The Trinket Box

By John Kaden

Milton Brooks hasn’t been the same since his wife, June, passed away five years ago. His memory has been slipping, and he worries that soon he won’t remember her at all.

When he finds a vintage cigar box hidden in June’s old dresser, he begins to obsess over the odd collection of knick-knacks contained inside it — but his journey to remember the past will take a horrifying turn for the worse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Kaden
• Release date: Feb 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311382757

Book preview

THE TRINKET BOX

John Kaden

Milton Brooks hasn’t been the same since his wife, June, passed away five years ago. His memory has been slipping, and he worries that soon he won’t remember her at all.  

When he finds a vintage cigar box hidden in June’s old dresser, he begins to obsess over the odd collection of knick-knacks contained inside it — but his journey to remember the past will take a horrifying turn for the worse.

THE TRINKET BOX

Copyright © 2014 John Kaden

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced in any form, electronic or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

Cover Design by Timmy Lunsford

Join the mailing list for giveaways, deals, and new releases.

JohnKaden.com

Also by John Kaden

Blood_Seance_small

BLOOD SEANCE

A Haunted House Novel

Alexandria_small

ALEXANDRIA

An Apocalyptic Adventure

CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I

Milton Brooks sat with the vintage cigar box on his lap, looking out his tenth floor window at the street below — which is what he liked to do most days, whether he knew it or not. He was just shy of seventy, and decades spent carousing in the bright Florida sunshine had leathered his skin and creased it with a roadmap of deep wrinkles. His pale blue eyes gazed out at a skyline populated by palm trees and power lines. He sat like this for hours sometimes, always with the cigar box held in his frail hands like a gift he was waiting to give someone, if only they would show up to receive it.

It was a cheap old box made of heavy cardboard. Nothing special. There were baroque designs around the sides, and on the cover, in ornate, curly-cue lettering, the words Sweet Life were printed. Beneath that, a picture of a stout-looking fisherman, standing in a rowboat with a stogie hanging out the corner of his mouth, the straw hat on his head tipped back at a sporty angle.

Milton thumbed open the lid and let it fall softly shut. Over and over he did this.

Sometimes he would raise the lid all the way and let it fall open on his bony knees, and one-by-one he would take out the items and study them in a quiet and unhurried manner. A gold and ruby brooch shaped like a treble clef. A metal lighter. A souvenir ball-point pen. More things, all jumbled together. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where a single one of them had come from. Each odd trinket was its own little mystery — a menagerie of lost memories that lingered just beyond his mind’s grasp.

He had found the box about six months ago, tucked back in the bottom drawer of his late wife’s old antique dresser. It was pure happenstance that he even stumbled across it at all. If that bottom drawer hadn’t been cracked open an inch, he might never have gotten curious enough to look inside — but there it was, hidden back beneath a pile of support stockings and out-of-date blouses. He took it into the kitchen and cleaned it with the delicacy of an archaeologist restoring a priceless relic, carefully wiping off the dust and revealing the rustic, Norman Rockwell-style picture of the cigar-chomping fisherman on the cover — the Sweet Life man.

Since that night, he had spent countless hours pouring over the box and its treasures — whether he was of sound mind or not, it made no difference; the compulsion was the same either way. It gave him something to think about, something to puzzle over during the lonely hours. It wasn’t much of a hobby, but it passed the time. He’d given up crosswords years ago (the clues had gotten too tough), and he only watched the television while he ate his supper. That was one of the few rituals he had preserved from his married days: the nightly news with the nightly meal.

It had been five tough years since June had passed away — taken in her sleep in the still of night. Milton woke up the next morning to find her cold and stiff, still nestled against his side. Her family had a long history of heart disease, so it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, but that first moment, that first touch of her cold silky skin, had been so full of shock and sadness that Milton could barely eat for weeks afterward.

It was after June died that his mind had first started to sour. In the early stages it was just little things — Where did I put my wallet? Missed what appointment? Today? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I must’ve written it down wrong. He chalked it up to old age for most of that first year.

But it worsened, as it often does, and a dreadful voice