The Black Box by Clayton James

Rob and Paula are sceptical of their town council's unsettlingly bizarre new waste management system, and distracted by their nightmare neighbours.

Image generated with OpenAI

Waste Management dropped off our new kitchen trash container at some point that morning, and when I first laid eyes on it, I thought someone had made a mistake. Instead of a sturdy plastic tub with an attached lid and handle, as pictured on Waste Management's website, I'd received a black wooden box that looked like something Saruman might have stored his palantir in. Since the envelope that accompanied it bore my name - Robert Conners - and my address, someone had sent me the ugly, medieval-looking box on purpose.

The box itself - measuring twelves inches on each side - was as heavy as it looked. After scooping the envelope off my porch, I grabbed the iron handle atop the lid and lugged it into my kitchen, where my calico, Wesley, eyed the box with wide-eyed contempt. When I placed the box on top of the granite counter, Wesley hissed like an angry cobra before abandoning his half-finished breakfast.

"What's wrong with Wesley?" Dressed for another day of client meetings at her law firm, my wife, Paula, made a beeline for the coffee pot.

"He hates our new trash container."

She filled her mug then grimaced at the box. "That's it?" she asked before carefully sipping scorching black coffee.

"That's it. Everything goes in one now. Trash, food scraps, recycling, everything."

Paula wasn't impressed. "It's kind of small." I shrugged. And then smile teased her lips. "Everyone's getting one of these?"

"Yup."

"G-Rex is going to hate it," she said with some satisfaction.

The "G-Rex" Paula referred to was our next-door neighbor's current live-in girlfriend, Gina. Mark and Gina's epic shouting matches had become a popular topic of neighborhood discussion. Mark had once been a fun neighbor, who organized holiday barbecues and had always lent a hand whenever a neighbor needed help. But cohabitating with Gina had quickly transformed him into a local pariah; an embittered drinker who just couldn't seem to work up the courage to evict Gina out of his life. Instead, Mark and Gina fought like enraged kaiju.

But what really stoked our anger was how Gina treated Wolf, Mark's friendly husky. Gina despised Wolf and often locked him in the backyard at night. Brokenhearted, the husky wailed at the back door until Mark retrieved him, which often ignited another war of words between him and Gina. Paula and I often fantasized about liberating the poor dog and adopting him ourselves, though the antisocial Wesley would likely need anger management therapy.

Inside the white envelope, I found a thin, glossy pamphlet.

"Look at that," Paula smirked. "It even comes with instructions."

On the first page, I found an indemnity statement written in dense legalese that few would bother to read; the ridiculously small font didn't encourage scrutiny. Skimming the page, I found the 'we're not responsible for anything' paragraph. Injury and death were included, which made me wonder just how wrongly one could use the weird trash box.

The next page reminded me of Ikea assembly instructions. Below the words, "Ready for Immediate Use!" I found five comic book panels. In the first, an illustrated sun smiled with approval as a disembodied hand held a piece of trash over an open box. The arrow beside the hand pointed into the box. In the next panel, a crescent moon grinned contentedly at the closed box as a hand grasped the key beside a pair of arrows chasing each other's tails in a clockwise direction. The third illustration showed the hand holding the key again, this time next to arrows circling in a counterclockwise direction under the supervision of a satisfied sun. And in the last illustration, the lid yawned open, displaying an empty box.

Set apart from the four harmonious illustrations was the fifth panel, crossed out with a large red X. In it, a horrified crater-faced moon held its screaming head in its hands as it stared with wide-eyed terror at an open box.

I dropped the pamphlet on the counter and grabbed the small iron key in the lock. After turning the key twice to the left, I lifted the lid, and was greeted with the scent of fresh lacquer. "This has got to be a joke."

"You're not laughing."

"According to the instructions," I said, pointing to the pamphlet, "we drop our trash in the box during the day, lock it up at night, and at some point before morning," and here I shrugged as if to apologize for the ridiculous words about to leave my mouth, "it vanishes?"

Paula slurped coffee. "Who'd go through all that effort to prank us?"

"Mark maybe?"

"Mark's not a practical jokes guy." Paula set her empty cup in the sink. "And G-Rex has a brain the size of a quinoa seed. No room for a sense of humor." I laughed. "I'm late," Paula said, then kissed me on the cheek on her way to the garage.

"Have a good day!" I called after her. "Love you!"

"Love you, too!"

Feeling like a fool, I closed the box and locked it. Then I stored the box in the cabinet under the sink.

And there it remained, forgotten.

Until later that night.

---

I awakened to a bedroom shrouded in nighttime shadow. Grateful it wasn't yet time to get up, I turned onto my right side and found Paula's sleeping silhouette. Had she turned over, jarring me out of sleep? Possibly. Or had Wesley sleep-kicked me while dreaming about the creepy black box?

I patted the sheets between Paula and me, seeking the calico, who usually slept curled up in the middle of the bed. But instead of warm fur, my fingers touched cool blanket.

I heard a faint scraping sound. My eyes shot open.

Was that Wesley? He hadn't roamed the house seeking midnight mischief since he was a kitten. Was he attempting some new form of kitty protest?

I rolled over on my back and listened.

And heard that scraping sound again, only louder. It sounded like the noise was coming from downstairs.

"What was that?" Paula whispered, half asleep.

"Wesley got into something," I replied, flinging off the covers.

"Tell him he's grounded," she groaned as I stomped out of the bedroom.

At the bottom of the stairs, I switched on the lights. Wesley wasn't in the foyer. Nor did I find him in the living room. There were no further sounds to help me track him down. Wesley was making me work to find him and pissing me off in the process. Maybe Wesley had heard me stomping down the stairs, realized he was clawing on thin ice, and had slunk back upstairs.

Switching on the kitchen light, I finally found Wesley: crouched on the tiled floor, growling at the cabinet door under the sink with a fluffy ridge of spiked fur down his spine.

"What are you doing?" I asked the cat, who ignored me.

And that's when I heard that eerie clawing sound again. From inside the sink cabinet.

Wesley growled and hissed, his long tail a bushy bottlebrush. He only got that hostile at vet appointments.

My heartbeat hammered in my ears. Was that scraping sound coming from the new trash box? If so, how? The box hadn't been touched since I placed it under the sink. There was nothing inside it but lacquer-scented air.

I took a knee in front of the sink. As I reached for the cabinet door, my helpful brain conjured a nightmare scenario: a giant rat with sharp brown teeth waiting in the dark, its hind legs tensed and ready to launch its fat little body at my face to tear out my eyes with needle-sharp claws. I stifled the instinctive urge to flee.

With a wild scrabble of claws, Wesley struggled for traction on the smooth, tiled floor. I spun around in time to watch my cat burn rubber out of the kitchen. I almost followed him. But what would I be fleeing? As a logical human being, I knew there was nothing to fear under the sink. And if there was indeed a rodent inside the cabinet, it would be normal-sized and only interested in food scraps. A common problem that a couple of rodent traps would fix.

I grabbed the cabinet door and wrenched it open like it was an old bandaid hiding a scabbing wound, and revealed the weird black box sitting where I'd left it, in front of the cleaners and soaps. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The bin's lid was closed. All was well.

Or was it? I recalled the fifth illustration in the pamphlet: the horrified moon staring in terror at an open box. Had I locked the thing before stowing it under the sink?

Only one way to find out.

Clockwise to unlock. Counterclockwise to lock. All I had to do was turn the key counterclockwise twice. Simple, right?

I reached for the key. My hand shook. The key felt like ice between my fingers.

Counterclockwise to -

Something tapped the lid. Three times. Hard.

I launched myself away from the box as if it were a wooden lunatic wielding a roaring chainsaw. My feet hammered the stairs. I almost trampled Wesley waiting for me on the top step. I leapt over the cat. Sprinted into my bedroom. After Wesley darted under the bed, I slammed the door. Locked it behind us.

"What the hell is going on, Rob?" Paula demanded. She sounded wide awake and pissed off.

After taking several deep breaths to calm my racing heartbeat, I said, "I'm calling Waste Management first thing in the morning. Tell them to come pick up their fucking box."

"Mazel tov." Paula rolled over and settled on her side. "Now get back into bed, shut up, and go to sleep."

---

"To pay your bill, please press one." I've always hated automated phone receptionists, and this female voice's cheerful tone was sandpapering my nerves. "If you haven't received your bill and would like us to send you another copy, please press two. To change your method of payment, please press three -"

All options were payment related. Waste Management had a one-track mindset. I was offered no option to speak with live customer service representative. Instead, the automated receptionist told me to press zero to repeat the menu, and then waited for me to make up my mind.

I told the receptionist where she could stick her menu options before ending the call.

An unsettling silence filled the kitchen. My coffee pot had completed its scheduled brew on time, and the alluring smell of French roast tempted me to pour myself a cup. My stomach rumbled, craving its daily breakfast of berries, Greek yogurt, and honey.

A lump of Wesley's untouched food sat in his dish next to his water bowl. The calico still refused to leave his refuge under the bed.

Only Paula had seemed unfazed. Her cup sat in the sink. She'd already left for work.

"It's just a rat," I reasoned aloud, as if saying the words would make it so.

Or some other disease-infested rodent with needle-like teeth and dirty, little knives for claws.

The thought raised goosebumps on my arms. Paula often teased me about my rodent phobia, but had given me a pass that morning knowing I'd barely clocked any sleep after returning to bed.

But could some rodent really chew or claw its way through the sturdy wooden walls of that box? And so quickly? And for what? I hadn't put anything in it.

There had to be another explanation for those clawing sounds. And since Waste Management offered no help, I'd have to investigate the mystery myself.

But I'd need protection. Upstairs, I dug through my bedroom closet until I located my "dress" shoes: an uncomfortable pair of black leather Oxfords I'd worn to a couple of weddings and a funeral. If the thing in the box wanted to snack on my toes, it would have to chew through that tough leather first, giving me - hopefully - enough precious time to kill it before it tasted flesh. After trading my sweatpants for an old pair of jeans, I shrugged into my heavy ski parka. To complete my makeshift suit of armor, I forced my feet into the Oxfords.

A pair of feline eyes watched me prepare myself from the shadows under the bed.

"Don't worry, buddy," I explained to Wesley, "it'll be gone soon."

Prove it, his gaze seemed to tell me. His apprehension was contagious, especially coming from a cat who had no fear of raccoons and had gifted me several squirrel corpses over the years.

I didn't think Wesley was afraid of anything. Not until that black box showed up.

Downstairs, I searched kitchen drawers for an appropriate weapon. To stab or to bludgeon? That was the question. Ultimately I chose an aluminum tenderizer with metal teeth that looked up to the task. After slipping on a pair of oven mitt gauntlets, I swiped open the cabinet door. The black box waited for me like a giant black cockroach. I grabbed the iron handle and carefully pulled the box from under the sink, while in my other hand, I held the tenderizer ready to smash the shit out of anything that might leap at my face.

My body tense, I slowly turned the box to inspect each side. I found no holes anywhere in the wood. Nothing had chewed its way inside.

"So what knocked?" I asked the box. But whatever waited inside kept silent.

Because damaging my expensive granite countertops or my tile floor with an errant blow of the tenderizer was not an option, I carried the box at arm's length like it was a reeking diaper, and made my way into the garage.

After switching on the fluorescent overhead lights, I set the box on my worktable and exchanged the tenderizer for a hammer. Then I gave the little iron key two clockwise turns. Before opening the box, I adjusted my grip on the hammer and steeled myself to bludgeon any hungry little creatures I might find inside.

Sweat trickled down my forehead. I was roasting like a Thanksgiving turkey in the parka, and the Oxfords tortured my feet like medieval jailers.

After two deep breaths to calm my nerves, I whipped open the lid.

And found a piece of neatly folded wax paper, spotted with pizza grease, at the bottom of the box.

"What the hell?"

I set the hammer aside, then slid the oven mitts off my hands before cautiously retrieving the folded paper. Dabs of desiccated mozzarella cheese still clung to the paper like drops of candle wax.

I carefully unfolded the paper, and read the rough, red scratches forming two simple words:

Feed me.

---

Brows furrowed, Paula reread the words on the wax paper. All day I'd fought the urge to call her up at work to tell her about the note; instead, I waited for her to return home so she could inspect it herself.

Her mouth twisted as she chewed at her bottom lip. "You show this to Mark?"

"Yeah." Mark had been of no help. He'd already finished a six-pack of beer by the time I'd shown it to him, but Paula didn't need to know that.

"And?"

"He seemed surprised we hadn't put any trash in it yet."

Paula dropped the note on the counter next to the box before crossing the kitchen to grab our old trash can. After hauling the can to the sink, Paula stepped on the lever at the bottom of the can and the lid popped open. Paula rooted through the trash, and selected a piece of wadded plastic wrap, the greasy paper towel I'd used to absorb the oil from the fish and chips I'd made for dinner last night, and an empty tube of anchovy paste. She placed each item in the sink.

Once finished, Paula asked, "That enough or too much?"

"Good for a test run," I said. Paula transferred each item, one after the other, into the box, and threw the wax paper note in last.

"We'll lock the box at sundown," Paula said, her hands on her hips. "I swear to God, if someone's playing a prank -"

The crash of a slammed door cannoned through our open kitchen window. Both Paula and I jolted in shock. Next door, Gina's muffled shouts were followed by Mark's angry retort. It sounded like the start of World War III over there.

"What does G-Rex think of the box," Paula asked.

"She hates it. Said it's an eyesore."

Paula's gaze shifted to the box. "She's got a point."

"Mark said Wolf's terrified of it. Won't go near it."

Paula crossed the kitchen and pulled open the fridge to haul out the bottle of Sauvignon blanc. A little Friday evening wine to drown the noise. "And since this eyesore arrived, Wesley's an upstairs cat." She raised the bottle, and with a lift of an eyebrow, silently asked me if I'd like to join her. I shook my head. Paula retrieved a single wine glass from the cabinet and half-filled it with wine.

"He'll get over it," I said. But my own words failed to convince me.

Next door, Gina and Mark exchanged verbal artillery fire. This is going to be an ugly one, I thought. Maybe an all-nighter.

"You know," I told Paula, "maybe I will have that glass of wine after all."

---

As I loaded dirty dishes into the dishwasher just before sundown, I had a sudden thought: if the thing in the box wrote messages, would it answer one?

Only one way to find out.

I found a pad of paper and a pen in a drawer and scribbled a simple note that read:

What are you?

And placed the note atop the trash before closing the lid and locking the box.

Mark and Gina were still locked in battle as the sun slipped under the horizon.

---

We woke up early Saturday morning despite - in an effort to dull the sound of shouting next door - polishing off two bottles of Sauvignon blanc the night before. I'd even turned off the alarm in order to get some extra morning sleep.

But Wolf's mournful howling woke us instead.

"Did they leave him out all night?" Paula asked me as I peered between the blinds. From our bedroom window, I had a wide view of Mark's backyard and could see Wolf curled up into a shivering ball on the dewy lawn.

"Looks like it." I felt as enraged as Paula looked. Someone needed to speak up on Wolf's behalf. Might as well be me. "I'm going over there," I said.

Paula tossed her covers aside. "I'll join you."

From his safe space under the bed, Wesley silently watched us dress.

---

I rang Mark's doorbell a few times, then beat on the door. No one answered.

"Maybe they left," I told Paula, who was trying to peer through a narrow part in the front window curtains for any signs of life inside the house. She was having no luck, thanks to the glare of the rising sun on the glass.

I heard Wolf's wail again. My heart ached for him.

"Wolf's never whined like that before." Paula gave up trying to peer through the window. "Let's check on him. Maybe he got into something."

After descending the porch steps, Paula and I crossed Mark's neat lawn, and opened the wooden gate to enter his backyard. The husky hadn't moved since I'd spotted him from my bedroom window. Wolf was gently licking the fur on one of his back legs, and lifted his head when I called his name.

Wolf's bushy tail thumped the lawn as we approached. He looked relieved to see us, but didn't get up. Wolf licked my hand when I knelt next to him, and I rubbed the top of his head.

"He's hurt," Paula said, wincing once she got a closer look at the leg Wolf had been licking. "Looks like something bit him."

Thick fur bordered a raw, red wound on Wolf's upper leg. Something got him all right. But what? A coyote? Could a raccoon leave a bite mark like that?

My stomach knotted. "Did you get in a fight, buddy?" Wolf's tongue lolled as he panted. We wouldn't let him suffer; we'd take him to the vet ourselves if Mark was unable to.

Paula glared at Mark's back patio. "Where the hell are they?" I followed her gaze to find the back door wide open. Next to it, Mark's charcoal barbecue lay on its side. A few feet away, the cover lay on its back like an overturned turtle.

I ruffled the fur on Wolf's head before rising to my feet. Wolf attempted to stand, but collapsed with a high-pitched whine.

"Poor guy. His leg must be broken." My anger burned. Who the fuck abandons their injured dog? Someone who's about to lose some teeth, I thought with clenched fists. Paula looked eager to body-slam a G-Rex.

"Let's go," she said. She marched toward the house. After urging Wolf to stay put, I followed, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to make sure that Wolf wasn't trying to tail us.

Wolf stayed put like a good boy, but whined as if to warn us away from the house.

After dodging the overturned grill, I got a good look at the back door, and grabbed Paula's arm to halt our advance.

"That looks like blood," I said, unable to take my eyes off the crusty, dark red spray on the white paint. And something had gouged shallow grooves in the wood. Had Wolf done that himself? Or had Mark or Gina left those scratches in the heat of battle?

"They finally did it." Paula's face looked pale in the bright morning light. "One of them finally killed the other."

"Before or after one of them took a bite out of Wolf?" Again, I checked on the husky. Who stayed put, observing us.

"Mark wouldn't have hurt Wolf," Paula said through a clenched jaw.

But there was a third option: had Wolf himself finally snapped, his injury the result of Mark or Gina defending themselves? That theory also didn't seem likely. I hadn't noticed any blood on the husky's paws or around his muzzle to indicate he'd attacked anyone.

So what the hell happened?

Another couple of steps brought me to the back door. I poked my head inside Mark's living room, which looked like a tornado had ripped through it, transforming Mark's comfortable furniture into worthless kindling. His flat-screen had been torn from the wall and lay screen-down on the carpet. On the scuffed walls, more blood spray. A thick trail of blood-soaked carpet curved from the back door and into the kitchen to my right.

"Mark?" I called out while trying not to gag. The room reeked of blood. "Gina?"

As I took a wide step over the red stripe, Paula said, "Maybe we should call the cops."

"We will," I answered. "I want to check the kitchen first."

"Which is exactly what morons in horror films do. Right before they meet the lunatic with the axe."

"Think Disney thoughts," I replied while stepping further into the room. Broken glass and bits of plastic crunched under the soles of my shoes. Paula followed, perhaps remembering that horror film morons usually died alone.

The kitchen looked worse than the living room. Mark's expensive dishes had been reduced to ceramic shards, and dented kitchen appliances lay strewn across the tile. The table and chairs in the breakfast nook resembled a multi-car freeway smashup. But when I bent to get a closer look at the damage, I spotted what looked like bite marks. Mark's belongings hadn't just been sledgehammered in a mindless rage; they looked chewed up, as if something had tried to consume whatever it found.

Two tacky blood trails terminated by the cabinet under the sink. The cabinet door leaned outward, supported by a single broken hinge. Mark's black box, identical to our own, sat under the sink in a pool of drying blood. The lid yawned open.

The inside of the box, however, was spotless. Like it had never been used.

Licked clean, I thought, and felt a tremor of fear race up my spine.

"Oh my God," Paula whispered. My normally cool-headed wife pressed her hand to her mouth to fight the urge to vomit.

"Let's get out of here," I told her.

---

After I carried Wolf home, Paula tended the husky's wounds while I called the police.

Squad cars lined the curb in front of Mark's house well into the night. The police had cordoned off the perimeter with yellow crime scene tape to ward off anyone curious or dumb enough to dare a closer look. Officers questioned us, and we answered those questions as best as we could. But we kept our theories to ourselves. Paula and I hadn't yet spoken to each other about what we'd seen, but I had a feeling she was also thinking about that illustration of the terrified moon staring in horror at the open box.

I'd tried calling Waste Management again, but the automated voice was just as unhelpful as the last time I'd called. Which left us no other choice: to get rid of the box, we'd have to take matters into our own hands.

During Sunday breakfast, Paula offered to take a trip to the pet store to purchase whatever Wolf would need to make himself comfortable in our home. In time, we hoped, Wesley would eventually accept the husky.

Which left me the task of disposing of the box. Since no one with a pulse would answer the phone at Waste Management, I decided to take the box to the nearest Waste Management office and drop it off. If the office was closed, I'd leave the box (locked, of course) at the front door.

So after scraping our breakfast scraps into our old trash can, I loaded the dishwasher, then headed into the garage to collect the black box. Before we'd gone to bed last night, I'd wrapped the box in a thick, heavy chain, secured it with a padlock, and left it on my worktable.

My hand froze when I spotted the familiar piece of note paper poking out from under the lid; the same paper I'd scrawled my question on a few days ago.

My hand quivered as I read the note.

What are you? I'd asked the thing in the box.

Ravenous, was the response, written in dried blood.