The Box (part 4)
By the evening Principal Hairbear went missing, his wife knew something was wrong. He left for work as usual, but then didn’t come home by 5.
It was now 7pm and she was beginning to get worried. She called a few of his friends and colleagues and none had seen him all day.
Mr. Bearhair was very punctual and never ran late, and if he did, he would always let her know. Finally, she decided to call the police.
30 minutes later, Officer Gurt stood in her home taking some notes on his pad. “You know, we can’t file him as a missing person for 37 hours,” explained Officer Gurt. “And since he’s an adult, it’s a bit of a different situation than with Timmy Shugger. Adults can come and go as they please.”
“I know,” she replied sullenly, “I’m just worried about my Big Bear.”
“Has he said anything to you about this cube on the front lawn of the school? Do you know what it’s doing there?”
“All I’ve heard is him complaining about it being a distraction and ugly. He wants it gone. But no, he doesn’t know where it came from. Quite a curious thing!”
“It is indeed, Mrs. Bearhair. Well please let me know if anything changes, and I will do the same.”
“Thank you officer,” she said as he turned to leave.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bearhair was grappling around in the pitch darkness for something, anything. He could see absolutely nothing. He wondered if he had gone blind.
The air was a comfortable temperature, with a pinch of coolness like the inside of a damp cave on a warm summer day.
The ground below him seemed smooth like the surface of the box, and there was a scratching sound, like someone was on the other side of a wall scratching at it, but he couldn’t pinpoint where it came from.
He walked carefully forward, with both arms out in front of him until suddenly he reached a wall. It too was smooth like the ground, and cool like stone. He walked along with his hand on the wall and the other out in front of him.
“Hello?” he decided to call out. No one answered him but the continuous scratching.
Scrrrrch
Scrrrrrrrch
Scrrch scrrrch
He walked a little further and called out again. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
Cold beads of sweat materialized on his forehead, not from the chill of the air, but from the voice that answered him this time.
“Hello?” It was a child’s voice, faint and far away. “Is someone there?”
“Timmy??” yelled Mr. Hairbear. “Timmy, is that you?” He hurried his pace with his hand along the wall, and promptly tripped over something on the ground. His left hand which had been outstretched hit the ground first and took the brunt of his body’s hefty weight, cracking the joint. An electric fire shot up his arm to the elbow and he cried out a string of expletives. He rolled onto his back and gripped his wrist with his other hand. Blood throbbed in his wrist and the pain grew into a searing hot blossom of agony.
Once he regained enough presence of mind, he pulled himself with his right arm back toward the thing he had tripped over. It was a small box that felt like metal and glass fashioned together. He felt around it with his good hand and realized it was a lantern. His heart sank as he felt around the device and realized he would need matches to light the wick, it was not a new incandescent lantern.
He grasped around on the floor to see if there was anything to light the wick with, and to his surprise, his hand landed on a small cardboard book of matches. With his one good hand, he managed to pry one match loose and press the matchbox against his leg with his injured wrist, just enough to strike the box and illuminate the space around him.
The sudden flare of light burnt his retinas and shocked him after being in such pitch blackness for so long. He jerked his eyes away from the flame and looked around the room around him.
He was in a cavernous room with walls the same smooth black surface as the box, rising as far as he could see in the dim light. He couldn’t see the ceiling by the little light of the match. The ground was the same as the walls and went out from him as far as he could see.
Mr. Bearhair got distracted looking around and the flame burned down to his fingertips and he threw the match to the ground, where it burnt out.
He grabbed for the matchbook again and repeated the process. This time, he opened the front of the lantern and held the match to the wick until it took. The flame grew until the lantern was giving off a decent amount of light, throwing a dull yellow illumination just ten feet in front of him.
He held the lantern up with his right hand and continued along the wall again, with his broken left wrist tucked up to his chest.
“Timmy?” he called out. “I’m coming!”
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Day 62 of 100 Days of Blog
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