“Wait until Spring” the note taped to the old box said. Clearly many springs had come and gone while the box rested in the attic, and I pondered whether the note was intended for whoever left it there, or for whoever found it.
I ran my fingers along the edges of the plain wood. Either the person who made it had stained it, and never bothered to varnish it, or age itself had darkened the wood to a ruddy brown that deepened to black where the cleats held it together. In most attics, you’d expect such a box to hold Grandma’s keepsakes, some old china that had never been used, or perhaps some antique silver. Somehow, given everything that had happened since we found Butch’s remains outside the door of the old tomb, I expected whatever was hidden inside to be something worse. Much worse.
I ran my fingers lightly over the surface, leaving streaks in the dust. There was a slight motion within, as if a creature was stirring to life after sleeping for years. It soon settled into a rhythmic vibration and the ghastly notion entered my mind that it held the still beating heart of Simon Tolenaar.
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