I was startled yesterday by a knock on my front door. And so surely must have been the poor person knocking, as, not used to disturbances, both my large knocks hurled themselves barking ferociously to the glass of the door.

By the time I had gotten myself there, contained the excited canines, and opened the door, there was no sign of the knocker. However lying on my welcome mat, sat a small package wrapped in innocuous brown paper. I picked it up and found it to be fairly heavy. I studied it for any hint as to whom may have delivered it, but the package was void of any writing or discernable markings of any nature.

Puzzled, I carried the mysterious package to the kitchen, and placed it upon the table. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and glancing at the clock realized I had wasted another day without being able to create one decent concept of a storyline.

I took a gulp of the coffee, which was stale and cold, and pulled out a steak knife from the block. I sat down at the table, and my dogs rested on either foot- there customary position. I once more studied the package, then I slid the tip of the blade underneath one edge secured by scotch tape, and sliced it open. I neatly did the same all around the package. I then took out the contents, and placed it on the table. Now my curiosity was certainly peeked, as before me was an old box which I suspected to be constructed from rosewood. It was about five inches long, four inches deep and wide. I drank more of my coffee, enjoying contemplating what might be inside the most curious box, I knew that once I opened it, chances are it would be something mundane, and have a reasonable explanation. Yet, unopened, I could allow endless possibilities to ricochet my imagination. Perhaps there was a large diamond inside- left from some lover of my past so help finance my writing. Or perhaps inside, wrapped in tissue was the tongue of that reviewer who spoke so unkindly about my last story. Or maybe, it was a pack of ancient tarot cards, and I shall discover all that fate has in store for me…

Finally, getting tired with my own mental games…I picked the box up. There were two hinges on the back, and a small latch on the front, that were made of brass long since tarnished.

I clicked it open- and peered inside. As I saw what lay inside…I laughed out loud. But, of course, it all made sense.

Still chuckling, and with my dogs at my side, I returned to my office and I began to type, fully inspired from what I had just seen.

P.S. Gifford

P.S. Gifford is a published horror author of great talent. He started submitting stories around 2005. His short stories are by far some of the best and most entertaining that I have read. Around that time he was invited to write columns which are titled "Paperback Writer."

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