The box was handed off at the station. Each time it became slightly heavier. It was never meant to be opened, but that day he did.
There was a single can of beans left in the cupboard. On the counter was a pile of broken iPhones.
Dump trucks arrived the next morning to take the town away. A new one would be shipped in from Svnkea, the company famous for flat packing and self-assembly. The old man held the wrench so tightly it became slick with sweat.
At dawn the monks struck bells that shattered poorly constructed shells of self-identity, replacing them with cardboard boxes and Amazon Prime packing tape.
Those red blinking lights didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.
From the top of the world The Hand returned, but this time with delicious worms.
The outside of the box said “DANGER” but the inside of the box said nothing, nothing at all.
The large box was packed full of little packets of liquid happiness.
On the bottom of the box were instructions that sounded like they were written by a devious, cruel child.
In 1923 a small box was placed behind the loose bricks in the basement, since then the questionable contents had taken root under the entire town.
When they moved the box there was a rattling, bony sound accented with dust and spider carcasses.
Opening the box released several hyper intelligent entities that only wanted to dance.
The monster’s lair was decorated nicely, not loudly, not too minimally either. “Love this lamp,” she said.
It was the size of a small cat, lacked any fur, and badly wanted out of the damn box.
When the living room was redone they found the strangest box behind one of the walls.