The Copper Coil

The morning of April 12th, 2023, began with a low-hanging mist that clung to the blacktop of the old Fairhaven rest stop. I’d driven there to fix the short in my truck’s brake light, a task that would’ve been simple in a garage, but I didn’t have one. I’d always used this rest stop—quiet, out of the way, with a small picnic area bordered by pines. The fog was thick, cutting visibility to a few hundred feet, and the silence was oppressive. No birds, no distant hum of traffic, just the drip of condensation from the trees.

I popped the hood and set to work, unspooling a fresh length of copper wire from a coil I’d brought. The repair was straightforward: strip, twist, tape. As I finished testing the circuit, a light drizzle began to fall. I packed up my tools, coiling the leftover wire into a tidy loop and placing it into my toolbox, which already contained another coil of the same size—a spare I’d grabbed from my shop that morning.

As I snapped the toolbox shut, I noticed something odd. The two coils looked identical, but I could have sworn the one I’d just used was slightly thicker. I shrugged it off, chalking it up to the dim light and my fatigue. I loaded the toolbox into the cab and drove off, the wipers smearing the mist across the windshield.

Later that night, I remembered I needed the extra wire for another project. I opened the toolbox, and my blood chilled. There were now three coils. The third was smaller, but unmistakably copper, and it felt cold—not just cool, but like it had been sitting in a freezer. I didn’t remember packing a third one. I stared at it for a long time, then put it on a shelf in my garage, intending to deal with it tomorrow.

But the next morning, the coil was gone. In its place was a small, dark stain on the wood, shaped like a spiral. My heart pounded as I touched it—it was slightly sticky, like resin, and it smelled faintly of ozone and burnt metal. I tried to dismiss it as an old accident, but I knew I’d only used that shelf recently.

The strangeness didn’t stop. Over the following week, I found copper wires appearing in strange places: a thin strand wrapped around my toothbrush, a small braid coiled under my pillow, a loop dangling from the rearview mirror of my truck. Each time, I would remove them, but they always returned. I started sleeping with the lights on.

One night, I woke to a dragging sound in the hallway. I grabbed a flashlight and crept out, my heart hammering. The narrow beam revealed a glint on the floor. It was a long, sinuous length of copper wire, snaking from the bedroom door, down the hall, and into the kitchen. I followed it, my bare feet cold on the tile. It ended at the faucet, which was dripping slowly, each drop hitting a small pile of wire that had accumulated in the sink like a metallic nest.

I stepped closer, and the wires began to move. They slithered, not like snakes, but like something with purpose, unfurling toward me. I backed away, but my heel hit the doorframe, and I fell. The wire wrapped around my ankle, tight, and I felt a jolt, like static electricity, but deeper, as if it were pulling something from me. I screamed, and the bathroom light flicked on.

I was alone. The wire was gone. But on my ankle was a faint red mark, spiraled like a coil.

The next day, I drove back to the rest stop. The fog was as thick as before, but now I noticed something I hadn’t before: a small electrical box attached to a utility pole, its door slightly ajar. Inside, instead of circuit breakers, there was a tangled mess of copper wire, glowing faintly in the dim light. As I reached for it, I heard a whisper, not a voice, but a rustle, like dry leaves. The coil in my toolbox back home—I hadn’t looked at it since the night before. I raced back, but when I opened the box, it was empty. No coils. No spare. Just a single, perfect spiral of copper, etched into the metal floor of the box, as if burned.

I haven’t been able to use any electrical device since. The house is silent, dark, and cold. But this morning, I saw a small coil of copper on my pillow, waiting. I think it’s still hungry.