The Baleful Box
Short story
It was a splendidly crafted if somewhat plain box about four inches aside, made of a black stone, not unlike obsidian with sterling silver edges and an odd red stone set into the top.
“So this is the latest ‘cursed’ acquisition?” said Ms. Coffey.
“Make light if you want, but this one was a real steal,” said Ms. Camacho. “Some people take this curse thing very seriously. They’ll let it go for a song if you’ll just get it out of their shop.”
“While someone else pays a fortune for the right to own something so dark.” Ms. Coffey ran her fingers along the surface of the box — for a dark magical implement, it had been well kept and maintained. “So what’s the curse on this one?”
“A doozy,” said Ms. Camacho, leaning back in her chair. “They say that anyone who opens this box will drop dead.”
“On the spot, I assume?”
“Yep. They just fall over dead, no apparent cause.”
“Well, you know where that came from, right?” Ms. Coffey leaned over the desk, one hand still resting on the box. “Some noble or merchant is admiring this thing, he has a massive heart attack or aneurysm or something like that and dies right after opening the thing. The peasants figure there must be cause and effect.”
