To Mark Pedersen, the box looked innocuous, nothing more than what it was: a simple container. It had sleek, fine lines and smelled sweetly of northern jack pine, as if its glimmering panels had been cut and sanded only yesterday. The only oddity was its remarkable newness. For all its age, one would expect its finish to reflect its humble environment: scratches and scuffs, dull metal edges, chips in its faded paint. Yet it suffered none of these effects. It was a perfectly new cheese box from the 1930s, as if restored by magic.
Cautiously, he moved to open it.
Harmon stirred. “Don’t wanna do that.”
Mark pulled his hand back.
Harmon rose stiffly and moved to a corner. He relieved himself in a pail, groaning in pain as he urinated. His piss was dark, as thick as sap. It hissed. Mist rose from the bucket.
Jesus, Mark thought. He’s pissing green.
Harmon finished up, grabbed another beer, and sat in his chair. He unscrewed the cap from his bottle and raised the drink to his lips. He turned a quick eye to the cop, whose eyes were wide and disbelieving. “Don’t wanna see what I shit.” He guzzled.
“What’s in there?” Mark said. It felt as if a pair of the blackest eyes were inside the box, penetrating his thoughts. Boring into his soul.
Harmon placed his hand on the box. His eye rolled and his face tightened. Wisps of mist wafted between those fragile stick fingers as hot and cold collided. He held out as long as possible and finally pulled his hand away.
“I need to see it,” Mark said.
Harmon narrowed his eye. For the first time, Mark scrutinized his throat. Where the green growth had not completely overrun him, his dark skin was raw. There were tiny wounds there, neatly formed punctures, as if something had drilled into him.
Harmon held his hand to the light. A worm slid along his palm and up his wrist, with a sound that was slimy and slick. “You seen it. Don’t wanna see no more.”
A lump took root in Mark’s throat. He reached for the box, and enduring the biting cold, slid the top open.