I've told plenty of scary stories in my career.

Tales that chill your bones as they've chilled mine.

Yeah, the Laura I'm Park keeps me up at night too.

And today isn't going to be any different.

But monsters come in many shapes and sizes.

So I ask for patience when I say,

this story starts with something as unremarkable as a box.

About a month ago this box I'm talking about arrived in the mail. It was from my aunt. See, we'd put Grandma's house on the market,

and during the final cleanup, my aunt found this thing.

It said, Rodney, on it?

So she sent it to me in LA. It was red and wooden and had a curling

sticky note with my name and grandma's handwriting on the side.

I knew this box.

More than a few times I'd seen Grandma shift through his contents when she thought no one was

looking.

She cried when she did it too, which confused me, you know, because this thing happened when I was young.

My tears at that point, they were kids tears, visceral, instinctive, a tantrum if I didn't get candy, fear if I fell off a bike, that kind of thing.

Grandma's tears were quiet, deep, and very much connected to that box's contents.

As you might guess, I'd always wanted,

needed to know what was inside.

But now that I have it right here in my hands, I can't seem to open it.

It's been sitting on my desk for weeks.

...