The inside lamps, save for the two in the den, had all been extinguished, leaving my lodgings in darkness. From my vantage point in the front window overlooking Bank Street, I peered down onto the slimy pavement illuminated by diffused light. It threw circular glimmers around each lamppost. The street rang silent except for an occasional brazen wharf rat that dared venture out to investigate the unattended trash littering the streets. Equally brazen alley cats scampered after them in pursuit of their own meals, tipping trash bins in their wake.

I reclined in the window, my thoughts far from the vacant streets below, but instead speculating on the direction of my future, and the answer, only hours away. What I expected was great wealth. All Hallows Eve of my forty-sixth year was synonymous with my inheritance. Our family heirloom, which in the case of the Hendricks Family, was a small chest given to the eldest son on his forty-fifth birthday, had already been presented to me by the family’s solicitor on my birthday of last. His instructions were explicit. The chest was to remain in my lodgings but not opened until one minute after the beginning of October thirty-first, as stipulated by the conditions of the family trust. Had my father survived to my forty-sixth year, the conditions would have changed to include that the chest not be opened until the first October thirty-first after my father’s demise. Since he had passed on years before, the chest stood before me, ready and waiting.

It was less than five hours before the beginning of All Hallows Eve. I was anxious to see my gift, and what riches it held. I nudged it with my foot, moving it several inches with ease. It was about three feet in length, two feet in height and almost as much in width. I ran my fingers over the smooth exterior of canvas and wood. The nail heads, engraved with tiny flowers, held the oak strips in place. A large padlock secured the shiny latch. A key rested in my hand, having arrived late in the day by special courier from my solicitor’s office. The note attached wished me God speed and great wisdom. I tossed the key about in my palm. The chest and its certain wealth would officially be mine now, in less than four hours and forty-five minutes.

I wondered if my father had sat in such anticipation. I could not recall any discussion, or for that matter, if he did indeed ever receive the family heirloom. He died on All Hallows Eve of his forty-sixth year as a result of a bizarre carriage accident. I never saw the body, but years later I read a copy of the account in a yellowed newspaper clipping. "Mr. Hendrick’s body, dead for some time, was discovered along Paddington Lane with his hands apparently severed by the carriage’s wheels."

I pulled my shawl closer, still not cold enough to fetch the fuel from outside. The simple droning of the rain against the windowpanes soon lulled me into a deep sleep. It was not until several hours later, annoyed by the vibrations originating near my feet, that I awoke. The timepiece on the mantle read twenty-one minutes past the hour of eleven o’clock. I yawned, not fully cognizant of my surroundings. As I made my way back into the realm of alertness, the vibrations intensified. When fully observant, I discovered a plethora of leaves fringed with vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds piled ankle deep about my slippered feet. I glanced around. The window, closed earlier against the wind and rain, stood open—a portal for the foliage that swirled along the floor.

To my astonishment, the infamous chest was alive with movement. It hovered back and forth as if invisible wheels had materialized while I slept. The chest propelled itself from side to side, slowly and deliberately across the floor. A brief, sharp wind brought in a fresh crop of leaves. The coals on the hearth flickered red beneath their thick covering of ash. However strange the night, I realized I was no longer chilled. Instead, the room felt warm and alive.

The chest then levitated from one corner to the other. With each passage the vibrations increased. A low whine emanated from within. The pitch became sharper and clearer until it grew to an ear shattering crescendo. I could not extract my eyes from the chest’s methodical sashay, back and forth, back and forth.

Just before midnight, it silenced and gently fluttered to a standstill before my feet. I took a deep breath and ran a finger over the leather strap securing the top. The time was two minutes before midnight. A muffled tapping startled me. It came from inside. It was a soft, unassuming tap, like a tender knock on an elder’s door.

“What is it?” I said to no one. I had no fear, as I was sure my father before me had had no fear. I felt only a thrilling anticipation for the riches I would soon inherit.

Finally, the mantle clock tolled midnight. With each intonation, the oil lamps dimmed a degree until my den turned to long black and gray shadows. I loosened the strap that held the trunk secure and pushed the key into the lock. My fingers fumbled with excitement. A bright yellow beam escaped from beneath the lid. It did not illuminate the room, but instead, curled back upon itself. I pulled the strap away and opened the cover, letting the weight rebound on its hinges. A fiery orange light oozed out and bathed the room in a pumpkin afterglow.

Shading my eyes, I stole a glance inside and gasped in shock and horror. I reeled backwards in my chair. Bloodless hands, severed at the wrists, skittered upon their fingertips, one over the other, crawling blindly about like an overcrowded den of insects. They climbed and scratched at the sides of the trunk, fell backwards, dug at the coarse paper lining and continued to shred their way upward.

Sheer terror enveloped me.

The leaves in the room no longer rested light and brittle at my feet. They had solidified into a heavy covering, as weighty as fresh cement. I struggled to extract my feet from my slippers, but they were solidly impaled in the plaster-like substance.

Panic overtook me.

“Let me go! Let me go,” I screamed. Although hard to the touch, the substance moved like rising bread dough, creeping up my ankles, embracing my shins, slithering over the bend in my knees, and paralyzing my lower body into submission. It was impossible to stand. My heart pummeled my chest, reverberated in my throat, and thundered in my ears.

“Please,” I whimpered, “Let me go. I beg you. Let me go.”

The throng of creeping fingers reached the top of the chest and scrambled to the edges where they lingered before spilling out onto the floor and skittering into the darkness. I heard them clicking along the floorboards. My mind froze in dread as the next crop of severed hands folded and unfolded, stretched and scratched before tumbling to freedom. I cried. Soon, inching digits clawed at the material on the back of my chair. I felt them working their way across my shoulders and down my arms. Sturdy grips pinned my upper body. I tried to turn my head away, but the dead hands held my face. A glint of steel descended close to my cheek. A clammy palm dragged its way across my mouth, smothering my howls.

Nearing insanity, I swooned. Hands sharpening a knife danced upon my lap, the flint gliding over the metal slowly and deliberately, creating a razor’s edge.

“Please God,” I prayed. “Please God, I beg you, Merciful God…”

The blade rose high above my right hand. With invisible energy, it sliced through the air and jarred against the bones in my wrist with paralyzing force. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced—hot stinging agony. I moaned. Tendrils of torture, like bolts of lightning, shot through me. The blade dislodged itself, lingered in mid air once again and came down hard—over and over until there was nothing left but a bloody stump of pulp where my hand once was. It lay lifeless, crumpled on the floor like a useless piece of paper. The knife, still embedded in the armrest, rose and floated across my chest, just below my chin, its honed edge bathed in blood. It hung above my left hand, swaying gently. I screamed the shriek of the near insane. Shrouded figures drew in around me, sucking the air from my lips. As I fought for consciousness, the fiends began to chant.

Many sons of many years
Have given unto us
Repentance for their father’s sins
And paid with hands of lust.

On this night we do decree
Another debt is due
The hands of yet another son
We’ve come to take from you.

At that precise moment, I knew my father’s death had not been accidental, but decreed by his father before him. Guilt loomed just beyond my consciousness. I realized with the fleeting horror of impending madness, the price my own son would one day pay.