MagicBox: Do Not Open
A horror short story by ChatGPT
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.
