The Brass Hand

In the autumn of 1991, Margaret and I moved into a converted Victorian flat in Portland, Oregon, a place where the fog clung to the streets like damp wool. The apartment itself was a paradox: old-fashioned crown moldings and a claw-foot tub, but the landlord had modernized the kitchen with stainless steel and installed a sleek gas range. We thought it was charming.

That December, my husband brought home a brass paperweight from an antique shop. It was shaped like a clenched hand, each finger articulated, a metal glove frozen in a grasping gesture. He set it on the console table by the front door, next to the bowl where we tossed our keys. ‘Isn’t it odd?’ he said. ‘The shopkeeper said it was a Victorian letter opener, but I think it’s just a oddity.’ I didn’t care for it, but he loved it, so it stayed.

By February, the hand began to seem restless. One evening, I removed my pearl earrings and placed them on the arm of the wingback chair. In the morning, they were gone. I searched the cushions, the rug, the side tables, but nothing. Then, as I was about to give up, I spotted them on the ottoman, arranged in a neat little row. I laughed it off, blaming absent-mindedness, but my husband swore he hadn’t touched them.

Soon, the disturbances grew bolder. Our cat, a gentle tabby named Jasper, would stare at a corner of the living room and hiss, fur bristling. Once, I heard a faint meow from inside the bedroom, but when I checked, the room was empty. Jasper began to avoid the apartment, hiding under the sofa, refusing to come out. Then came the litter box incident. I found it overturned, the plastic lid flipped upside down into the fresh litter, creating an impassable barrier for a cat. Jasper was frantic, circling the box, pawing at the rim.

One night, I was awakened by a crash from the kitchen. I tiptoed in to find the oven door wide open, the interior cold and dark. The stove’s burner knobs had been turned to ‘HIGH,’ but the gas was off, so no flame, but the clicking sound echoed as if someone were trying to ignite. I turned them all off and closed the oven door, but a chill ran down my spine. The brass hand sat on the counter, having been moved from the hall table. I had not moved it. My husband was asleep.

The rage grew. Dishes would slide off the counters, not falling but flying, shattering against the wall. Books would fly off shelves, pages torn. The hand seemed to be at the center of everything, its five metal fingers always pointing in a different direction. Jasper began to mewl pitifully, following me from room to room, his eyes darting to things I couldn’t see.

In a panic, I called my friend Evelyn, who had dabbled in the occult. She came over, her silver earrings jingling. She examined the hand, turning it over, her brow furrowed. ‘This isn’t just a paperweight,’ she said. ‘It’s a focus. An old one, but someone has charged it. It’s feeding on the energy of the house, the negative emotion. You need to get rid of it.’

I tried to throw it away, but every time I put it in the trash, it would be back on the table within an hour, as if it had crawled there itself. I tried to pawn it, but the pawnbroker looked at it, his eyes widening, and he refused, saying it was bad luck. I tried to bury it, but the ground was frozen solid.

Desperate, I decided to destroy it. I took it to the fireplace, lit a roaring fire, and tossed the brass hand into the flames. But instead of melting, it seemed to absorb the heat, and the brass turned a glowing red, but remained intact. Then, from the flames, I heard a voice—a low, rasping whisper that said, ‘You cannot kill me. I am you.’

The fire died as mysteriously as it started. The hand lay on the hearth, unscathed except for a faint heat shimmering. That night, as I lay in bed, I felt something cold and metallic press against my leg. I screamed, but when I threw off the covers, nothing was there. Jasper was under the bed, shaking.

The next morning, I found the hand in the center of our bed, its fingers curled as if around an invisible throat. My husband, normally a heavy sleeper, had nightmares all night, muttering about a ‘brass grip’ squeezing his heart.

I knew I had to leave. We moved out a week later, leaving the hand behind on the console table. The landlord let us break the lease without penalty, perhaps seeing the terror in our eyes. He gave us a refund, but as we drove away, I saw a silhouette in the window of the flat—a small, dark shape, holding something that glinted in the gray light. It was the hand.

Years have passed, and we live in a new house in the suburbs, but I still feel a phantom pressure on my hand at night, as if something is trying to hold me. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a brass glint in my own eyes. The hand is not a charm; it is a curse, and I fear it has found a new home in me. I have learned that some antiques are better left unowned, and some hands, even in metal, never let go.