The carved, wooden box was heavy in my hands, and I looked up at Uncle Andrew curiously.

"It's a present, Lottie," he said, tucking his hands back into the pockets of his oversize wool coat. "Not for Christmas, though. For your birthday."

"My birthday was back in October!"

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry I missed it. Your mother let me know that she was furious, sparing no regard for the fact that I was still in the Carpathians, researching revenant folklore, and -"

My mother held up a hand. "Stop digging that hole, Andrew. You haven't hit bottom yet."

Uncle Andrew looked sheepish. 'You're my very favourite sister, you do know that, Anneliese?" He said.

"I'm your only sister," My mother pointed out. I giggled.

They were clearly on the verge of one of their usual sibling "debates", so I took my little box and did my best to disappear. Specifically, I made my way up to my bedroom and shut the door.

I sat cross-legged on the bed and turned the box over in my hands. It wasn't like anything I'd seen before. It was definitely old, and it was definitely wood. The carvings on it were cool. Really cool, actually. The lid and all four sides each had their own scene, while the bottom was plain, smooth wood. On the front, a knight with a lance facing off against a fat mouse with a rapier. On the left and right sides were snowy, winter scenes of a well-treed countryside. The lid was carved to show a quiet, old-fashioned scene, somebody's living room with a fireplace and comfy chairs. The best scene, oddly, was the one on the back; this one showed two armies, mice and toy soldiers, facing off with cannons and bayonets. They were shown just moments from engaging, glaring at each other fiercely. Just at the base of this picture, where it didn't interfere with the image, there was a round hole lined in brass, from which a brass handle protruded.

I took the handle, and found that it turned. There was a little bit of resistance, and the creaking noise of a spring being wound. I figured this was one of those music boxes that had a little model ballerina that danced when you opened the lid. I turned the box back the way it was supposed to face, and lifted the lid.

As the lid came up, there was an explosion of bright, pinkish light, at the same moment as the room filled with music. It wasn't the tiny, tinny noise I'd expect from a little music box. Instead, the music had the expansive, eerie glee of an insane carnival. By the time the light began to fade, I had dropped the box and kicked it to the end of the bed.

As the light faded it coalesced, into a single pink-gold sphere, the colours flowing and running across its surface like drowned watercolour paints. It floated, bobbing slightly, directly over the open box. While I stared, the sphere tightened, tightened, and then winked out. In its place, a tiny humanoid figure hovered. She was fat woman, swathed in gold cloth, delicate as cobwebs. She had a pile of sliver-white hair and a very pink, smooth face. She held a dainty, gold baton, no larger than toothpick, in her left hand.

In a voice like a thousand, tiny, discordant bells, she asked, "And who are you?"

I admit that I didn't answer right away. I was too busy staring.

"Who," she repeated, her voice somehow dark despite its high pitch, "are you?"

"Lottie," I said.

"Is that your real name?"

"Yes! Well, it's short for Charlotte, but -"

"Charlotte? Not Marie or Clara?"

"No, no, it's Charlotte, really!"

The small woman floated closer to me, using no noticeable means of propulsion. I pulled back, but she made it to within centimetres of my nose before she stopped. She stared into my eyes for a long time, but not long enough for me to decide what colour her eyes were. The colour was alternately warm and cold, changeable as water.

"Ridiculous," she finally declared, and floated back towards the box. "Even for a human. I suppose you can help me nevertheless."

"Help you?" I asked. "But who are you? What are you?"

With a malicious little smile, she said, "I am the simplest, the most good-hearted creature in all the world."

"But," I looked around the room. I hoped to feel reassured by its familiarity, but the weird pinkish light that reflected off of the lady made everything feel nauseating, like it was made of ground meat that had started to decay.

"But?"

"But who are you? What's your name?"

The woman glared at me, her eyes narrowing to slits. "My, but you do think yourself clever, don't you? As though I would be fool enough to tell you my true name."

My voice shaking, I asked, "Fine, then, what are you?"

"Is it not plain? I am one of the goodfolk, and a fine, noble lady, moreover!"

"Goodfolk? What's that?"

The woman looked at me like I was an idiot. "You have heard the word 'fairy' before, have you not, human?"

I think my mouth fell open at this point, but I'm not entirely sure. At any rate, the small woman smacked me on the head with her fingerling baton - or wand, I guess - and it felt like being hit on the head with a full-size, rolled-up newspaper.

"Ow!" I protested.

"I would be stuck with a human fool," the fairy-lady groused. "But no matter. Slave!" she turned to me, "I require the following:" and her tinkly voice began to list a thousand, thousand things, none of which seemed to stay in my memory, except 'ink' and 'spider silk'.

When I did not react immediately, she rapped me on the head with her wand again. "Attend, slave!" she ordered.

Still pushed up against the headboard of the bed, I glared at her. "I am not your slave."

She tilted her head to one side, her pale bouffant of hair nearly touching one gilded shoulder. "But you are, human. I know your name. Charlotte!" she ordered, "Fetch me ink!"

Before I could even process the request, my body began to respond. My legs unspooled themselves out from under me, and my arms reached towards the desk. By the time I knew what was happening, I was jerking across the carpet on unsteady legs, my fingers closing on the drawer-pull. I tried to fight it - you don't know how hard I tried - but my brain seemed to have become unstuck. It was like I was floating above myself, suspended and ineffectual.

My fingers found a ballpoint pen in the desktop drawer, and pushed it on the little creature.

"What is this?" she asked, dwarfed by the little plastic cylinder.

Against my will, my mouth opened and creaked, "Ink, mistress," hoarse as an ogre with a headcold.

"Ink?" the fairy asked, "You call this mass of inert petroleum ink?"

My voice began to explain, but it was too late. The small woman threw herself from side to side, pitching violently as she shrieked, "Ink? Ink?!"

Small pink-and-gold explosions began to toss objects around the room. Within seconds, plush animals, scrap paper, and a whole tube of multi-coloured glitter were all suspended in the air. My papier-maché dinosaur crumpled against the door with a powerful 'whoompf!'.

"Everything okay up there, Lottie?" My mother called.

I ached to reply, but I was still detached from my body, unable to force air through my vocal cords. Instead, I watched in horror as my entire porcelain tea set smashed itself to pieces against the walls of the room. That tea set had been a gift from Uncle Andrew on my 6th birthday, when he had been studying Shinto divination techniques in Japan. I would have cried - I wanted to cry - but my body was not my own. My hands just kept dumbly pressing pens on the fairy, who ranted insanely.

Just as my teddy bear launched itself at my bedside lamp, my door flew open. The lamp fell to the ground in a tinkle of broken glass, and Uncle Andrew strode into the room.

"Stop!" Uncle Andrew said, and his voice echoed around the room like a thunderclap on a muggy summer afternoon.

The fairy stopped mid-fit, staring at him. My own body shuddered to an uneasily balanced halt. Uncle Andrew dug into his coat pockets, and brought his hands back, full of unwrapped candies. To my surprise, the fairy fell upon them greedily.

"This is a good offering, human! A suitable offering!" she crowed.

"I thought I told you to leave that box," he said, in a voice like a phalanx of trumpets. "Charlotte is under my protection."

At the sound of my voice, I found I was back in my body again. I wriggled my fingers, then sat down heavily on the bed. Uncle Andrew didn't seem to notice. He was still focussed on the tiny woman.

"She is not!" the little woman protested. "She is my slave. Mine!"

Uncle Andrew's eye's sparkled with amusement. It was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. "And whose slave are you, Sugarplum?" he asked.

The little creature drew back as if she had been struck. "Servant! I am your servant, human."

She turned her attention back to the candies, stuffing them in her mouth. Uncle Andrew reached out and grabbed her golden-gossamer collar, and shook her, hard. She shrieked, an almost comical noise.

"I know your name," He said. "Therefore you are my slave. Take your wages and be gone. Trouble Charlotte no more."

"But -" the fairy-lady began to protest.

'Begone, Sugarplum, and trouble Charlotte no more," Uncle Andrew repeated.

Then, with a shriek and puff of pink and gold, the fairy was gone.

One hand behind his head, Uncle Andrew looked at me sheepishly. "Sorry about that, Lottie. Let's not tell your mother, okay?"

Prompt: You find a music box that, when played, brings a sugarplum faerie to life. She's not friendly.

Source: http://www.justinmclachlan.com/1027/holiday-writing-prompts/