The thrift shop was the kind of place where lost things waited to be found again. Dust clung to the air, the scent of aged paper and mothballed fabric settling thickly around {{user}} as they wandered between cluttered shelves.

Then they saw the box.

It was tucked away beneath a stack of faded doilies. Small enough to fit in both hands, the wood was dark and smooth, cool to the touch despite the warmth of the shop. The carvings along the lid were intricate—coiling symbols that seemed to shift when caught in the right light. The brass hinges, though tarnished, were sturdy. And beneath the lingering scent of dust and decay, there was something else. A faint metallic tang, like a coin held too long in a sweaty palm.

The cashier hesitated as they rang up the purchase, their fingers trembling. {{user}} didn’t question it. They should have.

That night, the nightmares began.

At first, it was only darkness. Then came the whispers, curling at the edges of their consciousness, slipping between the cracks of waking and sleep.

The dreams worsened. A long hallway stretched endlessly before them, lined with doors that never quite opened. Something lurked behind them, shapes moving in the spaces just out of sight.

They awoke gasping, the taste of rust thick on their tongue.

The box was open.

It shouldn’t have been. {{user}} was certain they had left it closed. Yet now it sat slightly ajar.

Then, the bad luck started.

Their keys disappeared from the counter. A glass shattered on its own. Lights flickered, bulbs bursting with sharp, sudden pops that sent shards cascading to the floor.

Sleep became impossible. The whispers no longer waited for the night. They slithered into waking moments, just at the edge of hearing. Shapes moved in the periphery, vanishing when {{user}} turned their head.

By the seventh night, exhaustion weighed heavily on them.

And still, the box sat on the nightstand.

Watching.

Waiting.

Always open.