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Why are you doing this to me? I ask the warped blue foot locker sitting in the middle of the dingy concrete basement.

The answering scratches coming from inside the locker are just as inscrutable as they've been for the last hour.

I keep pacing. My legs weary from all the tension,

and my arm heavy from the sword I carry. My head turns as I move, keeping my eyes on the

foot locker no matter what. I brought a worklight out from the back room, and it shines brightly

on the locker. The rest of the large space is in darkness.

Why are you doing this to me?

I ask the thing again.

You're talking to a box, old boy.

A British voice says in my head.

Oh, Christ, not you again, I say.

Yes, me again, old chap.

I stare down at the foot locker, trying to keep the stupid British guy who lives in my head quiet.

The scratching continues.

I wonder if it's trying to get out.

I bet it is.

I found the locker behind the building, amid a stained mattress, boxes of old clothes, and broken appliances. Maybe someone couldn't afford a trip to the landfill, or they were just too lazy,

so they dumped their crap behind my building. All the better for me, because I had been looking

...