DEAD WINTER: A CRYPTIC Anthology

The attic was a place of forgotten things, a graveyard of memories and dust. I'd come up here on a foolish errand, chasing after the specter of a forgotten Christmas tree, only to find myself sprawled on the floor, breath knocked from my lungs. My foot, in its haste, had found a hole in the old boarding, and my shoe had vanished into the darkness behind the wall.
Swearing under my breath, I reached into the gloom, expecting to retrieve nothing more than a dusty sneaker. Instead, my fingers closed around something hard, something ancient. Pulling it out, I saw it wasn't my shoe at all, but a small, faded wooden box, adorned with an ornate, carved 'J'. My initial.
A strange anticipation, like the whisper of an old secret, tingled in my hands. This was no ordinary box. This was a mystery, waiting to be unlocked.
