The Carved Gift

When my mother, Claire, inherited the wooden box from her Aunt Margriet, she didn’t think much of it. Margriet had been a distant relative, a former nurse who had lived in a small village in Friesland, Netherlands, for most of her life. The box was intricately carved with scenes of tulips, windmills, and a small figure of a woman holding a lantern. Claire placed it on the mantelpiece in our cozy cottage in Cornwall, a souvenir from a relative she barely knew.

Margriet had been diagnosed with cancer of the jaw, a rare and aggressive form that had eaten away at her smile. She had never smoked, and the family was baffled. Claire, a firm skeptic of the supernatural, had dismissed the family’s hushed whispers about ‘the curse of the lantern’ as old wives’ tales. She only remembered Margriet as a stern, silent woman who had once sent her a postcard of a lighthouse, with the cryptic message: ‘The light must never go out.’

The day after my mother received the news of Margriet’s passing, she found a small, folded letter tucked inside the box’s velvet lining. It was written in shaky Dutch, but my mother’s Dutch was passable. Translated, it read: ‘Claire, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you face to face. The box is not a gift. It is a keeper. The woman in the carving is your great-great-grandmother, Anna. She made a deal with the Thing in the North Sea to save her village. The lantern she holds is not to guide ships, but to keep the Thing at bay. You must light the lantern on the first night of every new moon, or it will come for you. Trust no one. Keep the light.’

Claire laughed it off, showing me the letter. I, being a curious eighteen-year-old, felt a chill. But we didn’t light any lantern. We didn’t believe in curses.

The first sign that something was wrong was the smell. It started exactly one week after the new moon, a faint odor of brine and rotting seaweed that clung to the cottage. My mother scrubbed the floors, opened the windows, but the smell lingered, especially near the box. Then, the tapping began. At night, I would hear soft, rhythmic taps on my window, as if a finger was gently knocking. When I looked, there was nothing but the dark garden.

My mother dismissed it as a branch, but the tapping followed us. A week later, we found strange, wet footprints in the hallway—long, with three toes, leading from the front door to the living room, where they stopped at the box. My mother finally grew uneasy and called our family friend, a local historian named Mr. Prudhomme. He examined the box and his face paled. He told us that the carving was not a simple folk art; it depicted a ‘Offerdeur’, a door of offering, and that Anna had indeed made a pact with an entity known as the ‘Zoutgeest’, the Salt Spirit. He said that if the lantern was not lit, the Spirit would come to claim the keeper’s bloodline, one by one.

We didn’t light it. My mother, being skeptical, said it was all nonsense. But then, my mother began to change. She would wake up with a fine white powder on her skin, like dried salt. She started sleepwalking, and I once found her standing in the kitchen, staring into the dark with a knife in her hand, mumbling about ‘the price.’ I confronted her, and she said she didn’t remember anything. But the tapping grew more insistent.

The next new moon, we were sitting in the living room, and I saw the carved woman on the box move. She turned her head and looked at me with carved eyes that were suddenly deep and black. A low hum filled the room, and the box began to vibrate. My mother clutched her chest, gasping for air. I ran to the kitchen, found an old oil lantern my father had left, and lit it. I placed it in front of the box, and the hum ceased. My mother’s breathing relaxed. For the first time in weeks, the house felt still.

But I had lit it too late. The next morning, my mother found a single, perfectly round seashell on her pillow, with a tiny hole drilled through it, as if it had been a bead on a necklace. She choked, and a bitter taste of sea filled her mouth. She spat out blackened water. I knew then that the Spirit had claimed her. She fell ill with a mysterious malady, her skin taking on a gray pallor, her breath coming in short rasps.

I spent days scouring old books, talking to Mr. Prudhomme, and learning that the only way to break the curse was to return the box to the place it was carved—a particular sea cave called the ‘Singing Cavern.’ I traveled to Friesland, leaving my mother in the care of a local nurse. I found the cave, a dark opening in the cliffs, and inside, the walls were covered with the same carvings. I placed the box on a stone altar, lit the lantern, and waited.

The tide came in, and the cave began to sing—a mournful, deep song that vibrated in my bones. I heard my mother’s voice, weak, calling from far away. I saw a shadow detach from the altar, a tall figure made of salt and bone, with a face that was a void. It reached out a hand, and I felt its cold, dry touch on my cheek.

‘You have returned what is mine,’ it said in a voice like shattering ice. ‘Now you must take its place.’

I tried to run, but the cave entrance was blocked by a wall of water. The figure lunged, and I felt its grip on my arm, burning like frost. But then, the lantern fell, and the oil spilled, igniting a blue flame that spread across the stone. The figure screamed—a terrible sound that joined the cave’s song—and dissolved into steam.

When I woke, I was on the shore, the box beside me, charred but intact. The carvings had changed. The woman was gone, and in her place was a figure of a man, holding a lantern. I returned home to find my mother sitting up in bed, color back in her cheeks, and her first words were: ‘I had the strangest dream. I was drowning in salt, and then you pulled me out.’

The box sits on my mantle now, but I never open it. On every new moon, I light a lantern in front of it, just as the letter instructed. And every night, I listen for the tapping. But it’s not at the window anymore. It’s inside my head, counting down the days until I too must pass on the duty. And I’m afraid that when my time comes, there will be no one else to carry the light.