I never knew my great uncle Horace when he was alive. He died three years before I was born. My grandmother was my main source of information on him. He was a very knowledge driven guy who liked to study things, from plants to foreign and exotic trinkets and pottery. He had lived in a small cottage in the countryside, which was now owned by my aunt, whom he’d left it to in his will. She only ever stayed there in the summertime however.
After his death, the majority of his antiques had been sold off by other family members. All except for one. It was a bronze spouted jar that he kept somewhere in his attic. It was the one thing that he specifically forbade from being pawned off. No one knew where he had gotten the jar, or how long it had been in his possession, because the first time he even mentioned the thing was in his will, which had been written shortly before his death.
All he had written about it was this:
“The bronze jar is to to be left in the attic. Do not sell it or take it as your own. Everything else you can do with as you wish. But the jar is to be left alone.”
So yeah, he was pretty vague about it. Everybody just assumed that he had a particular sentimental attachment to the jar. He didn’t have much to worry about anyway, because nobody knew where the hell the jar was in the attic. Well, he had nothing to worry about until I paid a visit to the cottage back in February of 1991. And it was a visit that I now wish I had never paid.
My aunt had been wanting to turn the attic into a third bedroom, because the cottage only had two bedrooms. So I offered to clean it out and measure it out for her. I arrived at the cabin on a cool, overcast morning. My aunt would be arriving later, as he had to run some errands first.
The cabin was old, having been built sometime in the 1850s. Uncle Horace had purchased it sometime around 1935. It looked so rustic and mysterious, sitting all by itself in front of a dark woodland with the hills in the distance. I’d have lived there if I could’ve. But, I just didn’t feel right in doing that, seeing as my uncle had left it to my aunt.
I exited my car and entered the cottage, and then I ascended the wooden stairs to the second floor. The door to the attic was at the other end of the hallway. I opened it and then I ascended the ancient, dusk caked stairs to the attic. I damn near gasped when I saw just how many boxes were laying about, undoubtedly filled with useless trash that my aunt had bought at jumble sales and charity shops, only to never use them.
I started carrying the boxes down the stairs, one by one, all the while being assailed by spiders and silverfish. I didn’t really mind the silverfish though, I think they’re kind of cool looking. I left the heavier boxes alone, I’d need my aunt’s help to be able to carry them down the stairs without breaking my neck.
When I went up to collect the three remaining small boxes, I noticed that one of the floorboards was loose. And to make things even stranger, this particular floorboard was colder than the rest of the floorboards. With confused curiosity, I removed the floorboard and nearly fainted as I saw what was beneath it.
It was the spouted jar. It had to be. But why did Horace hide it underneath the floorboards?
I grabbed the jar and quickly realised that it was the source of the coldness. It was damn freezing to the touch. I had to cover my hands with my sleeves to able to hold it for more than a few seconds. I placed it on top of one of the large boxes and inspected it.
It looked ancient. Undoubtedly made sometime during antiquity. The chamber was decorated with horizontal grooves and the spout was wide and gaping. The two handles were in the shape of what looked to be a chimera of a lion and an eagle, roaring furiously.
It looked beautiful. Like something that should be in a museum to be admired along with all the other pieces of the ancient world. So why did Horace just shove it underneath the floorboards of his attic?
Leaving the jar on the box, I returned to the hole in the floor and discovered something I had missed. It was a small journal. I eagerly grasped it, believing that it could tell me more about the jar and why my great-uncle had hidden it. I opened it up and read. And what I read in that journal swiftly replaced my enthusiasm with ice cold fear.
“Whichever of my relatives finds my journal, heed my words wisely.
On the 2nd of March, 1937, during my visit to Iran, I was browsing through a marketplace and stumbled upon an antiques dealer who went by the name, Bahram. Bahram quickly caught my interest when he presented to me an Achaemenian era bronze spouted jar. He claimed the jar was made during the time of Cyrus the Great, but from my own observations, it more likely dates back to the reign of Artaxerxes I.
I asked Bahram of how the jar had come to be in his possession. He told me that it had been given to him by a sheepherder who had found it buried beneath the ruins of what he believed was an ancient fire temple. The sheepherder had been unsettled by the jar, and was eager to be rid of it. I asked Bahram of why the jar bothered the sheepherder, and Bahram told me that the sheepherder was suspicious of the figures shaped upon the handles, believing them to be Divs.
Bahram then told me that there was a strange coin-like object in the jar. He promptly took it out and presented it to me. The “coin” had several ancient inscriptions carved into it and there was a tiny, vermillion gemstone placed in the centre of it.
My interest now completely enraptured by this oddity of ancient Persia, I purchased the jar and brought it back to my cottage in rural England. I removed the “coin” from the jar and studied it extensively. And I eventually came to the conclusion that this “coin” may have in fact been a religious talisman of some type, possibly one that invokes a Yazata.”
I put my uncle’s journal down and returned to the jar, curious to see this talisman. I tipped the jar upside down and the talisman fell into my palm. It was beautiful, the gem in the centre of it still shined as it likely did thousands of years ago. I put the jar down and then, still holding the talisman, I went back to my uncle’s journal and placed the talisman in my pocket so not to lose it. Then I continued to read through his journal.
“After I’d finished my examination, I did not bother to return the talisman to the jar. Both sat separated on the desk in my study. They sat there overnight. When I returned in the morning, I was shocked to find that the jar had moved. As I said, I had left it on my desk before retiring to bed. But now it was on the floor. I thought that it must’ve of rolled off the table somehow. I placed it back on the table and continued on with my day. But that night, I witnessed something that both horrified me beyond rational thought and made me reconsider how I viewed the natural world.
It was half-passed-ten and I was on my way up to bed. The door to my study was open and I was surprised to feel an intensely cold draft emitting out of the room. Completely perplexed, I peeked in through the door and, much to my confusion, I saw the jar rattling on my desk. It did this for about 40 seconds, and then it went completely still. Then, much to my confused horror, I saw a wiry-arm unfurl out of the spout. This arm was covered in dark hair, and the hand had four, spindly fingers tipped with sharply curled claws. Another arm then appeared alongside it, and then another, and another.
Horrified, I swiftly switched on the light, and the arms slipped back into the jar with an unsettlingly fluid speed. Cautiously, I approached the jar, staring upon it with a mixture of horror and confused astonishment. How could a creature that size fit inside of such a small jar? How was it possible. I quickly noticed that the coldness had dissipated away from the room as well.
My eyes then fell upon the talisman, which laid face down on the table, the inscriptions and the gem blocked from view. I guess out of a sense of superstitious fear, I snatched the talisman. It felt warm, not searingly hot, but comfortably warm. I then felt a strange sense of relief overcome me, like a warm blanket placed softly over my shoulders. It was then I realised that this talisman was inside of that jar for a reason, and, likely for the first time ever, I hushed the rational side of my mind. I placed the talisman back in the jar and then I took the jar up to the attic and hid it underneath the floorboards. I couldn’t just get rid of it and allow it to fall into some other poor soul’s hands.
So, if you are reading this, you have likely ignored my instructions and now have that accursed thing in front of you. And have likely taken the talisman out of it too. Listen to me clearly, put the talisman back inside the jar and put it back beneath the floorboards and don’t bother with it again. I pray it is not nighttime while you are reading this.”
I put the book down and just sat there. My skin as white as the moon, my mouth devoid of moisture, my heart cracking against my ribcage, and my blood felt like ice. I had taken the talisman out of the jar. I then noticed how dark the attic was. And then I noticed how cold it had become too.
Two hands fell upon my shoulders. I thought it was my aunt, but then another pair of hands clasped around my upper arms, and then another pair grasped my waist. The hands were attached to hairy arms, and the fingers were long like spider-legs and clawed like a vulture’s. The hand that held my right shoulder than let go and reached down to close my uncle’s journal before taking hold of my shoulder again.
Ice cold breath began to brush against my neck, and then a long, black, putrid smelling tongue brushed against the side of my neck. Then came a hoarse, though strangely feminine, voice that whispered into my ear in a language I did not understand. I shut my eyes tightly. The voice and the words just made me feel a deep foulness in my mind, and the thing quietly chuckled. I didn’t dare look at the thing.
My pocket suddenly became warm, and I felt the creature’s grip on me tense a little bit. Then it gave out a surprised gasp that rattled me to the bone. I then remembered, the talisman was inside my pocket. I swiftly reached into my pocket and retrieved the talisman and held it up as high as I could.
The creature let out a panicked hiss and its hands let go of me. Then I heard it scramble loudly across the floorboards, making the whole room shudder. And then I heard the jar shake. Tightly clutching the talisman, I slowly turned around. The creature was no longer there. Undoubtedly now hiding within the depths of the jar. My uncle’s words echoed in my mind.
I got up and rushed over to the jar and put the talisman inside of it. And then took the jar out of the house. I then went to the shed to grab a shovel, and then I brought the jar into the woods and buried it deep behind some bushes.
When I returned to the cottage, my aunt was there. She asked why I was in the woods, and why I had the shovel. I just told her that I found a dead Pigeon in the attic and went to bury it in the woods. My aunt wanted to make some coffee before going up to the attic, so I took the chance to hide my uncle’s journal. I didn’t tell her anything about what had happened to me, and what I had read in the journal.
We spent the rest of the day clearing out the attic, and I tried my best to act as if nothing eventful had happened. Once everything was done, I went home and collapsed on my bed to mull over the profoundly life changing events that I had just gone through. I had nightmares that night, as is to be expected, and I still have them now too. But, that strange talisman always makes an appearance in them and when it does all of the horror seems to instantly stop and then I wake up.
I am still plagued with many questions. Why was that jar made? Why was that thing inside of it? And who had created that talisman to keep that thing trapped inside of it?
I guess I’ll just have to look through my uncle’s notes and try to see if there’s anything there.