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Storage Unit 73

·300 words·2 mins
Flash Fiction


“Mr. Jerry Shelby,” the executor replied.

David shrugged at his attorney.

“Island of the Damned? The stop motion animator.”

David’s demeanor turning sour, he looked back to the executor, and said, “That case was settled decades ago.”

“I know,” the executor said. “Mr. Shelby has passed, and you are a beneficiary in his will.”

David’s mouth fell open.

His attorney spoke up, “Are you certain? They didn’t exactly part on amicable terms.”

“His ridiculous creatures ruined my film!” David roared.

Ignoring the outburst, the executor replied, “I’m quite aware, but it’s all written down right here. Mr. Shelby has left you one storage unit, along with some specific instructions with regard to the hand over.”

David, his voice icy, asked, “What kind of instructions?”

“Before taking any actions with the unit, you have to first enter it by yourself.”

“This is ridiculous!” David thundered.

His attorney interjected, “And after he has performed that task?”

The executor flipped through the pages, and shrugged, “Sell it, leave it, give it to charity. Doesn’t matter.”

“What’s the harm, David?”

“Fine. Whatever. Can we go now?”

“Sign here, please.”

Motion lights clicked on as he walked. Stopping at Unit 73, David fished a key from his pocket, and opened the lock. With a heave, he pulled open the door, and gazed upon hundreds of tiny figurines.

Stepping inside, he muttered, “I think I’m going to enjoy throwing out all this junk. I’m not sure what you expected, Jerry.”

With a crash the storage unit’s door slammed closed. Turning in the darkness, David felt dozens of burning stabs beginning at his ankles, and climbing up his calves. Lightweight forms dropped onto his head, and a dozen tiny claws slashed at his face.

Outside, David’s attorney waited in the car, unable to hear his screams.