The Worry Box
When I was 16 years old, my grandmother gifted me a box for my birthday. I remember turning it around in my hands, unsure of what to say. It was wooden and of a bold orange color, with ornate carvings fully covering its surface. I looked up at my grandmother, sunk deep into the green corduroy armchair in the corner of the room. Her face beamed with excitement. She explained that the box had been gifted to her by her grandfather on her 16th birthday, and that he had received it on his 16th birthday. This ritual of passing the box from grandchild to grandchild persisted for many generations.
The box had one simple purpose, as she explained. When one was wracked with guilt or worry, they whispered their troubles into the box. By morning, the negative energy would be sealed away inside, and the user would be free of worries. My friends' stifled giggles had made my face grow hot with shame. I sheepishly thanked her and put the box aside. I remember how her face fell, she was as perceptive as she was superstitious.
After my birthday, the box found a home tucked away in my closet. Rather than collecting my worries the box had dutifully collected dust for years. While packing my things for college, now 19, I found the box buried in old clothes. A tinge of guilt shot through me, I could see my grandmother's disappointed face so clearly all those years later. My cheeks grew hot as I opened the box, and as my lips parted to whisper, I noticed its contents. Tiny woolen dolls laid inside the box, hand in hand.
They were very small, about the length of my thumb. When I squeezed them gently between my fingers I could feel the wire that held their shape. The rightmost doll in the line was the most vibrant, and the others appeared aged and faded. Looking closely at the newest doll, I recognized the short stature and long gray hair of my grandmother. I decided it must have been a way for the recipients of the box to visualize its legacy.
Along with the dolls, was a small piece of rolled up paper.
My grandson,
I hope this box comes to contain the worst of your fears and doubts. I will be here for you always. One day you will be able to be there for your kin as well.
-grandma
The guilt returned in waves. Despite my embarrassment, I whispered into the box, occasionally checking my door to make sure nobody was watching me. I told it about my doubts about college and growing up and then shut the box, sliding it back into the corner it had come from. The small bit of confidence I had in the morning had me digging the box back out again. When I went to college, the box came with me.
Grandma had passed away just a year after gifting me the box. When I used it, I felt as though she was still with me. I had always been a mopey and anxious kid, so I had plenty of worries to give the box anyway. The box became my saving grace. It got me through college, relationship struggles, and my mother’s cancer diagnosis. No matter the amount of worry and pain, the box could numb it, if only for a short time.
I had used the box regularly for a few years before it began to whisper back. Before that, I had noticed the lid feeling heavier, and an oppressive air radiating from the box while it was open. Then I could hear the gentle whispering when I leaned in to offer my troubles. The dolls too, began to change. The older dolls appeared black and fragile, small dusty particles stayed behind on my fingers when I held them, while my grandmother’s became increasingly faded.
When I was 21, my mother passed away. I spiraled, and found myself using the box more than ever. The morning after using it I would feel better for a few hours before the immense grief set in again. I used it every night. I would whisper into the box only to find afterwards that several hours had passed. The whispering inside the box became louder and more persistent. I would hear it when the room was quiet, unless I muffled the sound by wrapping the box in a blanket. I began to fear the box, but I couldn’t resist its effects.
A few years after that, the box stopped working. All of the dolls were darkened and devoid of color. I grieved my inability to handle my fears without it, but as time moved on I found myself forgetting about the box. I met a girl who would become my wife, and raised a family. I got better, and my anxieties were few. In fact, the box couldn’t have been further from my mind.
***
I gifted it to my granddaughter on her 16th birthday, just like my grandmother did for me. I had hope that she would be able to use it in her time of need like I did.
One day I went to bed like normal and awoke in pure darkness. I heard whispering all around me, sharp voices cutting through the blackness. It was the same negative energy I felt emanating from the box all those years ago.
I tried to draw a breath but found myself unable. I couldn’t blink my eyes or see anything. I could feel movement around me, swirling, brooding forms of pure malice. All my sorrow, the schoolwork, the ex girlfriends, my mother’s sickness and untimely death. They were all here with me. I tried to move my arms and legs, but they were stiff and unresponsive. All I felt, in my right hand, was woolen fingers interlaced with my own.
I will be here for you always.