Patrick knew he shouldn't have opened the box.

     His grandfather had died recently and left Patrick his house in the will. Complications due to cancer; a terrible way to go, but Grandad had remained optimistic until the very end.

     "Ain't nothing cancer can take from me but my breath," were his last words, scant hours before the EKG flatlined and the nurses disconnected the IV drip. "My living's done, and my life is mine alone."

     Skip by one funeral, one will reading, some minor family hysterics/threats of legal action, and an inebriated rant on a social media website, and Patrick had moved from his tiny, ratty studio apartment to Grandad's giant mansion in the English countryside. As Patrick understood it, he was not only the favorite grandchild, but the only grandchild Grandad really liked. This was technically only speculation by Patrick, but he had been clued in by Grandad's referral to the rest as "blood sucking parasites" and "ungrateful-ass bastards", as well as a few other colorful terms. Grandad always did have such a way with words. Thus, it was only natural that the house went to Patrick. Sure, it was an extra half hour to the work commute, but it meant no more 3 A.M. parties in the neighboring suites and no more drunk chavs in multicolored track suits puking on his stairs. Of course, the money that came with the house meant the Patrick didn't actually have to work, but he liked his colleagues and wasn't sure what he would do with himself in an giant house all day.

     There had been lots of cleaning to do, things to rearrange, belongings to go through which may or may not have been beloved (and in one case, a leather bound case full of photos from when Grandmom was still alive which were immediately burned, swept up, drenched in kerosene, burned again, and then driven to the seaside and scattered to the wind. Images of pink lace, frills, and silicone would still occasionally haunt Patrick in the wee hours of the morning.). The house was largely clean and tidy due to the house staff keeping everything in order, but Patrick wanted to take stock of his inheritance and make sure everything was in its place.

     Patrick wasted no time in accomplishing this. He started from the basement, which contained a library, a boiler room, a swimming pool with a small shower room attached, and a billiards room. From there he checked out the first floor (kitchen, lounge, waiting room, lobby, servants quarters), the second floor (study, bedrooms, another billiards room), the third floor (more bedrooms, rumpus room), and finally the attic. The attic was accessed by a narrow, winding staircase hidden away in one corner of the third floor and had apparently been used for storage for the better part of a century. It was one place the staff had not attended to, and therefore was covered in a thick blanket of dust that caused Patrick to sneeze violently. After regaining control of his respiratory system, Patrick marched up the stairs with a broom, a vacuum, and a respirator. He supposed he could have had the staff clean it, but he was unused to being waited on and it made him a bit uncomfortable. Up until a few months ago, he had eaten cup noodles on a regular basis and fought daily battles with a roach infestation in the walls.

     Patrick set about cleaning. He vacuumed, he dusted, he swept, he catalogued the items that emerged from the dusty wasteland. He swatted at cobwebs in the rafters and flung open windows wherever he could find them.

     He found the crate in a long forgotten corner. It was an old wooden shipping container, stained with age and done up with chains and a padlock. DO NOT OPEN, it said, and continued UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Patrick made a mental note of this, cleaned the rest of the attic, and because of the indomitable spirit of human curiosity, returned later that day with bolt cutters and a crowbar.

     Inside the crate was a wooden chest big enough to hide several bodies inside. Painted on the lid were the words EXTREME DANGER. KEEP CLOSED FOREVER. Inside of the chest was a smaller chest, big enough to hide only a single body, although it was economy sized so it would fit a reasonably fat person. That chest was painted with the message THIS CHEST SHOULD NEVER BE OPENED FOR ANY REASON. That chest contained a box about the size of an ottoman, labeled COME ON, SERIOUSLY. DON'T. Inside was a cardboard box painted with YOU'LL BE SORRY and inside of that, nestled under several inches of packing peanuts, was a simple wooden case. Instead of having a dire message painted on it, it had a handwritten note place on the lid.

     Do not open this box for any reason, under any circumstances, even at gunpoint, even under pain of death, even if you really, really want to know what's inside and the need to know eats away at you until it's all you can think about and keeps you awake at night with the burning wondering of it. This means you, dafty who has ignored all the other warnings. Some things are better left unknown.

     This gave Patrick pause. Perhaps this was a bad idea. Was there really something in here that could be that terrible? Was it possible? Grandad wasn't known to be a frivolous man.

     Whilst deep in thought, Patrick discovered that his impatient hands had already undone the box's clasp and uncovered the contents.

     Aw, nuts, thought Patrick.

     Inside was a velvet cushion, shaped to fill the box and with a rectangular depression inside. In the depression lay a simple, aged wooden ruler.

     "That's it?" said Patrick aloud. "All of that for a ruler?"

     He picked up the ruler, gave it enough of an examination to find that there was nothing extraordinary about it, and then put it back in the box. He placed the box back among the packing peanuts and went down to get dinner.

     Patrick didn't notice anything wrong until late that evening. The staff had retired for the night and Patrick didn't feel sleepy, so he decided to spend some time in the basement library to read some of his favorite comic books. He had spent about half an hour reading and was fully engrossed in Zapper Jim Versus The Giant Space Toads, issue 11, when all of the lights suddenly went out. Patrick had never been afraid of the dark before (except one time when he was ten and snuck into the living room while his parents thought he was asleep. He watched a full forty minutes of the unrated director's cut of Dawn Of The Night Of The Massacre On Zombie Pier before his father caught him and sent him back to bed. It was a week before he slept properly again, and a month before he would eat meat.), but now he found himself with a slight but creeping sense of unease.

     "Hello?" he called out, hoping the house staff could hear him. "No zombies out there, I trust?"

     With an electric buzz, the lights came back on. Patrick chuckled to himself at his childish behavior and resolved to go to bed. He climbed the stairs to the first floor, walked up the double flights of stairs that led all the way up the third floor where his bedroom lay, and undressed in the bathroom.

     He saw himself naked in the mirror and reflected on how he had put on a little weight since moving in. He wrapped a towel around his waist and decided to start working out again. As he began to brush his teeth, a sound rang out around the mansion. It sounded exactly like a thin piece of wood, approximately a foot long, being slapped harshly against a desktop. Startled, Patrick dropped his toothbrush. It fell with a clatter onto the tile floor. Grumbling and on edge, Patrick stooped to pick it up. He stood up and faced the mirror. With a shock, he realized that he had forgotten to buy batteries for his alarm clock, and then relaxed when he remembered that tomorrow was Saturday.

     He rinsed off his toothbrush, reapplied toothpaste, and started to brush again. Once more, the loud slap reverberated through the house, but Patrick managed to hold onto his toothbrush this time. The noise had sounded closer. Chuckling nervously, Patrick put his toothbrush away and wiped his mouth. Perhaps the house was built inside a strong magnetic field; he had heard that that was responsible for most supernatural experiences. He wasn't sure what magnets and the supernatural had in common, or why it was so common when most houses weren't even built on fields, but he was a practical man and refused to be taken in by superstition.

     As he turned to enter the bedroom, he saw a figure standing in his doorway. It was tall, at least six feet, and wearing a black and white habit with a white wimple. Where her face should have been was a dark hole, with absolutely nothing inside save for two bright pinpricks of light. Her habit had no hem, it simply faded away into nonexistence several inches above the floor. In her hand was clutched the very same ruler that Patrick had uncovered in the attic.

     Patrick's body seized up. Tremors shook his frame and his throat tightened so he couldn't even scream.

     "B-b-b-begone, foul spirit," he managed to squeak.

     The nun, ghastly eyes fixed on Patrick, began to slowly glide closer. Her arm raised high, brandishing the ruler.

     Patrick's mouth gaped like a fish as he gasped for air. He wheezed urgently, trying to shriek but unable. Every second, the nun got closer to him. He managed a step backward, tripped over the bathmat, and landed square on his butt. His towel flew from his waist as he hit the ground.

     Instantly, the ghost recoiled. She threw her arms up in front of her face and leaned away.

     Patrick, who fully expected to have had his soul sucked out through his mouth by now, was understandably confused. Shakily, he got to his feet.

     "B-begone, spirit," he tried again. The ghost began to back away from him and he realized that she was a nun, and he was very naked. It was also true that what Patrick had previously lacked in terms of financial status, he had very much made up for in the endowment department.

     "Look at it," he said quietly.

     The ghost quavered. Her spectral figure shook.

     "Look at it," said Patrick, emboldened.

     The ghost's hands grasped at nothing in front of her face, in a desperate effort to shield her eyes.

     "GAZE UPON MY WEINER AND DESPAIR!" roared Patrick, his hands flung into the air, his feet shoulder length apart, his crotch thrust triumphantly toward the ghost.

     The nun writhed in the air, her figure contorted as if in great pain. With one final, unearthly shriek, she exploded into spectral motes and disappeared entirely.

     On the front lawn of the mansion, the postal workers hustled the padlocked, woodglued, duct-taped crate into the back of their van.

     "Sign here," said another postal worker, handing a clipboard to Patrick. "Where's this going, if you don't mind me asking?"

     "Cap d'Agde," Patrick replied, scribbling his signature onto the paper. "It's in France."

     The postal worker grunted in a manner that suggested the answer was less interesting than he had hoped.

     "Largest nudist colony in the world there, you know," Patrick said.

     "I didn't," replied the worker indignantly. "I ain't no pervert."

     "Of course not," said Patrick.

     Hi! My name is Sterling, and I'm an aspiring writer. I mostly write humor, although I do have a few serious pieces. If you liked my story, please leave a comment! If you didn't like my story, leave a comment anyway! I'm always looking to improve and I never turn away feedback. If you really liked my story, consider subscribing to me; this story is over but I'll try to post something new about once a week.