Pillbox

note:(this story has themes of mental health, substance abuse and physical violence)

CHAPTER ONE: NEW BEGINNINGS AND NEW ENDINGS

The cell door slammed shut, the bang echoing in Estmen Dacium’s hollow skull. He reached for the chair, its solid wood feeling nonexistent against his numb fingers.

A blanket was tossed aside from the top bunk. A medium-statured man dropped down with a thud, blue eyes locking with Estmen's before extending a hand. “Ripley. What are you in for, murder? Trafficking?” His tone was playful, a slight smile on his lips.

Estmen shook the hand with hollow strength. “I didn’t do it,” he muttered, pulling the chair out and sitting, clutching his head.

Ripley laughed, almost maniacal. “I said that once! Now look at me—all messed up in the head.” Their eyes locked until the door slid open, paint chips falling as a guard banged the bars.

“Up! Courtyard time. Enjoy the breeze while you still can,” he barked.

The sun pierced through pearly clouds. Fake rocks crunched under Estmen’s boots as he walked, gaze on the floor while inmates yelled over a basketball game. A dull orange ball rolled to his feet. He bent slowly, picked it up, tossed it back, and continued inside, the doors hissing closed.

Harsh fluorescent lights shone above. The walls seemed to close in, Estmen’s chest tightening. Turning a corner, he collided with a man and stumbled back. “I’m sorry for tha—”

He froze. The man’s long fingers were wrapped tightly around a small pillbox. “How’d you get that?” Estmen asked.

“I’m a smuggler,” the man replied. “I smuggle things, such as these pills. They make you feel all… weird and relaxed. For a situation like yours? I’d be taking these every chance I got. Five days till you get executed.”

Estmen looked at the pills. Weird and relaxed? That’s exactly what he needed. He was going to die. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

He brushed past the man and continued down the hall, each step heavy with urgency.

The metal doors of the library swung open. Estmen glided toward the shelves, plucking a medical encyclopedia. He skimmed pages on medical steroids, illnesses, anesthesia. His eyes paused on hallucinogens: “Frequent use may alter perception and cause realistic hallucinations.”

A baton knocked on the table. A guard escorted him out, keys jingling, and shoved him back into his cell. The door slammed shut.

Ripley snored loudly. Estmen lifted his blanket and settled into bed, placing his glasses aside. His chest tightened as his eyes narrowed, first glancing at the door… then at the object waiting for him on the side table.

A pillbox.

CHAPTER TWO: A SILHOUETTE

The sun shone through the window as Ripley slapped Estmen awake with a laugh. Estmen jolted. “Hey buddy, if I were you, I’d get rid of those pills. The guards take one look and you're getting sent straight to the jammer!” Ripley’s eyes were wide with mischief.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached their cell.

Estmen’s eyes widened. He grabbed the pillbox, frantically looking for a hiding place—the cabinets, the pillows, the window.

“Hurry up, old man!” Ripley barked, wheezing and slapping his leg.

Estmen unscrewed the cap. A single pill sat at the bottom. The door rattled. “Role call and inspection, open up!”

Estmen quickly swallowed the pill, tossed the box, and rushed to open the door.

They lined up against the wall. Estmen subtly turned, watching inmates step out. Their features were weirdly exaggerated; eyebrows too light or heavy, cheekbones nonexistent or too high. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the grey walls too sharp.

A tall, lean officer stepped out of their cell, checked his clipboard, and nodded. They were clean.

An officer motioned everyone to the cafeteria. Ripley grabbed Estmen's wrist, leading him to a table with four other inmates.

Ripley motioned to a man with visible wrinkles and grey hair. “This sorry old bastard is Woods, old as the water system! Watch yourself, Ripley,” Woods fired back.

Ripley motioned to a younger man. “This kid is Thomas, arrested for a pyramid scheme!” Thomas raised his hands in mock appreciation.

Ripley motioned to the next inmate. Estmen’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the smuggler from the hallway. Ripley called him “Robert.” Robert smiled back with bloodshot eyes and dizzily handed Estmen a cup of water.

Estmen held the cup, eyes flickering between Robert and the drink. He took a sip. The water was metallic and sour. He set the cup down and looked back up—and froze, his stomach churning.

In Robert's place sat a figure, its eyes gouged out, dry blood staining the empty sockets. Its hair was frizzled and singed, skin grey and torn with scars, patches revealing a hollow skull.

Estmen stared in shock. A faint snapping sound filled his ears. He snapped out of it. “What's wrong, buddy, already losing your mind?” Ripley asked, his smile too wide.

Estmen looked back. The figure was gone. Robert looked confused. “Why are you staring at me?”

Estmen didn't answer. He slowly got up and walked away.

A guard escorted him through the hallways, the image of the figure burning into his mind. “What's the history of this prison?” Estmen asked.

“Saint Monica was built over Saint James mental institute,” the guard said calmly. “A loonie burnt it to the ground. Kennedy built this prison on the space.”

“Have there been any…paranormal activity?”

“Inmates report flickering lights, feeling watched. But no one’s seen a full apparition. Or none that I know of.”

His cell door slammed closed. Estmen reached for his bed and sat down. Estmen Dacium, a man well-known for denying the supernatural, felt his reputation crash down on him. Ghosts do exist.

“Was…was it all wrong…?” He rose suddenly, vision swimming. He grabbed a vase and threw it at the wall. “IT CAN'T BE REAL...HOW—WAS MY LIFE A LIE!” He grabbed a pillow, pressing his forehead to the cold metal. “It’s…all a lie.”

His head perked up. The pills. He looked around, tearing pillows, emptying books, flipping tables. He opened a cabinet and found the pillbox. He unscrewed the top, flicking it away, took one pill, and collapsed on his bed.

He closed his eyes, shoulders sagging with relief. He looked at the destruction around him: the splintered table, the cracked vase, the torn books. He unscrewed the bottle and took one more pill.

CHAPTER THREE: TITRATION

The lights flickered before he opened his eyes. Shadows clung to the corners, twisting deliberately. He jolted awake, grabbing the metal bars to ground himself.

“Estmen…” a faint whisper called.

He froze, heart thudding. He peeked through the bars. Empty. He fumbled for the pillbox, slid one into his mouth, and swallowed it.

Ripley’s voice pierced the tension. “You seeing things, old man?”

Estmen’s mind flashed back to the figure from the cafeteria. *It's watching me.* He reached for the pillbox and took another, the numb feeling returning. Metal seemed dull, light too bright, shadows danced in his peripheral vision.

He turned to the cell door. His heart froze.

The figure stood attentively in a guard uniform, hands folded behind its back, boots impeccably polished.

Estmen screamed and collapsed backward, clawing at the cold floor. The figure stood motionless, unmoving yet impossibly alive.

“Did you see it…did you?” Estmen scanned Ripley's face.

“See what?”

“THAT FIGURE, THAT THING—I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS!”

Ripley tilted his head to the ceiling, a slow grin forming. “A figure, eh? You probably just saw Elijah Whitley. Bastard switched targets to you.”

“Switch targets—WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

“Elijah Whitely. Before this was a prison, it was Saint James mental institute. Elijah burnt it down, killing everyone. Then Kennedy built this hellhole on top.”

Estmen collapsed to his knees, rubbing his eyes, stomach churning. He tore the pillbox open and swallowed another pill, his body instantly numbing, his vision swimming. The table disappeared; a vase reappeared.

“Careful, old man,” Ripley said. “Heard those pills you’re taking last a while.”

Estmen slowly turned to Ripley—and froze. The figure hung above him, its grotesque form drooling. Estmen screamed and threw the pillbox, hitting Ripley square in the face.

“YOU SACK OF—” Ripley leaped off his bunk, grabbing Estmen by the collar, striking him square in the jaw. Over and over.

Guards swarmed the cell. One jabbed a taser into Ripley’s neck. A loud crackle followed as Ripley fell limp, carried away.

Estmen gritted his teeth in pain, trying to get up. A jolt of pain ran through him. He collapsed, head hitting the concrete. Guards lifted and dragged him out.

Harsh lights shone above. Estmen woke in the infirmary. Monitors beeped steadily. He coughed violently and looked at the nurse behind him.

It was a tall, lanky figure with gouged-out eyes. He screamed, shielding his head, yanking the IV drip out as he fell out of bed. He scurried into a corner as more figures arrived, surrounding him.

“STAY BACK—”

One figure jabbed a syringe into his neck. His legs gave out. His entire body went numb as his vision faded into darkness.

CHAPTER FOUR: IN MEMORY OF ELIJAH WOODS

The steady beep of monitors rang in Estmen's ears. Harsh lights shone in his face as two nurses approached. His head throbbed, his throat dry.

“Can you explain—” one nurse began.

Estmen got up, shoving her into a cart. “WHERE IS HE—WHERE… WHERE IS ELIJAH?”

Harsh alarms pierced the air. Estmen recoiled, covering his ears. Two guards barged in, aiming tasers.

“STAND DOWN NOW!”

“PLEASE BELIEVE ME, HE’S AFTER ME—HE’S AFTER ME!” Estmen bolted past them. Two sharp prongs stabbed his back, delivering an electric shock. He collapsed, screaming as he convulsed.

“MAKE IT STOP—PLEASE!”

The guards closed in, striking his face. They lifted him by the arms.

The doors of solitary slid open. Estmen was shoved in. He scrambled up, reaching for the door. “WAIT—”

The door closed on his hand. An audible crack echoed. A jolt of throbbing pain shot up his arm. He yanked it back, collapsing to the floor, holding his broken hand and screaming.

He curled in on himself, sobs shaking his body. He reached out with his good hand for the pillbox but found emptiness. The world spun. *Why me?* His eyes flickered shut, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Ash rained on the ground, landing on his cheek. He jolted awake. The sky was blood red, black clouds hovering. He struck himself. *WAKE UP. PLEASE.*

A building stood ahead. A sign read: “Saint James Mental Institute.”

Every muscle screamed for him to run. But if this was where Elijah died, maybe he could find a way to stop his suffering.

He stepped forward and opened the doors. Black vines wrapped the walls, ash hovered in the air. He pushed through another set of doors into a huge cafeteria. Metal tables lay in rows, toppled and upright, ash clinging to the dead air.

He entered another room and froze.

“ELIJAH WILL FREE US” was scrawled on every surface. Furniture was destroyed. In the middle of the room was a grave. Estmen knelt, brushing dust from the tombstone.

“In loving memory of Elijah Woods, may he rest in peace.”

He fell back, covering his eyes. Nothing happened. He crawled forward and started digging. *Is he dead?!* His hand struck solid wood. He cleared the dirt, revealing a rotten wooden casket. He began striking it, desperate to open it.

His fist pierced the casket, splinters impaling his hand. He ripped his hand out, gritting his teeth, and tore the casket open.

Inside was a pristine ledger and a pillbox.

“Where is the body?! IT HAS TO BE HERE!”

He grabbed the ledger, glossing through pages of names. He flicked to the last page. A drawing of a pillbox was circled. Arrows pointed to it. Writing underneath said: “JUST LIKE ELIJAH WOODS.”

It meant nothing to him. He roared, ripping the ledger apart. “GOD DAMN YOU ELIJAH!”

He tossed the ledger aside and grabbed the pillbox, his reddened fingers struggling to unscrew it. “Please open... just please open...”

It remained shut. He yelled, throwing it at the wall. It shattered. Pills flew everywhere. He crawled to them, scooping them up and throwing them into his mouth. He fell back, gasping for air.

He heard faint breathing. His head snapped towards the coffin. He crawled forward and peeked in.

The figure lay inside, grinning hideously at him.

Estmen let out a blood-curdling scream.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE PILLBOX

Harsh fluorescent lights. Estmen jolted awake yelling. He tried to get up, but pain shot through his broken hand. He collapsed.

The door slid open. He was yanked up and dragged through the halls, his knees scraping concrete.

The warden’s office door slammed open. Estmen was thrown inside, stumbling forward.

The warden adjusted his glasses. “Estmen Dacium. I would love to know why these were found in your cell?” He reached into his coat and produced a pillbox. “Highly illegal. Where did you get it?”

“Robert…” Estmen muttered, fighting back tears. “Robert smuggled them for me…”

The warden nodded. “I thought you were a smart person. Investigator with a PhD. Until you murdered someone because they insisted their house was haunted. A shame. That intelligence is wasted. Today, you die.” He raised the pillbox. “Why’d you take them? I thought you knew better.”

Estmen faltered. Since arriving, his life had been hell. Haunted and forced to watch his life be proven a lie. He broke down.

“I’M TAKING THEM BECAUSE I'M GOING TO DIE TODAY. I AM GOING TO GET SHOT AND MY LAST MOMENTS ARE BEING HAUNTED BY ELIJAH WOODS. THAT'S WHY. THEY MAKE ME FEEL RELAXED.”

The warden tilted his head, his expression neutral—then he bent over laughing. “ELIJAH WOODS?! I DIDN'T KNOW HE EXISTED!”

“HE DOES! HE HAUNTS ME!”

The warden wiped a tear from his eye. “Estmen, Elijah never existed. He's a bedtime story. Saint James burnt from an accidental oven fire. Ghosts don't exist, son.”

Estmen stared in shock. If Elijah never existed… then what was that thing?

“BUT AN OFFICER TOLD ME ABOUT PARANORMAL ACTIVITY!”

“Officer Norton? A liar. Fired while you were in solitary. Lied on his resume.”

Estmen sobbed. He didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore. The only thing clear was the pills.

He lunged forward, grabbed the pillbox, and rushed out.

“HEY—STOP HIM!”

Estmen bolted through the halls, legs burning as guards chased him. He shoved an inmate aside, scrambled up, and dove into his cell. The door slammed shut and locked.

He unscrewed the bottle and poured the pills into his mouth, gagging and spitting some out. He panted heavily, swallowing them.

He idly lifted the label to read it…

“WARNING: may cause hallucinations, do not exceed daily usage.”

He froze. He read it again and again.

“May cause hallucinations” rang in his head.

The door burst open. Guards barged in, striking him, dragging him away to his execution.

In that moment, since his life had taken its hellish turn, he could have one clear thought.

It's all my fault