Stuff of Nightmares: A Collection of Short Horror Stories

The Box of Happiness

"My first wish is nobody will ever find out I killed my team to acquire this Box."

Blood drummed in Derek's ears when he picked up the Box. The world fell silent. The dusty air no longer bothered him. Within it was an endless pit of darkness.

The price is the memories of your friendships with these people. Do you agree? The rumbling voice echoed in his mind, churning his stomach.

It was an intricate, elaborately-designed container, measuring ten by fifteen by four inches, gilded and glistening with precious stones in the torchlight. To most, it resembled a queen's jewellery box, but Derek knew this was the Box, linked to the rise and fall of historical empires and the secret behind conquerors' successes. Derek's decades of studying this as a historian had taught him everything about this miracle device. In all the historical texts documenting the Greats -- Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Caesar -- there was always mention of a treasured box guarded with jealousy. But when they fell, it was never mentioned again, resurfacing some hundred years after under different descriptions, but with the same common grounds: success beyond possibility.

He kicked his bag aside; it slid across the stone brick floor, hitting one of the dead. He would deal with that later. Nobody else must get this treasure.

For a price, I will grant your wish.

"And it will be the wish exactly as I interpret?" Derek had read about the deceptive genies twisting the wishes of intelligent men. "And I have no limits on the number of wishes?"

It will be exactly as you imagine, for a proportionate price. There is no limit of the number of wishes.

Whatever the Box desired, Derek figured it would not be much to lose. After all, he had nothing left. His family was gone. He was neck-deep in mortgage and this was his only chance at keeping his job.

Derek nodded, with a pang of guilt. These had been his closest friends once, supporting his years of research, pulled him out of financial ruins, believed in his cause. But they would jeopardise his future. Forgetting their histories meant he wouldn't risk giving himself away, either.

It became surprisingly easy. People expressed condolences for the loss of his team, but nobody recalled he also was on the expedition. Aside from feeling regretful for the losses to the academic world, Derek didn't have any particular feeling for it. There was a little emptiness within, but if he was willing to give it up to the Box, it couldn't have been that bad.

After several weeks, his funds ran dry, despite the papers he'd published regarding the Box. Fellow critics seemed uninterested in his theories and without giving away he had the Box -- and what he'd done with it -- Derek could do little about his breakthrough.

"I want to always have more than enough financial means to fund my lifestyle for the rest of my life."

That is a long-lasting request. The price is your grief and sadness. Do you accept?

It was a strange price, but a worthwhile one. Why would he not rid the negativity in his life? He didn't need to remember his family dying at his drink-driving, nor his parents dying of preventable illnesses insurances could not cover, nor the thoughts he was better off dead because of his failures.

The release was invigorating. Derek was the happiest man alive: weightless, invulnerable. No regrets, endless money. He resigned from his job, paid off his debts, bought mansions and cars, indulged in frivolities, and lived without fear. After several months of drinking, gambling, and debauchery, Derek still felt empty. It was as if nobody saw him. They flocked to his company, laughed at his jokes, but they all only saw his money.

"I want to command respect wherever I go."

That request affects a great number of people. The price is your fear. Do you accept?

Fear: another unnecessary emotion, like grief. He readily accepted.

The effect was astounding. People worshipped the ground he walked on. He spoke passionately of history and passers-by gathered in droves, awed. Nobody corrected his mistakes. Nobody penalised his joyrides or thefts. He won all his fights, verbal and physical; nobody retaliated out of respect for his greatness. They all praised him for everything.

The power at his disposal would have been frightening had he not already sacrificed his fear. He found the scholars who had disrespected him and his work all those years ago, the universities who had turned down his grant applications, the hecklers at his talks, and he ensured they met the ends they deserved.

And yet, at the end of it all, he was not satisfied. The hollowness within him increased; he'd merely put it down to the parts of himself he'd given to the Box, but he thought more and more of it as the days passed, lying on the plush bed in his gilded mansion. Alone. He was alone.

He picked up the framed pictures he'd migrated over from his old, grotty basement flat. His wife and two children beamed back at him. The Derek then was happy. Poor, stressed, exasperated, but happy. His eyes glowed and his cheeks were flushed.

He looked at himself now in the gilded mirror that stretched ten feet wide on the wall. He'd put on weight around his belly. His eyes were bloodshot, evidence of too much partying and drinking. His cheeks were puffy and sallow, his lips pale.

Who was happier? The him now? Or the him then?

"I want to be the me from back then," he said to the Box.

The dead cannot be revived. Time cannot turn back.

"They can't join me?"

No.

"But I can join them."

The Box was silent. But Derek had no fear about the dead. He had no regrets tying him to the present. He had everything, and simultaneously he had nothing.

The Box opened. Inside it was a revolver.

Word count: 971. Written for ParanormalCommunity's 'The Box' challenge.