Elias didn't try to open it again. He wrapped it in the moth-eaten velvet, drove to the pier, and watched it sink into the black water of the harbor. But that night, as he lay in bed, he felt a familiar hum beneath his pillow.
The room went cold. The shadows in the corners of the workshop lengthened, stretching toward the workbench. Elias tried to pull his hand away, but his thumb was stuck in the groove. The hum he’d felt before was now a roar, a psychic static that filled his skull. The Object of My Affection
When he looked up, the shop was silent. The music box sat on the workbench, once again a simple, closed cube of dark wood. No seams. No keyhole. No groove. Elias didn't try to open it again
It sat on a back shelf, buried under a moth-eaten velvet cloth. It wasn’t ornate; it was a simple cube of dark, unidentifiable wood, cold to the touch. There was no key, no visible seam, and no brand. Yet, the moment Elias brushed the grime from its lid, he felt a hum vibrate through his fingertips, like a purr. The room went cold
“Give it back,” a voice whispered—not in his ears, but in the marrow of his bones.
Suddenly, the music spiked into a sharp, discordant note. The ivory figure snapped her head toward Elias. Her eyes—two microscopic specks of obsidian—seemed to lock onto his.
He bought it for twenty dollars and took it to his workshop.