Musings of a Fractured Mind

It was during a period where nothing really mattered and all was monotonously the same; that a knock on the door made John rise up from his armchair, which had been his sole companion for the last four hours as he blankly watched a tirade of bad programming and infomercials. Slowly drawing towards the door, his heart slightly started to flutter. Something about today was different, no one really knocked at his door and no one really came around anymore, not since his wife had passed away. As the door opened, his eyes gazed out into the dark sombre night, no one was there as he looked up and down the empty street but looking down there was a reinforced brown cardboard box at his feet. Picking the package up, he went back inside.

The box was deposited on the table as he noted that it was addressed to John Edwards, 128 Basking Way, Norwich, which all seemed to be correct he was John Edwards, It was his address and he was sure that he had not moved city, but receiving a box in the evening? No one was around in the drive, or even in his street who could have delivered it. Putting all ideas out of his head, his eyes focused hard on the taped seam as his fingernail started to be drawn along its length piercing the brown plastic. The box let out an audible sigh as if its lips had been fastened shut and it had finally been able to breathe again.

His hands worked quickly opening the flaps and sifting through the internal snowstorm of polystyrene balls until they found the object lost deep inside. Drawing out of the abyss John’s eyes greeted a vision of dark lacquered polished wood shaped perfectly as antique small box, inlaid with strands of electrum and silver which ornately danced along is finely crafted surfaces, playing tricks with the light that created illusions of depth to the exterior. He had waited a long time for this, he even had doubted that he would ever be the guardian of it but now it was his to treasure and look after for the rest of his life. The only premise he had been told during his induction into being a guardian was “care for the object, even look at the object but never open it. It was opened before and should never be again.”

Days passed, John went to work, came home, ate, slept but instead of spending hours transfixed by the television as before he marvelled at the exquisite sight of the small box. He thought of his “Sacred Duty” and of what the “Sons of Epimetheus” had told him, which in fact was absolutely nothing at all except to “Never open the box”. His curiosity ate away any resolve he thought he had, day and night he thought only of the lovely lacquered small box, of its beauty and what wonders it may hold within. When he had lifted it from its cardboard coffin it seemed heavier than it should be, maybe inside there was ancient gold, or magnificent glistening crimson rubies, perhaps resting on a bed of fine verdant emeralds. Ideas cascaded through his brain, piquing a vast interest in the contents. He had to open it, he had to know.

That night his hands caressed the corners of the box lovingly, as if it were his beloved wife back from the dead. Nervously he thumbed the silver clasp watching it as it sprung upwards, the wood groaned as he slowly opened the lid and looked inside. On the inside there was etched a single word “Pandora”. His eyes were drawn deep into the murk realising that it was almost a bottomless void from where a deafening clawing gnawing hum was approaching. Again human curiosity had released more evils into the world but this time hope had been extinguished.

A blinding flash of pain swept him up to a dizzying height of awareness, several more 3 inch thin needles had been fired from somewhere across the street piercing his flesh, causing rivulets of blood to trickle from his arm on to the grey pavement, which was now dotted with crimson. Thoughts cascaded through his brain in quick succession:-  who is attacking me? What do they want? Why me? Every questioned didn’t get an answer only silence mocked him, laughing at his intellectual ineptitude. More needles flew passed his face as he turned to see a dark figure rise up from the bushes aiming some type of pistol in his direction. A feint click and a hail of deadly metal splinters put an end to any more questions he could have asked as the masked woman advanced to look over her prey. Just one word left her lips, spat out with contempt at her quarry “Fool”.

It only took half an hour for someone to have alerted the police and the media to the man on the pavement covered in blood and looking more like a grotesque version of a pin cushion with silver needles jutting out from so many parts of his body. Skin and muscle had been flayed off in the onslaught and in places ivory bone was bared for all to see. Looking over the corpse was the normal retinue of detectives, constables and scene of crime officers.

“It looks like she has struck again, isn’t that now six bodies this month. We aren’t even out of the first bloody week of July yet and already six bodies have been attributed to her. Sick. Just bloody sick.” The detective looked at the fresh kill notching up six to his new chagrin – The Fool Killer. The serial killer made an appearance a couple of months ago targeting corrupt politicians, underworld middlemen, other shadowy figures in society and now finally she seems to be going after anyone. It just didn’t make sense, why had she targeted this university lecturer, he seemed an average ordinary type, and maybe a bit of digging would show why he had become corpse tonight. “I’m just going to check on his house” mumbled Detective Deakin as he crunched up the driveway to the open door of the semi detached.