The Hoodoo Box: August 2013

This story was originally posted on /R/NOSLEEP. I am putting here to give it a permanent home. The first posts will be as they appeared on reddit and titled with the name of the post and the date they were posted. Please follow this blog to better help us figure out what is going on.

The Hoodoo Box - Part 1 - originally posted 8/16/2013

I come from a long line of trash-pickers. No, I don't dumpster dive, but if I see an interesting piece of furniture on the side of the road; if I see an unusual item in a thrift store, it intrigues me. My kitchen table and chairs came out of the trash- all they needed was some cleaning and new cushions. The antique piano in my apartment was given to me by some friends who were going to throw it away- I couldn't let them discard it, even though I don't really play very well. I learned how to find unwanted treasures from the best- my grandmother. She loved and still loves searching for antiques at yard sales- there have been times when an item picked up for pocket change has turned a nice profit (not like “buy a house” profit, more like “fill up your gas tank” profit). What I'm saying is that my brother and I are good cases for the idea of these types of interests being hereditary.

Over the years my brother Mike and I have developed a bit of a sixth sense relating to finding useful items for free or very cheap. Flea markets, antique stores, hawkers on the highway, we find some great stuff from time to time; though ever since we found the box, we've sort of slowed things down.

The box is where all of this started. I bought it for $1 at a garage sale in our hometown of Charleston, South Carolina, back in March. It's made of wood and shaped like a small treasure chest with two ornamental iron lions on the front. The latch is missing, one of the hinges is broken, and the box is clearly old- the wood is quite brittle. Mike rolled his eyes as we got into the car- he had found a genuine McCoy vase, but all I had found was this rotting wooden box. He looked at me and says “Really, Mark? That thing smells like mildew.” “Dude, it spoke to me,” I said, meaning only that I had felt as if I were being drawn to it. Mike understands these gut feelings when I have them- he gets them too and they tend to lead us in the right direction- so he just shook his head and we drove home in silence.

We drove back to our parents' house and went to the downstairs den. Mike began surfing the web, looking for someone to buy the vase. I turned on Netflix to watch Arrested Development while I examined the box more carefully. That's when I noticed the terribly disguised false bottom. I hadn't checked closely at all before I bought it, only opening it once to take a look inside.

The inside of the box was lined with a light blue felt. There were braces for a shelf, telling me that it was possibly a jewelry box in its former life. As I looked more carefully, I noticed that the bottom inside the box was almost two inches higher than the base on the outside. I gave several taps with my finger.

TOK! TOK! TOK! The sound was deep and hollow, yet a bit muffled.

My heart leapt with excitement. “Miiiiiichael... you're never going to guess what I found...”
“What?” he replied.

“I'm pretty sure this old box has a false bottom.” As he walked over I pulled out my pocket knife and started cutting through the felt around the edges of the box. It all peeled away relatively easily, leaving a bare bottom that was a different color than the rest of the box. I grinned like a kid on Christmas as I wedged my knife into the edge and began to pry. There was a splintering sound as I met some brief resistance- the underside of the platform had been glued to a divider in the bottom of the box (which also tore out of it). I was left with two densely packed lumps of dirty cotton batting and shredded newspaper.

When I picked apart the lump on the right, I found an ornate smoking pipe. It was in the shape of a skeletal hand holding a bowl, which was carved from some sort of nut. It was in excellent shape and fairly clean, which for me was great news as I like to smoke a pipe from time to time. I lifted the pipe and its packaging out and paused when I saw the true bottom of the box. There, faded by the years, was a chalk drawing of an eye.

I stared for a moment and a cold chill ran down my spine. I shuddered and snapped back to the present- the feeling of nervousness I had just experienced faded rapidly. I began to pull apart the packing on the left. Inside was a small drawstring pouch made of red flannel. I had a moment of trepidation. I held that pouch in my hand, having an ominous feeling as to what it was supposed to be.

“That looks like a-”

“Yeah.” I cut off my brother's sentence, knowing what would have been next out of his mouth. He would have called it a “hand” or a “root bag,” which was my guess too.

I think that for the rest of the story to make sense, I am going to have to give you a brief history lesson. We have a lot of relatives, on both sides of the family, from Beaufort, South Carolina. Charleston, Beaufort and the surrounding sea islands of the Carolina Lowcountry such as Hilton Head, Dafuskie, John's Island, etc. are very important historically- especially for African American history- the Gullah dialect and culture are still somewhat preserved in those places, and they're great locations to visit and experience the art and folklore (plus all of the old Oak trees, Spanish moss, and marshy wetlands provide some of the most lovely scenery imaginable). Gullah culture, being a blend of African and European traditions, instills a combination of fear and respect for witchcraft and spirits. The region of the state where Mike and I grew up has historically been home to many “Hoodoo Root Doctors” who made their living by hexing or breaking curses for people.

If you don't put any stock in it at all, it looks like a predatory scam- poor superstitious people gave their hard earned and extremely limited money to these men and women who would make little pouches filled with herbs, bones, little trinkets, graveyard dirt, etc. These little pouches are referred to by many names, including “Mojo Hands” or just “Roots.” It seems cruel, but if you look at it from another angle, it is an excellent service that is being provided: these witch doctors are selling peace of mind.

Now, most Beaufortonians know the local legends about the rivalry between Dr. Buzzard (regarded by many as “King of the Root Doctors”) and Sheriff J.E. McTeer (he was a white man and was the High Sheriff of Beaufort County for thirty-seven years- during that time he was also regarded by the Gullah community as a powerful conjure man). Since our dad and our Grandfather on our mom's side are Beaufort boys through and through, we sort of grew up around these stories; in fact, one of my favorite anecdotes is about my great-grandfather, Jake, calling Sheriff McTeer out to their property to complain that the family's sugar cane was frequently being stolen. McTeer told him to throw some flour out onto the leaves every day so that people would think there was a hex on it. It actually worked, and people stopped stealing his cane. They stopped buying it too... Hoodoo superstition has deep (hah) “roots” in those lowcountry swamps.

Anyway, on the day I found the box, Mike and I had enough of a passive familiarity with hoodoo to recognize a root bag when we saw one. The little red pouch was tied with a piece of string that also secured a small, ornate cross to the pouch. I started to pull at the knot.
“I'm not sure that's such a good idea...” said Mike.

“C'mon dude, I've always wanted to see what one of these might look like inside.” I removed the string and placed it and the cross back into the box, noticing for the first time what was chalked onto the bottom where the mojo bag had been- two letters: “S. R.” Not sure what it stands for, probably just someone's initials.

I opened the pouch and blindly reached my fingers into it, instantly regretting the action that brought blood to my fingertips. Something sharp inside the bag had cut me. I took it over to the coffee table and dumped it out unceremoniously. The contents of the root bag consisted of dirt, a shard of a broken mirror (with a drop of my blood running down the reflective side), and a dried up vine or weed or something wrapped around the mirror. Mike and I kind of sat there, scratching our heads and wondering just what function might be intended for such a combination of items. Baffled, I swept the dirt onto a sheet of paper and poured it back into the bag, but I kept the mirror shard separate. In hindsight, I don't know why I did this- it may have just been another gut feeling, or perhaps something else had compelled me to place this set of items back into the box in a more accessible arrangement; whatever the cause, the weirdness really began after that.

So later, after supper, I went outside with Mike and our dog, Ringo, to try out my new pipe. I packed it with an English tobacco blend that I am fond of- it's not too heavy on the Latakia and there's just enough Black Cavendish to give it a certain smoothness. As I was lighting it, my brother began to object. “Should you really be smoking from a pipe you found in a box full of black magic?” “Don't be racist” I said, between puffs. “Dude, not black people magic, BLACK MAGIC.”

I winked at him and drew the smoke into my mouth. I know you're not supposed to inhale heavy pipe or cigar smoke, but I often do anyway. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of holding the smoke down in my lungs and exhaling slowly. I took a deep breath of fresh air and opened my eyes- and nearly shit my pants.

The evening shadows in my parents' yard seemed to have come alive, moving by themselves. Certain plants around the edge of their yard seemed to generate light, and they glowed on their own without interrupting any of the moving shadows. The sound of drums, somewhere far away, echoed in my ears and the cut on my finger pulsed in time with them.

I must have had a weird look on my face, because my brother said my name repeatedly.

“Mark... Mark! … MARK!”

I shook my head and blinked. It's a strange way to describe it, but the shadows sort of- dimmed.

“You kinda spaced out for a few minutes there...”
“Minutes?” I asked.
“Yeah, like five minutes. What exactly are you smoking?”

I looked at the strange pipe in my hand (which, though still warm, had gone out due to my neglect) and slowly rose to go inside for the evening. “I'm going to bed” I said.

When I opened the box to put away the pipe, the shadows sprang to life again. They danced around the jagged shard of mirror, drawing my eyes in towards the reflective side- which no longer showed an image of its surroundings. The really strange thing is that the mirror had taken on the appearance of a window looking out into a moonless winter night. There were two small points of a purplish light in the void visible on the mirror's surface. I stood, frozen, looking into it as the lights grew larger; as if there were two purple animal eyes creeping towards me in the darkness. I heard the drums again, getting louder with each beat; and then I smelled it- there was a very faint odor of decay, like driving by a dead raccoon with your windows down on a humid summer morning. A new sound, the sound of thousands of cicadas screeching together in a pulsing chorus, became louder and louder as a humanoid figure began to take shape in the mirror- the purple points of light becoming its perfectly round glowing eyes. He- it was definitely masculine- lifted his hand in front of his torso, palm up, and beckoned me towards the broken glass. I felt that he wanted to share with me his secret knowledge; the esoteric world that is just out of view on the other side of the mirror. The cicadas sang of his wisdom; the steady crescendo of the drums synchronized my heartbeat to the motion of his hand. The cut on my fingertip felt electrified. And then it all stopped.

The whole world went silent and I shuddered, blinking and refocusing my eyes. Mike's hand was on the box, having just closed the lid, and he stood in front of me with a look in his eyes that was part worry, part fear, and part anger.

“Tomorrow, we're getting rid of this box and everything inside.” He grabbed the box and walked out of the guest room that was once my bedroom. If he had looked inside- he would have noticed that the pipe was not in the box. It was still in my pocket.

My dreams that night were strange. I remember them more vividly than any other dreams I have ever had. They played out like a string of dark vignettes; the sounds of drums both near and far providing a nerve wracking soundtrack.
In the first dream, I was hiding in some bushes, watching a bloated human corpse decompose rapidly. The man's body lay face-down on the ground, surrounded by trees and pushed down into the earth by the over-saturated muggy air. I watched as carrion birds tore at his flesh in time with the drumming, gobbling it down in putrid glistening hunks, only to regurgitate and fly away. I saw one of the larger birds, a turkey vulture like the ones I've seen circling the marshes my whole life, ripping off larger strips and carrying them up to the top of a tree. My view changed and I was in the tree looking down into a nest built not of branches and debris, but of decaying human tissue. In this nest was a single egg. I watched the egg hatch for what felt like hours. A naked fledgling vulture tumbled out of the shell. I noticed that it had no eyes, just dark holes. It began to devour the nest ravenously; with each bite, the vulture grew. White, downy feathers sprouted and quickly became long and black. Until this moment, I had not noticed any foul smells, but all at once the rotting odors hit me and I wretched. The drums stopped as the young bird snapped its head in my direction. Once again, I heard the pulsing mating song of the cicadas, overwhelmingly loud; as I saw the tiny orbs of purple light illuminating the juvenile vulture's empty eye-sockets.

I awoke with a start, sweating. I could still feel the oppressive humidity from the dream, and my ears were actually ringing. The roar of the sudden silence was punctuated by the dull thud of my heart beating in my ears. I got up and walked downstairs to turn on the air conditioning. With cool air pumping into the room, I returned to bed and shut my eyes. Before long, I was asleep again.

I was surrounded by darkness. The drumming had slowed significantly. In the distance, I saw a small flashing light moving towards me, low along the ground. It flashed quickly but approached slowly. I heard footsteps which also seemed to be headed in my direction. I detected a strong odor, the stagnant seawater smell of the marsh; and when I woke up once again, the scent lingered in the bedroom.

It was 5 AM. I couldn't fall asleep again despite my best efforts to do so; so I rose and went downstairs to make some coffee. I took my coffee outside, and not even thinking about what I was doing, I lit the pipe yet again. This time, however, there were no hallucinations. I smoked and drank coffee until the sun came up.

While I was considering getting more coffee, I felt hands plant gently but firmly on my shoulders. I turned my head with a start, only to find that there was no one immediately behind me. But I felt a heat radiate from the spots on my shoulders where the hands had been; it spread until my entire body felt as if I were lying on the beach on a sunny afternoon. The moment it spread to the very tips of my toes, it vanished, replaced by the deepest chill I had ever felt. My skin rose in goosebumps and I felt the start of a shiver, but just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. I looked up to see Mike standing at the patio door, staring at me with an expression that was both amused and bemused.

"You look like you've got 'the fear' real bad, man" He said. I held up the pipe and said "I uh... gave it a second shot. I needed a smoke after the weird dreams I had last night." His face turned to a scowl. "I thought you put that thing back in the box." "No," I replied, "It was in my pocket when I froze up; you took the box before I had a chance to put it away." His face became neutral again. "Let's go bury this thing out in the woods- deep so no else will find it." And with that, he turned and walked into the house.

With the box and two shovels in tow, I drove us to a small patch of woods in our parents' neighborhood. The earthen battlements left over from the Civil War stood covered in vines and old oak trees. We walked to the opposite end where the edge of the plot of land meets the marsh. We dug a hole about 4 feet deep and 2 feet wide- stopping when the dirt started to become mud. Mike unceremoniously tossed the box into the hole. We shoveled the dirt back in, packing it as tightly as possible and then roughing the dirt around the edges to create a look of uniformity. Mike scattered some leaves and sticks over the site to hide it, and we began to walk back through the woods to the road.

We had stopped briefly, so Mike could relieve himself against a tree, when I felt a chill descend over my body. Then a sensation I can only describe as a tugging feeling, like an invisible hook was gently pulling me, directed my attention to the path that led back to the car. Through a gap in the trees and bushes, I saw a small flashing light- as if someone were signaling me with a mirror. At that moment, I remembered my second dream. I crept behind my brother and slipped a hand over his mouth. He made a sound and I immediately whispered "Finish and zip-up, we need to hide."

Though we don't usually act it, we're southern boys, so we have learned how to move through the woods relatively quietly. We found a hiding place (lying down with our shovels in some bushes) just as we spotted a man- probably early to mid thirties- dressed in black, wearing a fedora and dark blue glasses. He was following the main path towards the marsh and carried only a pendulum which was hanging from his fist. The string was a simple leather cord, but the weighted end was what had attracted my attention. On the end of the string was a shard of broken mirror. This pendulum would swing back and forth, but at the front-end upswing it seemed to hang in the air just a little too long- as if it were a magnet on a string moving towards a metal object.

We watched as he followed the path that headed to the place where we had buried the box. When the man was out of sight, my brother looked at me and whispered "What the hell is going on, dude?" "I don't know, but it's a lot like a dream I had last night. The way the light reflected off the mirror-" But I stopped short when I felt the vibrations in the soil. The silence was broken by the sound of cicadas. One, two, fifty, two-thousand, innumerable insects creating a pulsing wave of sound. The volume swelled with their frantic screeching and I had to cover my ears. I looked at Mike and he was doing the same- and that's when I saw them; what seemed like millions of cicadas were crawling up out of the earth, clinging to the bushes, to the trees, to us. With an what can only be labeled supernatural speed, they went through the process of shedding their exoskeletons and unfurling their wings. Within seconds, their soft flesh hardened to chitin and they flew into the trees to join the cacophony.

I screamed, but could not hear my own voice over their song. I could see that Mike was screaming too, but it may as well have been a silent scream. We writhed upon the ground; the prickling of countless bugs crawling over our bodies was like rolling in sand burs. But just as suddenly as it had all begun, the woods fell silent once more. The cicadas, their empty skins, their maddening song, were gone once again. We lay there, relishing the relief for our ears, when we heard whistling. The tune was... familiar to me, but I couldn't place it right away. The man was walking back the way he had come, but now he was carrying the box under his arm. His pendulum string was wound around his free hand, but the mirror shard seemed to be floating in the air, pulling the slack of the cord towards the box. The man slowed down near our position and stopped directly in front of us. He was silent as he slowly turned in place, surveying the woods. Thankfully, he never looked down. He began to whistle again as he continued on his way, and I finally recognized the tune- an old blues song: "Me and the Devil."

When he was out of earshot, my brother whispered to me again. "How did he dig that up so fast? He didn't have a shovel or anything." I didn't have any sort of answer, so I ignored the question. I told Mike to go check the hole and said that I would follow the man.

I walked quickly and quietly towards the trailhead. As the road came into view, I saw the man closing the trunk of his car. He drove a white Cadillac- an older model Sedan DeVille. He looked right at me over the top of his blue lenses, un-phased by my sudden appearance.

"I imagine it was you that buried the box," He said with a lowcountry drawl as he cocked his head towards the trunk of the car. I nodded.
"Then I am grateful to you. You made it much easier for me to find it."
"Why do you want it?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"Not want, need." His eyes darted away, looking past me. Mike was returning.
My brother looked at me and then at the man. "How did you get that box out of the ground without digging? The dirt in the hole looks like it's been stirred, not dug out."
"I had a little help-" the man said as he reached into his pocket- "and I need a little more." He whipped his hand out into the open and flung a handful of powder into the air in front of us.

The next thing I remember is driving my car over the Yemassee river- I blinked hard, having no idea how I got there. I pulled the car over and looked to the passenger seat. Mike was there and he seemed to be becoming alert. We were both covered in dirt. The road signs let us know that we were on Highway 17 heading towards Charleston. The clock in my dashboard read 6:27. The sun had almost set by this point.

"Mike? Do you know how we got here?"

"No. I was going to ask you the same thing" he said.

We drove back to our parents house in Charleston in silence.

Since that evening, we've been suffering from paranoia. We both see shadows darting around. We have strange dreams. I feel like what happened in those two days were just the beginning of a series of strange events. I'm now back home at my apartment in another part of the state- Mike is at our parents' house since he still has a few more years in college; yet, despite our separation, we both keep having the same types of hallucinations (if that's what they really are).

The strangest and, to me, the most terrifying event yet is what happened this morning. I was awakened by a call from Mike. He was audibly shaken. When he got out of bed this morning, there was a layer of dirt on the floor. A message had been traced into it: "Watch your step." As we were discussing what this could mean and whether or not he should call the police, I walked out onto my balcony. I froze when I saw what sat in the middle of the deck. It was the box.

I still have not opened it. I sit at my computer, typing this story and looking at the box periodically. I feel it calling me- inviting me to dig deeper into its mystery. But every time I look at it I get that hot and cold all-over feeling. A moment ago, when I looked away from it and back to my monitor, the spot where my finger had been sliced burned; and I saw those purple eyes next to my reflection on the screen.

The Hoodoo Box

Saturday, August 24, 2013

No new developments...

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

PART 4, Posted today (8/20/13) on /r/nosleep

The Hoodoo Box - Part 3 (Reformatted)- Originally posted on /r/nosleep on 8/18/2013 WITH 8/19 update due to video response from TheMantle

The Hoodoo Box - Part 2 - originally posted on /r/nosleep on 8/17/2013

HOW IT ALL BEGAN...