I’m not using my real name.
You can call me nothing.

This isn’t some scary story. I simply just want to share some words with you, and maybe you’ve had the same tasking or similar in previous jobs especially.

I was part of a six-man private security detail who was hired to guard an object at a remote facility. No cameras allowed. No phones inside. No names were exchanged once we were on site.

Just a box and the six of us.

I’m the last one left.

We were hired through a contractor I’m sure none of us had heard of. I didn't. The pay was absurd enough to ignore how little information they gave us by far. The facility was at least three hours from any town or city, buried in forest, concrete poured straight into bedrock. No windows. One main chamber, if I recall.

That chamber contained a box.

It was about the size of a weird treasure chest, metal, blackened like it had been through a fire and survived. Heavy chains wrapped around it in overlapping patterns, locked into anchor points on the floor. Symbols were carved into every visible surface, deep, intentional, and not decorative.

On the top was a label. Not engraved. Not printed. Black-burned letters.

We were explicitly told never to read it.

They gave us five rules.

They made us memorize them before we were even allowed inside.

The Rules

1. Do not speak to each other for any reason while on duty.
2. Do not respond when you hear the others speaking to you.
3. Do not move from your assigned position until relieved at 8:00 a.m by staff.
4. Do not bring anything into the facility except your issued gear.
5. Under no circumstances should the box be opened, touched, or the writing on the box be read in any way, shape, or form.

We all signed waivers. Psychological, legal, you name it.

Looking back, the wording was too specific.
Like someone had already seen what happens when you don’t follow them.

We were positioned evenly around the chamber, each about fifteen feet from the box, back to the walls, and I was posted in a corner. The lighting was dim and yellowed, like an old warehouse. No clocks. No mirrors. No reflective surfaces.

At around 11:40 p.m., I heard one of the guys, Position Three, clear his throat and say something under his breath.

That was the first rule broken.

Ten minutes later, he started whispering, almost like a whimper.

Then he started saying my name, my REAL name.

I didn’t respond. None of us did. The others almost seemed to not hear it at all.

Then he started screaming, they heard that.

I’m not exaggerating when I say it sounded like something was coming out of him. His voice layered over itself, too many tones at once. His eyes darted to each of us and fell silent, mouthing something.

At around 12:00 a.m., there was a wet thudding sound over and over and then silence as his body dropped to the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to look in his direction, although the blood had streamed over to below my boots. Nobody came in to get him.

I overheard the staff review later, they said it was “self-inflicted trauma.” There was barely anything left of his face.

Position Five broke rule four.

He’d smuggled in a rosary, which he had pulled out of his shirt after the first incident.

I saw it glint in his hand when the lights flickered.

He started praying silently at first. Lips moving. Tears ran down his face.

The symbols on the box began to shift, I guess.? I don’t have a better word. Like shadows sliding where they shouldn’t.

At around 1:30 a.m., he walked toward the box out of nowhere.

We were warned not to interfere unless directly threatened, so I didn’t move, and unfortunately, I don’t think I had it in me to in the first place.

The chains moved before he touched them.

They shot out and pulled him forward onto the box.

I still hear the sound his spine made.

Again, no one came to get him.

Position Two was the worst.

He broke rule five.

I don’t know how long he’d been staring at the label before his eyes unfocused. Before his lips started moving.

He read it out loud.

The air changed. Pressure, like being underwater. The lights blew out completely.

When the emergency reds came on, he was laughing uncontrollably.

He kept saying it again and again, faster each time, like it was becoming a chant.

Then he looked at us smiling.

He said he understood something.

He charged Position Four.

We didn’t have a choice.

It took seven rounds to stop him.

Even after he was down and what looked like was dead, his mouth kept moving for the rest of the night.

Only two of us made it to 8:00 a.m.

Me and the man from Position Four.

We never spoke about that night and never said either one's name to the other, but we stayed in touch. Texts on birthdays. Drinks once a year. Mutual silence about the box if I’m being honest. Just how the money we enjoyed didn't feel right or enough. I don’t think it made us happy. It didn't make me any happier, and even though it was useful, I never actually spent that much of it.

Until last week.

He called me from an unknown number. He was crying. He said he could hear it again. That the box was asking him to say the words. That it wanted to be opened, not there, not physically, but somewhere else. Somewhere closer. 

Police reports say he died in a shootout after charging officers with a stolen rifle. Witnesses say he was shouting in a language no one recognized. I know better.

I’ve spent years telling myself curiosity is what killed them. But that’s a lie. It wasn't a curiosity, and it wasn’t following the rules. It was just inevitable. I don’t think they wanted us to know the truth, but the truth forced its way to us.

I can hear it now. Not audibly, worse than that. Like a pressure behind my thoughts. I don’t think saying the words opens the box. I think it opens you or something. I need to open the box, and the words won’t leave my mind. I don’t think I can stop myself anymore, or that I should, it’s hard to tell if I'm the one even writing this or if the words want you to read them too. I am the last one left anyway and the last one to know. Now you do, too. If others had similar tasking or were part of the same one in a different shift. Please forgive my need to share these words with you. 

“Vas Exsecratum Aperitur.” I will open the box. Sincerely, Nothing.