided to call it a night. After all, the clock read a quarter to four. I paused, leaning back in the chair and reaching behind myself to stretch out my stiff upper back muscles. My eyes languidly drifted to the window, picking up a muffled sob. I froze. The silhouette of what looked to be a toddler was standing stock-still at the edge of the forest. His skin tinted a ghostly blue, it wasn’t difficult to determine that this poor boy was exceptionally cold. Confused, I subconsciously glanced at the calendar above my head.

How could he possibly be cold? Against my better judgement, I looked back outside.

His frozen fingers twitched around the brown package in his hands, despairing eyes glued to the box. I slowly began standing up and, once I was fully on my feet, flinched at the boy’s head snapping up towards me. Our eyes met. I could hardly breathe. An icy cold washed over me, flawlessly planting me to the spot. Once I was able to rip my eyes away, desperate for a distraction, I registered the feeling of my phone in my pocket. Hurriedly I pulled it out and fumbled my way through dialing 9-1-1. At the operator’s request, I gave my address and described the situation. My hands gripped the windowsill as I whipped around for more information. He was gone. Temporarily mute as the operator questioned me worriedly, I merely sighed. It was dark, late, and I was tired. It was my first night at this house in years. And I was alone. Apologizing, I explained that the boy was gone and wished the person on the other end of the line a good night. Pushing my sweat-doused hair back, I shakily took a quick swig of water before hobbling to bed. I was actually able to sleep well that night, but found it strange that all of my dreams included snow, ice, and small cold fingers wrapping around my wrist. But I mentioned it to no one. Just my nerves, after all.

Lighting a cigarette after a long day is the perfect way to wind down for the night, in my opinion. Taking a drag, I watched as smoke billowed upward, disappearing into the late evening sky. A light breeze kissed my cheeks and I welcomed it while at the same time ignoring the intrusive thoughts of freezing, cold, so cold that danced through my mind. My nose twitched at a scent that the wind had carried along. It was so familiar, the scent of a grill. Meat was burning. But this late? And the more I paid attention to the aroma, the less comforting it was. I remember people mentioning a coppery element when discussing the smell of burning flesh. A sharp yell jolted me away from my thoughts, landing again at the edge of the woods. The boy was closer to the porch that I was sitting on this time. Increasingly uneasy, I examined him. Contrary to my first thought, this wasn’t the same child that had visited me the night before. No, his skin was red and angry, littered with blisters and patches of burns. This one pinned me to the spot with that intensely livid gaze, eyebrows furrowed together tightly to complement the deep frown set on his lips. Fingernails dug into the brown package that he was holding, threatening to crush it like an accordion. Somehow, my weak legs were able to rush me inside, and my fingers held out long enough to lock every opening in the house. That night was a bit harder to manage, especially when being pushed into fiery pits or withstanding searing handprints littered across my body. But I mentioned it to no one. Just my nerves.

Firmly deciding to put my nighttime cigarette routine to rest — at least while I stayed here — I took to massaging my feet. The heavy labor job I had taken here, cutting down timber, was sure to strain my body. Especially after having stepped wrong on duty, pulling a muscle in my foot. Sighing deeply in relief as my thumbs worked tirelessly over the knot, I found myself drowning in satisfaction as I watched the inflammation and swelling subside. Finished with that, I started toiling away at one of my shoulders where plenty of years of built-up stress had made its home. In morbid fascination, my eyes were allowed to wander towards the trees outside, confusing the sound of sizzling with perhaps an insect I hadn’t come into contact with before. The sight made my stomach lurch with nausea. Even closer, this time. His vacant owl eyes were only obstructed by bulbous pockets of pale damaged skin. His hands seemed to be struggling to grasp the brown package, which itself was littered with smoking black holes. There was no way this boy was still alive. Just looking at his eyes could have told me that. The first two weren’t nearly as ravaged as this. He was the first to make my mind suggest the paranormal. But being raised by a family of scientists made me scoff at my own brain, easily dismissing the notion. He hadn’t even moved, so I wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t some Halloween prop. I was the new guy in town, prime target for pranks. Closing the blinds to block out the sight, I leaned back on the couch, folded my hands over my stomach, and drifted off. But I made sure to never sleep in the living room again, if to simply evade the acid pouring over me or the fingertips that took to disintegrating my skin. But I mentioned it to no one. Probably just my nerves.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when I had to bust out the First Aid Kit on the job. Working in nature meant that stings and bites were bound to happen, especially considering we worked with trees — famously known as homes to plenty of bugs and creepy crawlies. The only unnerving part about it was that all of my coworkers were victims, but I was left completely untouched. In a single day, everyone aside from me took venom into their systems. While grateful, I was understandably a little perplexed. I had been the one to stumble across the hornet nest, but they’d flown right past, bee-lining towards the pair working behind me. The only reason I looked out the window was the screaming. The voices of two young boys ripping up their own vocal cords had me clutching at the nearest object that could be considered a weapon. Clutching the baseball bat tightly above my shoulder, I crept up to the window and peered out through the blinds. Choking back a gasp and jolting backwards, I tried to catch the bat before it clattered to the tiled kitchen floor. Those two shaking boys — brothers? — were sitting on the short dirt road leading up to the cabin, covered in pinkish bumps, only obtaining more from the animals that climbed around and across them. One was subjected to hornets, wasps, and scorpions, their stingers lodging into his skin over and over. His screams were painful, soaked in agony as he was stung ten more times before he was able to register the previous five. The second had been swarmed with spiders, snakes, and even some lizards. My hazy mind was able to identify a Gila monster in the mix. His own frantic cries were of terror, teary eyes darting around helplessly. All I could do was watch as their struggles began to die out, small bodies convulsing before laying motionless in front of two brown packages. Miraculously, those boxes were completely devoid of animals. You can imagine that my dreams, on the other hand, weren’t. But I mentioned it to no one. Might just be my nerves.

This one was silent. Not a single sound. The windows had long since been permanently shuttered, just so I didn’t feel the urge to look outside once again. The oh-so-wired nerves I’d seemingly manifested were impeding on my ability to sleep. Therefore, it was also affecting my ability to function. After nearly injuring a teammate, I was sent home early. I’m sure the dark circles under my eyes were noticeable. Holding the teacup to my lips, I calmly took a sip of the sweet, warm liquid inside. Usually I’d take coffee, but calming down was my main priority. I hardly noticed the pain caused by the hot tea as it spilled onto my lap. I had thought the second boy’s eyes were the worst, and I was sorely mistaken. Orbs filled to the brim with pure hatred melted a hole straight into my soul. Standing just before my porch, the boy was glaring into me, most of his face hidden by a brown package. His eyes were coated over in white, and I assumed he was blind. Any hope of it being a naturally-occurring condition dissipated with the inflammation surrounding the eyes. I’d never felt such malicious intent before, not even from the previous visitors I’d gotten while residing in the old cabin. Slowly, his head turned to my left, focused on something on the table. Hesitantly following the nonexistent gaze, I saw a previous book I had written when studying botany in Central America, open on a specific entry. Have you heard of the Manchineel tree? I used sleeping medication that night. I had no dreams or nightmares. Unless you count the experience of being blinded by poison. But I mentioned it to no one. I don’t think it’s just my nerves.

This one spoke. I’d taken the day off work. My boss didn’t fight it. Not with my condition the previous day. The boy stood on the porch, tapping innocently at the sliding glass door. Skin peeled, his body was more muscle than anything. His head lolled to the side, almost curiously, while his joyful grin widened. Clutching the knife to my chest, I didn’t let myself sleep a wink that night. Even if the brown package on the floor in front of me would have made a fantastic pillow. From here, I could see his translucence.

“Adam,” it spoke my name. The third.

But I mentioned it to no one. It isn’t just my nerves.

The next morning, I got a call from the nurse supervising my grandfather; “Adam’s in critical condition. It won’t be long. And he apparently has a secret he wants to share with you.”

“Something you need to see,” he rasped through the phone. “There are brown packages in the attic. I know they've been searching."