When they got to the bottom of the stairs the fetid air of the basement overwhelmed them.
Under the table they found a new tiny world, they would be worshipped as gods.
When he was called to the castle he brought only the box.
He picked up the drink. It was foamy and acrid. The designs on the top were of mathematical formula he didn’t understand.
They saw it emerge through the ferns. It was tall, covered with silky white hair, and it carried a tiny version of itself.
“That box wasn’t here before,” he said. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure?” she asked.
He replaced his face with something else, something better, something that wasn’t made of meat.
It sounded enough like a crying baby to raise the hairs on the back of her neck.
Tripping over the protrusion, he lingered for a moment trying to understand the shape and color.
For several days they waited at the bottom of the well. It was almost time.
A lone gas station in the desert, a hundred miles from anything. That was the only place they sold it.
They were short, maybe three feet tall. They carried the traps with them over the hill.
The patterns on the rug made her dizzy. They were complex, they meant something.
The sounds were disconcerting. Like a shell cracking. They took turns.
They couldn’t see into the box, there was something wrong, something wrong with the geometry.