The Man in the Box
(Formerly called The Box)
Book one of The Box series
Copyright© 2012 by Christina G Gaudet
Written by Christina G Gaudet
Edited by Patti Larsen (www.PattiLarsen.com)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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www.ChristinaGGaudet.com
Acknowledgements
A special thank you must go to my wonderful writers group. Richard, Adelee, Jennifer, Billy, and Lori, you helped make this book what it is. Also to Patti, Deirdre, Bunty, and Mom for all of your editing suggestions.
I also want to thank my beautiful cover model, Brianna, and the whole Panache Models team, as well as Mary for her amazing photography skills.
Thank you to all of my friends and family for your continued support as I struggle with the idea of officially being an “author.”
Lou
Chapter One
I check one last time to make sure Mom is still working on supper downstairs before closing the door to my bedroom and crouching next to the cardboard box in the middle of the floor. The thing looks completely at odds with the super clean white carpet, light pink walls, and matching white dresser, bed and night stand. Other than a couple of paintings, the dance trophies displayed around the room, and the few Taekwondo medals I’ve managed to put up without Mom noticing, every other object is tucked neatly away in dark pink containers, making the cardboard seem much grimier and much more interesting than it might otherwise.
I stare at the folded flaps covering the top for a long time without doing anything.
I should put it back and leave it alone. It’s what Mom would prefer. When she set the box in my closet a week ago, she made a point of telling me she wanted to be the one to go through the contents, but she needed time. I doubt it will stay in my room much longer. As upset as Mom is about Gran’s death, she’s already starting to come to terms with it, which means the box of stuff Gran had at the hospital will be organized and most likely tossed out soon.
Although I know from the weight of the thing there isn’t much inside, I can’t help being curious about what Gran chose to keep with her up until the end.
I pull the flaps apart and peer within. The space is almost entirely empty except for a few folded articles of clothing. Set carefully on top is Gran’s watch and a small wooden box I’d never seen before. Just to make sure there’s nothing else, I take everything out and carefully spread it over the floor. A pair of cotton pants, two blouses, underwear, a comb, and then the watch and the box.
As I put everything away exactly as I’d found it, I can’t help feeling disappointed, though I’m not sure why. What did I expect? Her collection of toenails? And if she kept it with her, would I want to find it?
I smile and shake my head. I should be relieved there’s nothing else in here. I’m sure her house is going to have enough odd objects to sort through to make up for the lack here.
I’m about to set the box back on top of the clothes when I stop. Why a box? At the size of my fist it can’t hold too much. Maybe some jewelry, but that doesn’t seem likely since this is Gran we’re talking about.
After glancing back at the door and considering my options, I make a decision. Instead of putting the wooden box away with the other items, I set it on my bed and then return the rest to the back of my closet. After quickly examining everything to make sure the room looked exactly the same as before, I flop down on my bed and reach for the box.
I twist it around in my hand, lifting it above me as I lie back on my pile of pillows. It’s actually kind of pretty. How have I never seen it before? I visited Gran every weekend with Mom after she got sick. My sister Cindy, on the other hand, went once and then refused to go back. She said it made her uncomfortable or something equally selfish.
My hand tightens in anger at the memory and my thumb jerks across the front of the box. Seriously, who does Cindy think she is? Couldn’t she take one day out of her busy schedule of getting drunk and making out with boys to visit our dying grandmother?
And in the end, Gran still decided it would be a great idea to give her car to Cindy. She doesn’t know anything about responsibility, and completely ignored Gran and yet she’s the one who gets rewarded.
Without meaning to, I flick the latch and the lid flies open. I scramble to keep it from dropping out of my hands. Something about the size of my thumb falls out onto my stomach and gets lost in the folds of my salmon-colored top.
Damn it. What would Gran leave in there that would be so small? It wasn’t shiny like a ring. In fact, it kind of looked like a...
Movement. I saw movement. Don’t tell me a spider was living in that bloody box. I hate spiders. Especially the kind that climb into your ear and lay eggs on your brain. I’ve heard stories.
Every muscle in my body is tense and ready to spring, but I hold myself in place. No need to freak out. It’s only a spider, after all. More afraid of you and all that. And if I start flopping around like an idiot, it might get mad and bite.
Slowly, I reach down to the hem of my shirt. Even more slowly, so as not to frighten the thing into doing something rash like bite me or run for the excellent hiding spot of my ear, I pull the material down, flattening out the folds.
My heart flutters as I finally catch sight of the thing. I’m about to flick it off me and throw myself in the opposite direction when I notice the bug is staring straight at me with a look more horrified than my own. Not only that, it seems to have only two legs and two arms, not the eight I’ve been expecting.
When my ears start to ring I realize I’ve been staring at the thing on my stomach for a very long time without breathing. I gasp and it takes in a similar breath.
A human. An impossibly tiny human crouches on my stomach.
No, it must be some sort of figurine. It was a trick of the light, my imagination that made it move. It’s well made, very lifelike, but it’s just a figurine.
It straightens a little and runs a shaky hand through its shaggy blond hair. It scans the room, taking in as much detail as it can before quickly returning its attention back to me.
Finally it speaks, and despite the fact its voice is a little shaky with nerves, I can tell the thing is male. He’s much louder and has a deeper tone than I would have thought possible from something so small. Though, to be fair, I’d never imagined something as tiny as him being able to speak in the first place. Even so, he sounds like a full-sized man.
“Hello.” He bows his head a little, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Hi?”
This cannot be happening. He did not just bow at me and say ‘hello’ as though landing on a giant person’s shirt is an everyday occurrence for him. I want to say something else to let him know that none of this is right, but I can’t squeeze any more words from my tightened throat.
“Might I say, right away, before there’s any confusion, I’m sorry.” This ti
me his bow is deeper, and his eyes break from mine as though he realizes it’s rude for him to stare. “Very sorry. Words don’t express how sorry I am.”
His longer speech reveals an accent. It’s not strong, but his punctuation is crisp.
“Okay,” I squeak. “Why are you sorry?”
“For anything. Everything. Whatever I did to annoy you.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
It would help if I could breathe properly, maybe then I could form full sentences, but there’s no way I’ll be able to with him on my stomach.
Out of the corner of my eye, on my bedside table, I see my clipboard where I keep all of my notes for dance. It’s the same pink as my walls, the cover decorated with a pair of ballet slippers. Much like the rest of the room, Mom chose it. Without twitching my stomach muscles, I reach over, grab the clipboard, and place it a few inches away from him.
He gives it a nervous look, but makes no move to get on.
I want to say, “Please step onto the board so I can safely set you on the nightstand beside my bed before I flip out for a couple of minutes,” but only a strangled choking sound comes out. He must understand, though, because he quickly makes his way onto the board, and I gently set it and him onto the table. The second I let go, I fling myself off the bed, body shaking in violent shudders. My hand repeatedly brushes off the area of my shirt where he’d been standing as if there’s something sticky on the fabric.
No matter how much I tremble or wipe, I can’t get the uneasy feeling to go away. After I don’t know how long, I find myself on the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees.
He watches the whole outburst with wide eyes. When I’ve calmed down enough to stop shaking, he speaks again.
“Better?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He smiles for half a second, catches himself, and forces his face back into a concerned frown.
So there’s a tiny person on my nightstand, and he’s laughing at me. Great. I’m completely insane. I had no idea it could happen so fast. I thought insanity happened over time. I mean, I know I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, what with rehearsals and practices and school and Mom and Cindy, but I didn’t realize I was so close to cracking.
Miniature person.
Really never saw that coming.
“Have I told you I’m sorry yet?” he asks.
“Yeah. Um, why are you sorry again?” He opens his mouth to answer, but I interrupt. “I know, for anything and everything. But what exactly did you do?”
“I...uh.” He swallows and stares at me. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I did. But it must have been something bad for you to put this spell on me.”
“Me? I did this?” I let out a nervous laugh. “No. Wrong. You did this. I opened the box and you...” My eyes flick to the box lying half open on my bed. “The box!”
In one fluid motion, I’m off the floor and on my stomach on the bed. My hand wraps around the box and I lift it up in triumph and smile like a maniac at the miniature guy. He’s not as happy. In fact he looks more terrified than before. His hand reaches for something on his thick leather belt while he positions himself into what I know well to be a fighter’s stance—legs spread apart with his balance distributed evenly between them, his weight is on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction.
Without thinking, my muscles respond and I’m up, ready for the attack. Great, now I’m preparing to fight someone I could squish with one finger. Things can’t get any weirder.
“The box,” I say again. “You came out of it, right? You can go back in and everything can go back to normal.”
I flash him another wild-looking smile and then rest the box next to the clipboard so he can climb inside.
His stance relaxes a little when he realizes I don’t plan to attack, but otherwise, he doesn’t move.
“Let’s go.” I resist the urge to shove him forward, but only barely. “I’m so over this mental breakdown.”
“The thing is—“
“There’s a thing? Why does there have to be a thing? Why can’t you go into the box and I’ll go back to my life. Why can’t we do that?”
He holds himself away from the box, almost as though he’s more afraid of it than of me.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you.”
His hesitation is slowing everything down. Why won’t he get inside so this moment of insanity can end?
“Then what? Why won’t you get in?”
He examines me for a moment as though deciding how truthful to be.
“I don’t trust you.”
I open my mouth, but he stops me from arguing by adding, “I’m sorry. I really am. I simply don’t want to die of starvation while locked in a box.”
Starvation? Can hallucinations become malnourished? Possible or not, my conscience won’t let me take the risk.
”Fine. Get in and I’ll leave it shut for ten seconds before opening it back up. Like resetting a computer. Everything will go back to normal.”
“Rewhating a what?”
“You know. A computer. One of those big boxes with the internet and...you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
Sigh. You’d think my imagination could have created someone with a bit more knowledge of the world. Though, I have to give myself points for creativity. Plus, he’s adorable.
No. Wrong. I need to get rid of the guy, not admire him.
“Get in the box.”
“Honestly, I think I’d rather be squished. Less drawn-out death.”
I feel a little sorry for him. It can’t be easy being so tiny. Still, I’m definitely at an advantage for size and I need him to do what I say. Now.
“That can be arranged,” I say.
I raise my thumb menacingly, or that’s what I am going for at least.
“In the box?” He’s already moved to it’s side.
He rubs his face while eyeing the thing with apprehension. His expression is pleading when he returns his gaze my way. In an instant, the emotion is gone and his face reveals nothing of what he’s thinking. Still, the one moment of vulnerability makes it impossible for me to continue threatening him.
“Please?”
He looks puzzled, as though he wants to say something, but changes his mind at the last moment. After another bow, he climbs in and I close the lid as soon as I’m sure his tiny hands won’t get caught. What I should have done is set it aside and never thought about it again. Instead, I count to ten, slower than I’ve ever counted to ten before and open the lid.
The miniature guy stares up at me.
“Shit.”
“Bugger.”
* * *
Chapter Two
“He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not real.”
I glance back over at the table where the tiny man paces back and forth, his eyes always on me. No matter how I say it, I can’t make the words true.
I can’t stay here. Not with my adrenalin racing through me, telling me to move.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
His eyes widen in alarm and he stops in his tracks.
“Go? Go where? Why do you have to go?”
“I’ll be back,” I promise. “I’m going to get Mom. She’ll figure this out.”
“Great,” I hear him grumble as I leave the room. “She needs her mother’s help.”
I run down the stairs with no thought in my head other than the need to get away from my bedroom. Reality hits me when I get to the main floor and I’m forced to stop. What am I going to say? How can I possibly explain this to Mom without sounding crazy? Maybe I want to tell her and have her say I’m insane. Then this will all be over. It might take some therapy, but I can live with that.
“Hello, Lou.”
I jump and spin in the same motion, my arms automatically moving up to block an incoming punch. My eyes focus on a tall slim man who would almost be attractive if it weren’t for the dead look in his eyes and a more cruel than pleasant smile. I play off my crazy rea
ction to his greeting by moving my hands up and through my long black hair. He makes no sign of noticing my strange behavior.
“How are you doing? Still breaking hearts?”
The anxiety I thought would disappear once I found someone to help only increases as he stares. I have to force my hand to stop shaking. For whatever reason, I feel like I can’t let him see how worked up I am.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Mr. Anderson, or Stewart as he prefers to be called, is Mom’s ‘special friend.’ He’s been coming over a lot lately, ever since Mom and I had a talk where I cheerfully told her I was fine with the whole thing. Never mind what I actually wanted to tell her was, “He’s creepy and we should move so he can’t find us.” But he makes Mom happy, which is what matters. It’s weird though, Mom never mentioned he was coming tonight. Usually she gives me a bit of warning.
“Ah, Lou, there you are.”
I don’t jump when Mom comes up behind me, but I’m only barely able to stop myself. She puts a hand on my shoulder which feels cool through my shirt.
She must notice the difference in temperature too because she asks, “Are you well? You’re not getting sick are you?”
“What? No. I was doing some stretches. Just worked up a bit of a sweat I guess. Hey, is supper done? I’m starving.”
“Supper is almost done, yes. Would you mind helping me?”
The expression she makes as we walk back to the kitchen tells me she’s as surprised as I am to find him here. Though, her reaction to his visit is much happier than mine. She keeps fluffing her short, curly hair and adjusting the wide belt around her small waist in nervous excitement.
I set the “good” dishes Mom hands me, and take my seat. My foot taps nervously on the dark tile floor until the others finally come in. Stewart sits down in his spot at the round table while Mom hurries to serve the food.
“Where’s Cindy today?” Stewart asks in a tone I can only assume he believes is friendly. “Off on some wild escapade, I suppose.”
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