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If anyone asked Kurt what the best thing about New York was, he’d tell you that no matter what day it was, you could always find a bargain here- there was an opportunity for shopping 365 days in the year, if you knew where to look. Kurt’s favourite haunts were the endless flea markets. From the famous charity market of Broadway Cares that sold souvenirs and theatre cast-offs down to the everyman’s trinkets, books-by-the-pound and second-hand clothes, there was always something unique to be found for the small budget.
That Sunday, Kurt was browsing a furniture market in hopes of finding a new (vintage) coffee table. His old table had several ugly glass stains on it from Blaine’s soda machine, and he might have been able to sand it down and salvage it, but he lacked the proper tools and his singles apartment was too small to make room for such a dusty operation anyway. He had already seen a black lacquered piece that had potential, but the seller was asking a lot of money for it, so Kurt had feigned disinterest and made a point of walking away so he could come back later and barter some more. Glancing left and right as he walked through the narrow street full of private vendors, a low rosewood table caught his eye. Or rather, the box on top of it.
It was a miniature chest that might just be big enough to store some of his larger brooches. It looked a lot like the one his mother used to have on her dresser.
“How much do you want for that?” he asked the woman behind the stand.
She came over to see what he was pointing at and quickly took it off the table. “It’s not for sale.”
Kurt frowned. “I’m not as poor as I might look,” he said.
The woman shook her head. “You don’t want that, honey. Trust me.” She gestured at some other boxes on her stand. “These are much prettier, don’t you think?”
“Actually, no. I really kind of want that one,” Kurt insisted. She was really playing hard to get. “It’s that one or nothing.”
The woman seemed to hesitate. Then, she leaned over to him, lowered her voice, ans whispered: “This box is cursed. It is evil.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow. What kind of hipster sales strategy was this? “Cursed, how?” he asked.
“I was told it was carpented by a thief. Whatever you put inside…vanishes,” the woman said, her eyes going a little wider. “At night, the man who made the box returns and takes whatever is inside. I thought it was a joke, but… my mother’s jewellery, it’s all gone.”
“So, there’s some guy out there with a master key?” Kurt asked.
“No, not ‘some guy’,” the woman replied. “A ghost! This box is at least eighty years old. The man who made it is long dead.”
“Are you sure someone else didn’t just steal your stuff?” Kurt replied sceptically.
“The ghost from the box stole it!” the woman exclaimed.
Kurt shook his head. The woman was clearly a bit disturbed. “Right. So…wouldn’t you rather get rid of it then? I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.”
“Fifty!”
“Fifty dollars for a box that will rob me? No way. Twenty-five.”
“Forty.”
Kurt left with the box in hand for thirty dollars, feeling pleased and a little excited. Was it just a superstitious story, or did the thing maybe have a secret compartment?
At home, he looked at it from all sides, tapping the surfaces and carefully prodding the seams with a screwdriver, but there didn’t seem to be any special trick to it. Just out of curiosity, he placed his screwdriver inside, closed the lid, and left the box on his kitchen table as he went to bed.
The next morning, the screwdriver was gone.
Kurt was confused. Had he really put it inside, or only thought he had? Had he been sleepwalking again? To test it, he put a marked banknote inside the box the next evening. If he happened to take it out and put it with the rest of his money, the mark would remind him.
The box was empty as he opened it, and the notes in his wallet were unmarked.
“I should put this on ebay for serial killers looking to hide evidence,” Kurt mused, intrigued. Then he got an idea. “Okay, ghost,” he said out loud, “I hope you like primary colours.”
He took a box from the bottom of his wardrobe marked “B.A.” and stuffed in as many of his ex-fiancé’s bowties in the box as would fit inside. On top, he carefully placed a ring made of gumwrappers.
“To the Netherworld with you,” he mumbled. He should probably get rid of the box soon, but for now, he had a little house cleaning to do.