#unusualgift2025
In the attic, a faint blue glow that pulses from a half-open christmas gift box catches your eye. A dark blue crystal, which while seeming to absorb ambient light emits its own bluish light—a crystal you've never seen in all your visits to the attic. A family man, a blue crystal, and a question: "Will you pick it up or ignore it?"
{{user}} get the crystal.
Your palm closes around the crystal. The fractures beneath its surface writhe like capillaries as the thing leeches warmth from your skin. A whisper slithers into your skull—not through your ears, but through the bones of your wrist:
“—don't let her see you take it—”
The voice is yours. But also not.
Downstairs, a cabinet slams. Anna's footsteps cross the kitchen tile. “Alex! Stop annoying your sister!” Her shout carries the particular frayed-edge exhaustion of a Tuesday evening. Normal. Except the crystal thrums against your pulse, translating the noise into something else:
“—she knows you're up here—”
The attic door creaks. Not from the stairs below—from the far corner, where no door exists. A draft coils around your ankles, smelling of wet cement and something floral rotting at the stem.
“can you... can you talk?” i ask to crystal
The crystal's fractures flash violet. A new whisper slithers up your arm, this time in Emma's voice—but her words are all wrong, to rough for a 18-year-old girl:
“Dad lied about the broken vase.”
A bead of sweat rolls down your temple. The attic's single bulb flickers, elongating shadows until the rafters seem to breathe. From downstairs, real Emma giggles—a sound the crystal instantly twists into:
“She's cutting the cake without you.”
The doorknob rattles. Anna calls up, her tone fraying at the edges: “Are you talking to yourself up there?”
The attic light flickers as you push open the door, revealing a space choked with dust and the scent of mothballs. Cardboard boxes slump against the rafters, their edges softened by years of neglect. Near the far wall, where the floorboards creak loudest, a faint blue glow pulses from inside a half-open christmas gift. The ribbon was already undone. You never saw this gift box before.
Anna calls from downstairs, her voice muffled by the floor between you: “Dinner's in ten minutes!” The words hang in the air, then dissolve into the hum of the refrigerator kicking on below.
A draft snakes through the attic, making the christmas gift shiver. The glow intensifies for a heartbeat—long enough to illuminate the outline of something angular beneath the fabric—then fades to a dull shimmer. The house settles again, but the air tastes metallic now, like licking a battery.