MagicBox: Do Not Open

 

MagicBox: Do Not Open

A horror short story by ChatGPT

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After my grandmother passed away, I visited her house to sort through her belongings.
She had always been… strange.
She kept one room in the house permanently locked and often warned me,
“Never go inside. Never.”

No one in the family had ever stepped into that room.
But while clearing out her study, I found a hidden door behind an old bookshelf.
Without thinking, I opened it.

The room was cold and dark, the air heavy with dust and age.
In the center was a desk, and on it, a small wooden box.

It smelled of rotting wood.
Carved into the lid were just two words:

“MagicBox.”

Taped to it was a handwritten note in shaking script:

“Do not open.
No matter what you see, hear, or feel—do not respond.”

A chill ran down my spine.
But warnings, of course, are meant to be ignored.

I opened the box.

---

It was empty.
Then the silence hit—unnatural, total.
As if the air had collapsed in on itself.

Then, a voice.

From inside the box.

“Help me.”

It was a child’s voice.
Soft. Weak. Terrified.

I froze.

Again, closer this time:

“It’s cold… It’s so dark in here…”

I reached out to close the lid.
But my hand wouldn’t move.
Something had grabbed me.

Its grip was wet. Cold. Sticky.

I screamed and yanked my arm back, slamming the lid shut.
The voice stopped.

---

But that night, and every night since, I’ve had the same dream.
The box opens again.
And something climbs out.

Each time, it looks more and more like me.

---

A few days ago, a friend who had attended the funeral told me something odd.
“They say your grandma spent her final days guarding that box.
Wouldn’t let anyone near it.
When they found her body…
Her hands had turned to wood.”

I looked at my own hands in the mirror.
My fingertips are cracking.
Splintering like bark.

---

I’ve locked the box away again.
But every night, I hear the whisper.

From inside the box:

“You’re next.”

---

The End.

magicbox

 A short story by ChatGPT

In a dusty corner of an old antique shop, half-hidden behind porcelain dolls and rusted trinkets, sat a wooden box.
Its surface was rough, its corners chipped, and across the lid, in fading letters, was carved: “MagicBox.”

“Not for sale,” said the old shopkeeper as soon as I touched it.
His voice was raspy, but his eyes were sharp.

“Why not?” I asked. “It’s just a box.”
“It’s not just any box. It gives you what you desire most.”
“And what’s the catch?”
“It takes what you value most in return.”

I laughed. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”
He didn’t laugh back.

---

Days passed, but the box haunted my thoughts.
Eventually, I returned to the shop. The old man didn’t speak. He simply handed it to me.

At home, I set the box on my desk. After a long pause, I slowly lifted the lid.

Empty.

Disappointed, I closed it and went about my evening.
Moments later, my phone rang.

“Hi, we loved your portfolio. Can you come in for an interview next week?”
It was from the dream job I’d almost given up on.

One wish granted.

---

Over the next few months, everything changed.
Career success. Romantic bliss. Even my long-lost novel got published.
It was like the universe was finally listening.

But something strange began happening.

First, I forgot my old email password.
Then, I couldn’t recall the name of my high school best friend.
One day, I looked at a photo of my mother—and didn’t recognize her face.

Panicked, I opened the MagicBox again.

Still empty. But I could hear something this time. A faint whisper. My name, spoken from within.

That’s when I understood.

The box granted dreams—but collected memories.
Piece by piece, it was taking me.

I scribbled a note and placed it inside the box:

“This box gives you everything you want.
But takes away everything you are.
Open it only if you’re ready to forget who you were.”

I returned to the antique shop and set it back on the dusty shelf.
The old man gave me a knowing look.

“So,” he said quietly, “who are you now?”

I opened my mouth to answer.
But the words never came.

---

The End.