THE BLACK BOX OF SUMERIA
Just three blocks down from Ling Fu’s Chinese restaurant and catty corner to the Seacrest Electronic Emporium sits an incongruous little store front called Wilson’s Antiques and Oddities. The shadowy shop appears out of place next to its modern neighbors, itself a vestige of lost Americana, a business with a barely perceptible heartbeat, much like the patrons who visit it from time to time (old folks mostly, themselves also of museum quality). Visitors to the store are far and few in between these days but on this brisk October morning an eager looking middle-aged man in a yellow wind breaker can be seen standing just outside, clutching a package under his arm and looking up at the lettering on the dusty display window. Satisfied that he was at the correct address, he stepped through the door of the shop and heard the faint sound of a buzzer in the back somewhere, announcing his arrival.
The shop itself seemed alive with clicking and ticking sounds, these coming from a variety of wall clocks, their pendulums hanging like elongated tongues from a mouth, wagging to and fro, beckoning customers to look in their direction, as if to say, “Please, take me home. I’ve been hanging here far too long!” Immediately to his right, a wooden cigar store Indian stared back at him with carved black eyes, its once bright paint and lacquer finish now dull and faded by untold years of standing outside some American shop in some American city. As he glanced around, he noticed that everything was coated with a fine layer of dust and there was a distinct mustiness that brought back memories of scrounging around in his grandmother’s cluttered attic when he was a boy, hoping to discover any odd treasure that would help him while away the hours before his mother came to pick him up after a long day at work. “Antiques and Oddities” he thought to himself, “Yes, that certainly fits the bill.”
Stacked tightly against each wall could be seen a collection of old furniture, some interesting and most likely valuable pieces but he wasn’t a collector, nor did he have any special knowledge of such things. A squirrel sitting on a glass counter and holding a nut in its little hands caught his eye. He suddenly became aware that the shop was filled with all types of stuffed animals, like a beautiful golden retriever that stood only a few feet away, next to a drooping book shelf, staring with timeless anticipation of its masters return. There were also quite a number of birds of the stuffed variety, some sitting quietly on shelves while others hung by wire cables from the ceiling, animated in postures of flight, wings splayed and flashing aggressive beady eyes.
The man was becoming quite intrigued by it all when there came from behind, a shuffling of feet across the dusty floor. When he turned, he could see an old man approaching. His first impression was that the old fella was the spitting image of the famous physicist, Albert Einstein. He was gaunt and slightly bent and he wore a faded green sweater vest over a white long sleeve shirt that looked to be in need of a good ironing. A thick pair of spectacles attached to a chain lay across his spare chest. His hair was long and airy, in a wind-swept way, like freshly spun cotton candy. His bushy eye brows and full mustache held the same color of his hair which was a pure snowy white.
“Can I be of assistance?” said the old man in a crepe paper lite voice. The old man was now standing directly in front of him and he could see that his craggy dry face was contoured in a number of deep folds, most noticeably at the corner of his eyes. A fleeting notion crossed his mind to reach up and poke at the dry parchment-like wrinkles, to see if they would somehow make a crackling sound or even perhaps explode in a puff of dust.
“Yes, hello!’ the man said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Richard Dorian. I take it you’re the proprietor here.”
“That’s right Mr. Dorian…for better or worse, this is my little shop. I’m the owner. My name is Wilson…Stanley Wilson.”
“Well, Mr. Wilson, hopefully, I won’t take up too much of your time. I was given your name after making a number of phone calls. I was told that you were just the man who could possibly give some insight as to what I have here.”
He squeezed the brown paper bag under his arm and it made a crinkly noise (as squeezed paper bags tend to do). Now it was the old man’s turn to feel intrigued.
“Ok, Mr. Dorian.” The old man replied with a half-smile, revealing worn brown nubs of teeth. “Let’s have a seat and take a look at what you’ve got.”
He gestured to a nearby table. They both sat down and the man slid away the paper bag. The object in question was approximately the size of a jewelry box, and like a jewelry box, it contained a lid that hinged open, but that was where the similarities ended. It was made from a type of stone, or at least it appeared to be so. It was a deep black color, polished to a shiny gloss and had strange lettering carved into its top. The man spun it around so the old gentleman could see it more clearly but after a quick glance, the old man flinched and suddenly looked more than a little uneasy. The wrinkles around his eyes disappeared, moving their way up to his forehead where great folds of concern seemed to register.
“Where did you get this Mr. Dorian?” The old man asked, keeping his distance from the box, as though it were the conveyance of some deadly disease.
“I purchased it at an estate sale. Well, actually, I purchased an old steamer trunk full of odds and ends. This box happened to be tucked away at the very bottom. It looked interesting. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. Tell you the truth, I was hoping that it might be worth something because I’m in a bit of a financial bind and could use a good windfall about now. Here, let me show you what’s inside...”
He tilted the lid back and they could see more odd lettering carved into the underside of the lid. He then pulled from the box a rectangular black object that was apparently made from the same material as the box. The object resembled what can only be described as a brick, but smaller in dimension. This particular object, however, had a very peculiar feature, it had two round apertures of glass somehow fused into one of its sides.
“When I first saw this thing I was reminded of a toy from my childhood. You know, one of those old View Master jobbies? You’d take a round slide card and drop it into a slot, then advance the pictures with a lever on the side. But this, of course, doesn’t have a slot or anything like that.”
For a few brief moments they both stared at the thing in silence then the old man donned his spectacles and leaned over to study it more closely. Something odd registered on his face, a look of wonder perhaps.
You see it don’t you? The lenses… there’s something like smoke or…or fog flowing behind the lenses isn’t there? Please tell me what you know about this thing Mr. Wilson. You do know something because I can read it in your face.”
The old man leaned back in his chair and drew in a great breath of air. His complexion was now almost the color of his hair.
“Yes, Mr. Dorian, I know of this particular item, but mostly from legend passed down through the ages and the occasional discussion with colleagues. What you have before you, if authentic, is ancient. If stories tell right, very ancient, and perhaps the only one in existence. The letters carved into this box look to be Sumerian… a language and civilization long lost for thousands of years. I may, however, be of some help in translating those letters….not because I’m versed in ancient Sumerian mind you, but because…” The old man stopped and held up a finger as if to say, “Wait one moment.” He got up from his chair and shuffled off to the back room. The man was beside himself with anticipation. He was certain that the mystery of the black box was about to be solved, but more importantly, he thought he was close to making a sale.
A few minutes later, the old man returned carrying a large manila folder. From it he pulled out a number of odd sized papers and spread them on the table. “Ah, yes.” He said, snatching one in particular and holding it close to his face for inspection.
“You see Mr. Dorian, I have an old friend who deals in antiquities…more like a collector of sorts. His particular area of interest, his obsession really, has to do with artifacts concerning the occult. O
n occasion, he will send me notices with descriptions of particular items that I am to keep an eye out for. This gentleman, you’ll be happy to learn, is exceedingly rich and would pay a king’s ransom to acquire that which he is seeking. I think that you may have just fulfilled a life-long quest of his, Mr. Dorian. The one item that has eluded him and the one he desires most of all...The Black Box of Sumeria!”
The old man expressed those last words with such theatrical emotion and such a feeling of underlying dread that the man half expected to hear a sudden burst of scary organ music to accentuate the mood.
“Take a look at this.” The old man continued, holding the paper next to the box. “See how the symbols match exactly? This letter contains the precise translation to the writing on this very box. The words on the lid translate to “DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?” and the first two lines on the underside translate to “THE FATE OF MAN IS SEALED IN STONE. TO FOLLOW THIS COURSE IS TO DISCOVER ONES OWN.”
“What the hell does that mean?” the man asked with a confused look, a few beads of sweat now forming on his forehead.
“Legend states, Mr. Dorian, that this box allows the user to witness his own future, or more to the point…to witness his own death!”
The notion struck the man as quite absurd and he laughed out loud.
The old man’s face remained dark. “I wouldn’t jest about things of this nature Mr. Dorian, or in any way take them lightly. I am reminded of a bit of Shakespeare that seems to apply here…”There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of...”
“More theater!” the man thought to himself and laughed again, but the old man ignored his impertinent outburst.
“Now, the last few lines explain the steps that one must follow in order to the see the task through to completion.” He stopped and stared with expectancy, checking to see if he should continue. The man motioned with his hand, indicating that he should.
“It concludes with…THUMB PRINT OF BLOOD, BURN BY FLAME, REPEAT THE SACRED WORDS, AGAIN AND AGAIN,”
“The words to complete the ritual, Mr. Dorian, are…TIBUS-REMUS-SATANUS.”
“TIBUS-REMUS-SATANUS?” The man repeated. Now, what the hell does that mean?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “How the hell should I know?”
Mr. Dorian laughed. “Well, your story is quite spooky Mr. Wilson but let’s get serious for a moment shall we? How do I get in touch with this collector friend of yours? Or maybe…you’re interested in purchasing yourself?”
The old man’s face blanched at the suggestion. “Oh no, Mr. Dorian, I would never take possession of this box. Quite frankly, I think it’s…well, let’s just say I have a bad feeling about it and let’s leave it at that. However, if you write down your phone number, I will pass it on to my friend. I’m sure he will be most eager to contact you to discuss its purchase. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call this very night.”
As he was leaving the shop, he glanced back around, taking one last look at the old gentleman who was shuffling slow and stiff toward the back room. If he should ever revisit Wilsons Antiques and Oddities in the years to come, he wouldn’t be surprised to see the old man stuffed and propped up next to the golden retriever. It would, he thought, be a timeless and fitting tribute for the dusty old shop owner.
Later that evening, back at his apartment, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table to read the days mail. He pulled back on the tab only to see it break off, leaving it half open. He tried forcing the stubborn piece of metal down into the can with the tip of his finger but he paid an immediate price. Bright drops of blood materialized and dribbled to the table below, forming a small puddle of red. “Damn!” he said and rushed to grab a nearby stack of napkins. He wrapped his finger and was about to wipe the blood from the table when a thought crossed his mind. He looked down at the box on the table. Ever since he laid eyes on it he was consumed by a nagging curiosity of what lay beyond those smoky lenses. He even tried at one point to pry them open but he found the task quite impossible. He realized that this just might be the only opportunity he’ll ever have to discover its secret. Something in the back of his mind urged him to light the small votive candle on the table. A few seconds later it was burning. He pressed his right thumb into the puddle of blood and transferred the print onto one of the junk mail envelopes. He tore away the portion containing the thumb print and held it over the flame. It slowly burned with a slight hiss. He searched his memory for the words that the old man had read to him. “TIBUS…RE…REMUS…SATANUS. Yes! That’s it! TIBUS-REMUS-SATANUS! He repeated the phrase a number of times until the paper was reduced to a crispy black piece of ash burning at the end of his fingers. He immediately picked up the viewer and stared into its lenses with eager anticipation but the swirl of mist behind the lenses didn’t change in the least and he couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all. That’s when the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Yes, hello, am I speaking with Richard Dorian?”
“You are. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Dorian, I’m the gentleman that Mr. Wilson spoke to you about earlier. I must say, I’m delighted to hear that the black box of Sumeria truly exists. Let me be Frank, Mr. Dorian. I must have this artifact for my personal collection and am willing to pay a sum off…”
When he heard the offer quoted, the phone nearly dropped from his hand.
“But there is one catch, Mr. Dorian. I must have it in my possession before morning. I’m leaving on an archeological dig tomorrow and it looks as though I’ll be gone the entire year. That means that you must personally deliver the box to me. I have already taken the liberty to secure a round trip fight for you. A ticket will be waiting at the airport.”
“I don’t even know your name, Mr. …”
“That, if you don’t mind, shall remain anonymous, Mr. Dorian. My chauffeur will be waiting for you at the terminal in New York. Haste, Mr. Dorian, haste is what’s needed now. Your flight leaves in one hour!”
A few minutes later, he had the box stuffed into a gym bag. When he turned to leave, a barely perceptible knock came at his door. He was about to mouth words of greeting as he swung the door open, but to his surprise, no one was there. He finally caught sight of a very small figure at the end of the hallway, wearing of all things, a black robe. To his eyes, the figure seemed to be gliding along instead of walking, trailing the black tail of its robe against the hallway carpet like the long black tongue of a decomposing corpse.
“Hello!” he shouted. “Hello, can I help you?” The figure did nothing to respond, it just continued gliding silently down the hallway, then, to the man’s utter astonishment, it disappeared in a sudden wisp of black smoke. He stood in the doorway with his mouth slightly open, not understanding what he had just witnessed and feeling a cold shiver run down the entire length of his back. At that moment, his right foot brushed against something on the floor. He reached down with a shaky hand and picked up a tiny red box wrapped in twine. He was in a hurry so he didn’t give it much thought, he just shoved it in his pocket and made a hasty retreat for the exit.
“Welcome aboard sir,” said a pretty, dark haired stewardess, checking his ticket stub as he stepped onto the plane. “You’re in seat thirty two, just two rows down and to your right.” She looked at him a little more closely. ”Are you ok sir? You don’t look too well.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead. “I’m alright, just a little nervous about flying, that’s all.”
“Nothing to worry about, sir,’ she said, with a look that suggested routine. “Tonight’s flight has barely a quarter of its usual passengers, so you’ll be able to stretch out and get some sleep if you like. We’ll be serving drinks shortly. That always seems to help take the edge off.” Feeling satisfied that she had displayed an acceptable amount of concern, she turned to greet the other passengers and he took his seat.
He sat the gym bag in the s
eat next to him and strapped in with nervous, sweaty fingers. The rest of the seats beside and in front of him were vacant, which was comforting. He didn’t feel like talking. Maybe his heart would slow enough to allow him to nap during the flight but a child’s scream shocked his system once again and the bothersome rumblings of the other passengers slamming overhead compartments and noisily making their way to their seats kept him on edge. He was perspiring heavily and daubing his wet forehead every few seconds. Another stewardess was standing at the front of the plane now, holding a seat belt and buckle in her hand and giving instructions but the blood pounding inside his ears made her voice sound mechanical and far off, as though talking through a small pipe, from miles away. A few minutes later they were off the ground. He reminded himself of the money at the other end and how he would most likely make the return trip by train. This made him laugh. The drink cart came around and he ordered a rum and coke. “Relax old man, relax!” he kept saying to himself and it seemed as though he might finally be getting a grip on the whole situation when the plane jostled suddenly, lifting him a few inches off his seat.
“What the hell was that!” he screamed and his face went ghostly pale.
The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Just a little turbulence folks, nothing to worry about. Typical for this area.”
He sucked down his drink in one long swallow and waved for the stewardess.
“Yes, sir, would you like another?’
“I’ll take three if it’s all the same to you,” he said with a weak chuckle, but not really feeling like being funny, “and a blanket, if you don’t mind.”
He quickly downed his second drink and was covering up with the blanket when his arm rubbed against the small box he had stowed away earlier. “I forgot all about you.” he said, pulling it from his pocket. He untied the string, removed the lid and tilted the box. A small object spilled into his hand, it was cylindrical in shape, almost identical to a small A A battery. It looked to be made of the same material as the black box and he was very much surprised to see the name, Dorian, etched upon its side. He reached over and pulled the box from the gym bag. What he saw made him blink his eyes in disbelief because he could have sworn that he had looked over every inch of the viewer and never detected a small hole at the top, like the one he was seeing now. He instinctively dropped the cylinder into the hole and the stone material seemed to magically fill in around it like water collapsing back into a splashed mud puddle. That’s when it happened.
The lenses started to clear and two beacons of light radiated outward. He was never so frightened or anxious in all his life when he lifted the viewer up to his eyes and peered inside. What he was seeing now can only be described as a movie, a movie depicting the various scenes of his own life. A bright sunny day immediately came into view. He was once again a boy of maybe eight or nine, surrounded by his childhood friends, playing a simple game of baseball in a field across the street from where he lived. How happy and carefree was the expression on his young face, and at that moment he felt as though he would give anything to be there now and to be that boy again. The scene suddenly changed. He saw his father, suitcase in hand, quietly walking out the backdoor of their house and getting into a yellow taxi. He felt himself barely stifling a shout, or was it a plea? That moment, he remembered, was the last time he would ever see his old man. The viewer cruelly reminded him of the one memory that he tried his best to keep buried. The scene altered again, now showing his mother at the miserable job she had held for many years. She was ironing like there was no tomorrow, like her very life depended on it, and of course, it did. But more importantly, she knew her sons life depended on it. She looked tired but determined, with a seemingly insurmountable mountain of laundry stacked behind her. He could feel his eyes starting to fill with tears. There came afterwards, a rapid succession of scenes from his school days and on through his adult life. Some, a welcoming reminder while others were like sprinkling salt into unhealed wounds. He could see a gloomy figure now, sitting at an office desk, surrounded by a scattering of paper and staring off into space, looking as though all life and meaning had been sucked from his very soul. The scene changed again; he found himself back at the meeting he had at the antique shop. While looking on, he realized for the first time how utterly frightened the old man’s face looked to be while staring at the box. A swirl of smoke suddenly filled the lenses and for a moment he thought that he might be cheated of his promised conclusion, but to his utter horror, that wasn’t to be the case. What he saw now was the end of all ends.
The lenses never quite cleared of smoke this time, and there was a reason for it. The smoke was truly part of the scene unfolding before him. There had been an accident. He could see cardboard boxes and debris of all sorts strewn long and far across what looked to be a roadway. There was a burning hulk of a plane in the background, shattered and broken. His eye caught sight of something yellow lying among the debris field, not unlike the yellow wind breaker that he was now wearing. The scene drew closer. A body lay there, torn and bloody. Even closer now… a face is turned up toward the sky, bruised and purple, a victims face. At that moment the horror of recognition screamed across his crazed and terror filled mind.
“MY GOD! THIS PLANE IS GONNA CRASH!” He wasn’t sure if he actually yelled the words aloud or just inside his head. It wasn’t a moment later that the plane convulsed again, even more violently this time. A few shrieks came up from somewhere in the back of the plane, more like laughter really, but only the sound of fear registered in his mind. Another bucking of the plane followed, causing the oxygen masks to come flopping down from their hidden compartments and dangle in mid-air, strangely reminding him of the stuffed birds that hung from the old man’s ceiling. He felt as though he was on the verge of throwing up and immediately groped for an air sickness bag in front of him. He barely freed it in time before he wretched the entire contents of his stomach into the bag, though some of the puke didn’t quite make it inside. He pulled back moaning, like a wounded animal caught in a steel trap. The plane appeared to be shrinking in size, crushing the very breath from his lungs. He began taking in quick and shallow gulps of air as though he were a fish out of water. He unbuckled his restraint and jumped from his seat. Quizzical eyes stared back at him as he stood crouching in the aisle-way; a sweat drenched figure with lines of puke running down the front of his jacket and a wild look of shear terror on his face.
“WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!” he screamed into a scattered patch of on-looking faces. A few rows back, a child buried her face into her mother’s bosom and started crying. Angry shouts and threats now rose from the passengers. Something red and pointy flew past his head, missing it by inches. A second later, his arm was being grabbed from behind. He spun around and stared into the face of a very angry stewardess.
“Sir, I insist that you sit down and stop upsetting the passengers,” she said, her grip tightening all the while, like a vise. “We’re in absolutely no danger. Do you understand me? We’re only experiencing normal turbulence.” She pushed him into his seat and brought her face close to his, trying to keep her words confidential. “If you persist in this behavior then we’ll have no choice but to restrain you sir, then we’ll be forced to land at the nearest airport where the police can take over from there. Do you really want that to happen?” He was quiet now. For a few seconds she thought he had gone catatonic but his features eventually evened out. He stared back at her with what looked to be calm resignation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t quite know what came over me. I won’t be any more trouble, I promise you.” With that, he pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes.
The rest of the flight was uneventful. Much to the relief of both crew and passengers, the crazed man appeared to have slept the rest of the journey. The fight arrived on schedule, and by this time most of its passengers had already un-boarded. However, there remained in seat number thirty two, one lone and immobile figure draped in a blanket. One of the stewardesses
stepped up and said to him, “Sir, we’ve landed in New York. It’s time to get up, Sir.” There was no response. She gently shook his shoulder. His right arm fell out from underneath the blanket and dangled lifelessly in the aisle; its wrist slashed open, dripping what was left of his life giving blood to the floor below.
At that moment, somewhere in the terminal a man stands with a sign in his hand that reads “DORIAN.” A faint scream is heard by everyone nearby but he pays no attention, he only looks impatiently down at his watch and shakes his head.