Elias Marlowe had always been the type to say yes. To lend a hand. To step forward when others shrank back. It wasn’t courage exactly—more a compulsive need to prove himself useful, valuable even. So when the town council called for volunteers for an unnamed “special project,” Elias’s hand shot up before his brain could catch up.

He regretted it the moment he saw the box.

It sat in the center of the council hall, a massive, ironbound chest that seemed too ancient to belong in the sleepy, coastal town of Wrenford. Its surface was covered in strange carvings, symbols that twisted and shifted if Elias looked at them for too long. The councilman who’d introduced the project refused to meet his eye. “It’s just a simple task,” he’d said, his voice tight. “The chest needs to be carried up to the summit of Mount Verin. No questions. No peeking inside.”

Simple. Right. Elias had thought the job might involve fixing up the crumbling docks or cleaning the town square after the spring festival. Not this.

But backing out wasn’t an option. The entire town had seen him volunteer, and Wrenford was the kind of place where people talked. He couldn’t bear the whispers about how Elias Marlowe was all bluster and no follow-through.

And so, two days later, he found himself trudging up the winding path to Mount Verin, the cursed box strapped to his back.

It was heavier than it should have been, and it felt wrong. The straps dug into his shoulders, but worse than the physical strain was the eerie hum that seemed to emanate from the chest. Sometimes, it felt like the carvings on its surface were pressing into his skin through the thick leather. Once, he swore he heard a whisper coming from within, soft and sibilant, like wind through dead leaves.

“Just a little further,” he muttered to himself, though no one was around to hear. The summit was still hours away, and with every step, his doubts grew louder.

Why had the council chosen him? Why couldn’t they say what was inside the box? Why did the mayor—always so chatty—avoid his gaze when he set out?

By the time Elias reached the summit, his legs were trembling, and his mind was a storm of suspicion. He should just leave the box and go. But some nagging part of him needed answers. He knelt beside the chest, his hands trembling as they hovered over the lid.

“No peeking,” they’d said.

He hesitated. And then, slowly, he lifted the latch.

What he saw inside wasn’t gold or relics or anything tangible at all. It was… darkness. A living, breathing void that seemed to reach out and pull at the edges of his mind. He felt it twist inside him, a cold and hungry presence that whispered promises he couldn’t quite understand but couldn’t refuse.

Elias slammed the lid shut and stumbled back, gasping. But it was too late. The whisper had followed him. It was inside him now, coiled in the corners of his thoughts.

By the time he made it back to Wrenford, Elias wasn’t the same. The cheerful volunteer who had wanted so badly to prove himself was gone, replaced by someone—or something—else. The people avoided him now, their whispers filled with fear instead of admiration.

He’d regret that raised hand for the rest of his days, however many of those remained.