It stayed in the box in the attic room. A small, moldy, rotten wooden box.
The Talking Jack in the Box. Not that it talked all that much.
"LET ME OUT" I would hear, night after night after night. I never thought to get rid of it, lest someone find it. I never let curiosity drive me to open the box. No. It had to stay shut.
One night, someone broke into my house. I checked the box first, before following the muffled footsteps downstairs to find the man trying to detach my television from the living room wall. The burglar saw me as I brought the kitchen knife, grabbed in my terror, around to slash him with. He dodged, and slapped me down to the ground. Then he pulled his own knife, and started towards me.
As he bore down upon me, the box screamed.
As he raised the knife, I opened the lid, and let it out.