SYLENDER’S BOX

“Help! Help!” Zeick screams. 

“You keep your mouth shut, little rat.” Sylender bangs on the box. He then picks up a pot of boiling water and dumps it on Zeick’s face. 

The pain makes him jump and squirm in the tight-fit box and cut his skin against the jagged chains.

If only Zeick changed the tires on his car like his wife told him to, his car might not have crashed on the road and lead him to this evil, wicked place. He was hosting a dinner party to celebrate his new job, and as everyone was leaving, he noticed a colorfully wrapped gift left on a living room chair. There was a tag marked “To Dr. Damien Sylender” with an address attached. He drives past the mansion every morning on his route to work and thought he’d be kind and drop it off since no one claimed it. 

The snowy roads were merciless that night, but even his wife said it was a good deed. He drove slow and careful, yet it wasn’t enough to evade the careless idiot driving toward him. When he woke up, he had a pounding headache, his car was wrecked, and the gift was lying right next to him. 

Zeick’s lucky to be alive, considering the irreparable damage to his vehicle. He never saw the other person in the accident, only the opened gate leading to the ominous mansion with candle-lit windows and a dense garden path. He limped toward it, and unknown to him, with each step a light in a window faded. 

He knocked on the door, then put a listening ear to it. It’s possible Zeick heard someone “shushing” as the steps grew closer. The lock unbolted and a man standing seven feet tall, staring with bright gray eyes attached to a gaunt, pale face answered the door. 

“Are… are you Doctor Damien Sylender?” Zeick stuttered.

“That present, is it addressed to me?” The old man’s voice croaked.

Zeick was surprised the doctor didn’t notice his injuries and the blood dripping down the side of his face. “It is… May I use your phone, please? My car just crashed, and I–”

Doctor Sylender snatched the box and slammed the door, only to open it a second later and ask Zeick if he desired a cup of tea. Zeick entered the mansion, astonished by how tall the walls were, the crimson paint peeking through picture frames and paintings, the flames roaring in the grand fireplace, and a giant wall sculpture of sad and angry faces. The vulgarity of the artwork made Zeick sweat. Each picture was a step into Hell, similar to his wife’s taste. There was a massive painting above a bay window; arms and legs protruding out of a box wrapped in chains, and above that, various faces of men and women expressing fear and pain. 

“You know my degree is in art, not medical science?” 

“I had no idea.” Zeick responded. “I honestly never heard of you until today. I never knew who lived in this mansion.” 

A gust of wind flickered the candlelight and for a moment the atrium was pitch-black.

“Is that so?” Sylender whispered. He used a match to relight the candle, casting a glow on his unsettling face and black-tooth smile. 

Zeick gulped down the dryness in his throat. “Sir, I only want to use the phone to call my wife. Then I’ll leave.” 

There was silence for a moment. Dr. Sylender never took his eyes off of him. 

“Yes, of course. But… not after you see my art collection. It’s something I show every guest in my house. I’ve been working on it for years.” 

Zeick wondered why the car accident didn’t put him out of his misery. “Sure thing. But I really need to get to a hospital or something.”

“I won’t take too much of your time. It’s just down this corridor.” 

A stinging pain in Zeick’s ribs occurred on the way to the other hall. This one was all white and at the end was a large painting of bruised humans hanging upside down. 

“I really don’t want to go down there. Please, just let me use your phone! I dropped off your gift, now let me use the phone! I just got into a fucking car accident!” yelled Zeick. 

Again, the lights flickered. Doctor Sylender stood still, but his head turned to face Zeick. Those gray beady eyes are all Zeick can see now. 

“You will see the collection. You will.” 

The hall darkened, and the last image Zeick saw as he screamed for help was naked bodies crawling on the walls. When he awoke—upside down, naked, and covered in open cuts—the first thought in his mind was his wife. She must be worried sick about him.

 Heavy footsteps came from the right. Someone dressed in a baggy latex suit appeared in front of him and removed ruler tape from their pockets. The ruler was pressed to his skin dozens of times. “Stop… Stop! What are you doing?” Zeick shouted. The stranger left without saying a word. 

Zeick grew dizzy. A screeching noise made him scream. He blinked a few times to clear his blurred vision; something shiny was coming toward him, and it reminded him of the same box from the unnerving painting in the mansion’s atrium. The chain-wrapped box is pushed under his head, so he could fall in when the wires around his ankles were cut. 

The nozzle of a hose was reeled in shortly after. It sprayed some type of nauseous chemical because he awoke in another place. Zeick peeked through the four holes in the box to get a glimpse of the bright room, restricted to turning in small increments while seated on the metal surface. There was nothing to see… except other boxes. 

A door opened. 

Zeick’s eyes frantically wandered in every direction. From the corner of his eye, he saw the silhouette of a man, and seconds later, he heard screaming and a knife cutting through meat. Incoming stomps overwhelmed the crying and thumping of his heart. He prayed to anyone that would listen, which ceased when a portion of the top of his box opened up and he saw those harrowing gray eyes. Doctor Sylender grabbed his head, brought it out of the box, then re-attached the piece to lock it in. 

The old man’s claws dug into Zeick’s face, ripped the skin off, and ate it, tiny strips at a time like Hors d’oeuvres. He massaged Zeick’s right eye; said “my favorite” as he pulled it out with his bony fingers and stuffed it into his mouth. It was the worst pain, yet Zeick couldn’t scream. At least, until he heard a knock on the door.

***

“Damn. Where is this guy? It’s freezing out here!” Dionna knocks on the door again. She saw the lights and shadows and knows someone is home. Her husband went out hours ago to deliver a package to this location, so someone must have seen him. 

She finally hears steps. The door opens and, to her surprise, it’s one of her favorite painters: Damien Sylender. She had no idea he lived so close. 

“I—it’s you! Damien Sylender! I went to your art gallery not too long ago. I’ve always admired your work. He told me where he was going, but not whom the package was for.” 

The tall, older man with a clean cut beard and full head of salt and pepper hair smiles with perfect teeth. “Would you like to get out of the cold for some tea?” he asked. 

“I’d love to!” She enters the home and falls in love with the dark, Victorian decor; all of his artwork draped on the red walls, the black and white marble floors, and a huge fireplace. “This is amazing. My husband, who I’ve been meaning to ask you about, hates this stuff. I could never take him on an art trip with me. We’re so different… in that aspect.” 

“That’s rather unfortunate.” Damien Sylender grabs two glasses and pours a shot of brown liquor into both of them. 

“Yes.” She grabs the glass and takes a sip. “He was supposed to deliver a package here a couple of hours ago, but I haven’t heard from him. Did he stop by?” 

He walks away, opens the glass door next to the staircase. “This gift, you mean?” He presents the gift she remembers from the end of the dinner. 

“Yes. So, he was here.”

“Indeed. Very nice young man. He came by and dropped it off, then he left.” 

The place isn’t that far from home, so perhaps he’s still in the area. Dionna puts her unfinished glass—of what tasted like scotch—down on the mantle of the fireplace. “Thanks for your time. I should go find him.”

“Have you seen this painting before?” 

Dionna looks up at the large painting above the fireplace, unaware it was even there. The multiple limbs and faces are classic Damien, but the box in the center throws her off. 

As if reading her mind, Doctor Damien says, “the box is a new thing I’m trying. I call it, Sylender’s box. It represents all of my ideas.” 

“It’s incredible.” Dionna stares at the painting. One of the floating faces looks oddly familiar. The eyes stare back at her, wide and scared like they’re asking for help. “The faces… are they people close to you?”

He joins her side and gazes up at the painting. “I paint the face of anyone who donates to my art. You’re one of the first to see this one.”

Dionna smiles. “Really?” 

“I could show you the piece I’m working on for my next exhibit. But when you have time, of course.” 

This is a phenomenal opportunity for Dionna. As an art student, her classmates would drool if they found out. “It would only take a second, right?” 

“Yes. Just a moment. It’s right down this corridor.” 

THE END