MONSTER

by Amy de Jong

There is a loud thud. The door trembles, and Lucy looks up at Vivian with wide, terrified eyes.

"I told you not to open the box!" Vivian hisses, pressing her shoulder against the door so hard it aches.

"I'm sorry!" Lucy's wail is pitiful and tremulous. There are tears crawling down her cheeks, and Vivian looks away. On the other side of the door there is a hellish scream — a broken, tearing sound that scrapes inside her head — and Vivian squeezes her eyes shut, leaning harder against the door. The thing outside slams into it, thudding against the fragile wood with such force that Lucy screams, stumbles back, and trips into the bathtub. There comes another crash against the door, and it shudders beneath Vivian's shoulder. She remembers pleading with her mother, time and time again, for a lock on the bathroom door. Her pleas had been to stop people barging in while she was mid-shower, however, not to keep out a murderous wraith awakened by her sister's own curiosity and stupidity.

They'd discovered the box in their mother's cupboard amongst the relics of her occult past, all locked safely away from curious children and a more prosaic present. A bored Lucy had found the key, accidentally left behind when their mother had gone to visit a friend. Tucked away in the forbidden cupboard they'd found elaborate glass vials, an ivory-backed mirror, several leather-bound books… and the box, carved out of rich ebony and inlaid with silver runes and symbols. Vivian had felt ill just looking at it, but Lucy — stupid, idiotic Lucy — had flicked the catch and opened the box without a moment's hesitation. The furious shade had burst from its prison and clawed three long scratches down Lucy's throat before they managed to shut themselves in the bathroom.