The antique shop smelled of damp wood and moth-eaten fabric, a scent Joseph found oddly intoxicating. His hand lingered on a tarnished music box. The shopkeeper, a pale old man with eyes like cloudy marbles, didn’t stop Joseph from turning the rusty crank, but his throat rasped out an odd wheezing cough as if it pained him to watch. The box played a dissonant melody, notes struggling to stay in tune, and beneath it, faintly, came the sound of children’s laughter.
Joseph hesitated, but no one else seemed to hear it. Greed swirled in his chest. The old man had priced the box absurdly low; it’d fetch triple online. Driven by visions of easy cash, he ignored the laughter and took it.
At home, Joseph polished it, imagining potential buyers, oblivious to the way the laughter was louder now, giggles tickling the edge of his awareness. Each crank of the handle made the children’s voices sharper, closer.
Relief came when he shut the lid after one last turn; silence descended like a blessing. Then, impossibly, the lid unlatched itself. Tiny hands, cracked and gray, clawed their way out, accompanied by sticky, sweet-smelling decay.
The laughter erupted, high-pitched and deafening, as darkness spilled over him.
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