The Object Of My Affection -

“Give it back,” a voice whispered—not in his ears, but in the marrow of his bones.

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 box began to pull. It wasn't just his thumb; it was his warmth, his breath, the very light in the room being sucked into the dark wood. The ivory woman’s face shifted, her sorrow replaced by a predatory hunger. She grew taller, the ivory turning to pale, translucent skin. The Object of My Affection

He reached under the fabric and felt the cold, unyielding wood. The object of his affection had decided it wasn't finished with him yet. Should the story end on this , or

The music screamed. A sound like shattering glass tore through the air, and Elias was thrown backward. He hit the floor, gasping, his thumb throbbing and bruised. “Give it back,” a voice whispered—not in his

Elias grabbed a heavy brass paperweight with his free hand and smashed the delicate silver gears.

For three days, Elias was obsessed. He tried every skeleton key in his collection. He applied heat, then oils. He spoke to it, a habit of lonely men, calling it "my silent friend." On the fourth night, while the rain hammered against the skylight, he noticed a faint indentation on the bottom—not a keyhole, but a thumbprint-sized groove. He pressed his thumb into it. But that night, as he lay in bed,

The ivory woman began to dance, but her movements were erratic, desperate. She reached out, her tiny hands grasping at the air. Elias realized with a jolt of horror and fascination that she wasn't dancing; she was searching.