I know I shouldn’t go up there. Even if he isn’t behind all of this, his excitement over it is enough of a warning. Then why do I keep finding myself beneath that panel in the ceiling? I’m staring hard at it, as if it might drop its defenses for a moment, giving me a glimpse at the cursed box. You’d think that my potential annihilation would be enough of a deterrent. And still, I’m only able to pull myself away for a moment before I find myself standing there again.

Maybe part of me is curious about that prospect. Annihilation. Isn’t that the great curiosity? Standing on the precipice, unable to see what waits on the other side. Even if I back away from it, it will still be there. Waiting for me.

The house is empty again. There were no comments about the attic from either of my parents, so I must have at least done a good job hiding my tracks. Am I too afraid to even go up there again? I think about Pandora. I wonder if she felt like this, moments before she opened her own box. Could the doom inside really be worse than this curiosity?

The fifth time I find myself in the same spot, my neck beginning to stiffen from looking up for so long, I finally feel my convictions crumble. Feeling both elation and defeat, I pull the panel open, stepping to the side as the steps descend.

When I open the box, I’m at least relieved that disease and sin don’t come flying out of it. In fact, the opposite happens. Everything is so dusty and normal I can’t help but laugh at myself. I have been spinning out of control over a box of keepsakes. It’s just an old paint set. A few doodles that I did so absentmindedly that they must have been lost to time. I almost close the box right there, and go back to my day, but that doesn’t feel like enough of a rebuke. Out of spite, I carry the whole box down to examine it in the light.

I set the box down on the desk in my room. This time, I open it with an audible laugh at my previous hesitation. These objects might have felt foreign to me, but they were perfectly normal. Even after I had pulled everything out, and laying each piece carefully on the floor did not summon his voice or strengthen his influence.

There were three paintings, four brushes, a foldable easel and the pallet with its grid of cracked colors. I lifted up the paintings, placing the one of the snow-covered cottage back on the floor. The next one was a landscape of a rocky shore. It was much more elaborate than the first one. Nothing was floating in the negative space of the page. Rocks or choppy water extended all the way to the edge. My finger traced over the white of waves breaking along the rocks.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

It wasn’t immediately noticeable when first looking at it, but upon closer inspection, I noticed a difference in one segment of that churning shoreline. While the rest of the painting wasn’t perfect, it was pretty good, if I do say so myself. But this one area caught my eye as being a cut above its surroundings. It was like for those few feet, the water’s wild unpredictability had been captured in the page.

I turned to the next painting, and knew upon first glance that whoever had painted this had also painted that one stretch of coastline. It was the side of this house, in the midst of the spring bloom. The attention to detail almost summoned a warm breeze on this cold November day. It looked like the lilies of the valley were swaying, the bleeding hearts actually bled.

Laying each painting on the ground, first the cottage, then the shore, and finally the blooming flower bed, it all came back to me. When I was much younger, I had painted. I did it a fair amount, although the cottage appeared to be the only piece that had survived from those days. I remember throwing them away, though I don’t quite remember why. If this painting was the best of my work, it wasn’t a tragedy that the other paintings had been lost.

There was a small black signature in the bottom right corner of the painting. Not that I needed it to identify the artist. It was Clara. I remember her discovering my box of water colors, and she had gotten angry with me. She painted too, and I had never mentioned the fact that I used to paint as well. That little bit of coast line was her demonstrating some technique. And the last painting had been a gift.

I’m wasn’t sure what to call the emotion I felt. Wanting to destroy what remained, and yet feeling an force emanating from them that demanded reverence. I sat there looking down at it all, feeling both emotions continue to rise. He wanted me to hold on to all of this, and fall further down his rabbit hole. But the desire to keep it didn’t feel like his influence. Both emotions were mine.

I need to be careful. That’s what I told myself as I carefully repacked the box. I repeated it again and again as I slowly slid the box under the bed. That wasn’t careful, but it was all that I could manage to do. I wondered to myself what Pandora did with her box after it was opened.