11 Jan The Green Tote

Part I

Michael adjusted the rearview mirror for the third time in two minutes, watching his 8-year-old son, Aidan, fiddling with a worn strap on his tattered blue tote bag. The bag, stitched by his ex-wife Hannah years ago, was barely holding together. The seams were loose, and the once-vivid fabric was now faded and fraying at the edges. Aidan had loved the bag since he was a toddler, but it was no longer doing its job.

Michael sighed as Aidan continued pulling at the loose threads. “Hey, buddy,” he said, forcing a smile. “What do you think about getting a new bag today? Something with a little more room for your things?”

Aidan looked up, his expression a mix of curiosity and hesitation. “Like… a backpack?”

“Not exactly. Something better.” Michael glanced at the passenger seat, where a lime-green tote bag sat neatly folded. He had stumbled across it earlier in the day while browsing a curiosity shop for a birthday gift for a friend. The shop had been cluttered with oddities—cracked porcelain dolls, antique jewelry, and strange trinkets that seemed to belong to another century. Among the chaos, the tote bag had stood out, its color vibrant and its zippers gleaming like new.

He thought it odd that such a mundane item was for sale in such an unexpected place. It certainly seemed out of place amongst the antique oddities and assorted supernatural bric-a-brac on display. And if he was being honest, the bag, despite its ordinary nature, seemed the strangest of all, positioned on the shelf betwixt the smattering of ornate relics and allegedly mystical artifacts. Yet, he couldn’t deny that it was exactly what Aidan needed–and the price was right. Who was he to complain? It was sturdy, had compartments galore, and, most importantly, it was in Aidan’s favorite color. Michael had bought it without hesitation, though a nagging voice in the back of his mind had warned him that Hannah might not approve.

“Close your eyes,” Michael said as he reached for the bag. Aidan obeyed, grinning.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see.” Michael placed the tote on Aidan’s lap. “Okay, open them.”

Aidan’s eyes went wide as he examined the bag. He ran his fingers over the smooth fabric, unzipping the compartments with growing excitement. “It’s green! And it has so many pockets! This is so cool, Dad!”

Michael felt a pang of relief. “I thought you’d like it. You can put all your favorite things in there, and it won’t fall apart like the old one.”

Aidan nodded eagerly. “Can I try it now?”

“Of course,” Michael said, watching as Aidan began transferring items from his old bag: a sketchpad filled with drawings of robots and dragons, a set of colored pencils, and a small plush dinosaur with one eye missing. Each item found its place in the new bag, zipped securely in its own compartment.

“It’s perfect,” Aidan said, hugging the tote.

Michael’s heart swelled. “I’m glad you like it, buddy.”

The car ride continued in comfortable silence, with Aidan occasionally unzipping and re-zipping the bag, testing its many pockets. Michael’s thoughts, however, began to drift to the inevitable confrontation with Hannah.

She would hate the bag. That much he knew.

Over the years, she’d criticized every gesture he made toward Aidan, accusing him of spoiling their son to compensate for being an absent father. Her own handmade bag had been a sticking point in their custody battle, a symbol of her devotion to their son and her claim that she could provide more emotional care than Michael ever could. Once the prying eyes of the family court system were no longer paying attention, however, Hannah stopped trying so hard to impress, and the blue bag had been allowed to fall into disrepair, just like their marriage. Though the insults, theatrics, and judgment persisted, the same could not be said about her work ethic.

He could already hear her sharp tone in his head. “Another one of your store-bought replacements, Michael? You can’t just throw money at everything. Our son isn’t stupid, you know.”

Michael tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t care what she thought. Aidan deserved better than a bag that was falling apart.

As they pulled into Hannah’s driveway, Aidan’s excitement dimmed slightly. He clutched the tote bag tightly as if bracing himself for the transition from one home to another. Michael parked the car and got out, moving to open Aidan’s door.

“You ready?” Michael asked, crouching to Aidan’s level.

Aidan nodded, though his grip on the bag tightened.

They approached the front door, which swung open before Michael could knock. Hannah stood there, arms crossed, her eyes narrowing the moment they landed on the lime-green tote.

“What’s that?” she demanded.

“A new bag for Aidan,” Michael said, keeping his tone neutral. “His old one’s falling apart.”

Hannah’s lips thinned. “I was going to make him a new one. He doesn’t need your store-bought junk.”

Michael suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “He likes it, Hannah. That’s all that matters.”

Her gaze shifted to Aidan, who was staring at his shoes, clutching the bag like a lifeline. “You don’t need this, Aidan,” she said, her voice softening just enough to sound convincing. “I was making you something special.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Aidan mumbled. “I like this one.”

Hannah’s eyes flicked back to Michael, sharp with accusation. “You spoil him, Michael. Do you really think buying his affection will make up for all the time you’re not around? It won’t.”

Michael exhaled slowly. “It’s just a bag, Hannah. Let it go.”

She didn’t respond, but the tension in her posture was unmistakable. She stepped aside, letting Aidan shuffle inside. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she called after him, before turning back to Michael.

“You can’t keep undermining me,” she said in a low voice. “This is why he doesn’t listen to me.”

Michael bit back a retort. “Goodbye, Hannah.”

He turned and walked back to his car, the door slamming shut behind him. As he sat behind the wheel, staring at the house, a hollow ache settled in his chest. He hated these drop-offs. Hated the way they left him feeling like a visitor in his son’s life.

But for the first time in a while, he also felt a small flicker of hope. Aidan liked the bag. That was something.

As Michael drove away, the thought nagged at the back of his mind—in retrospect, something about the bag, about the way it had caught his eye in the curiosity shop, felt strange.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, and in the quiet moments he eeked out every now and then, he briefly wondered how such an ordinary item ended up on the shelf surrounded by otherworldly trinkets.

He pushed the thought aside–it wasn’t worth the trouble. He liked to think he was a logical man, and it was just a bag. Nothing more.

Part II

The next morning, Aidan stood at the front door, the lime-green tote bag slung over his shoulder. His smile was wide as he showed it off to Michael. “I packed all my favorite things, Dad! See?”

Michael crouched down, pretending to inspect the bag. Aidan had stuffed it with his beloved security blanket, a new sketchbook, his favorite colored pencils, and a small action figure from his collection. Michael noticed the bag still had room to spare, its many compartments neatly zipped up.

“You’ve got everything you need for the day!” Michael said proudly, ruffling Aidan’s hair. “You’re all set.”

Aidan nodded eagerly. “Mom said I could take it to school!”

Michael hid his surprise. Hannah rarely approved of anything he gave Aidan. Maybe she’d decided not to fight him on the bag after all. “That’s great, buddy. Be careful with it, okay? Keep an eye on your stuff.”

“I will,” Aidan said, practically bouncing with excitement.

Hannah’s car horn blared from the driveway. Aidan gave Michael a quick hug before dashing out the door, the green tote bouncing against his side as he ran to the car. Michael lingered in the doorway, watching his son climb into the back seat. He gave a small wave, but Hannah didn’t acknowledge him before pulling out of the driveway.

Michael exhaled and shut the door, the quiet of his home settling in around him like a weight. He forced himself to focus on work, answering emails and making calls, but his thoughts kept drifting to Aidan and the tote bag.

It was silly, he knew. It was just a bag. But something about it troubled him.

* * * * * *

When Hannah picked Aidan up from school that afternoon, she immediately noticed something was wrong. Aidan’s face was pale, his eyes red as though he’d been crying. He clutched the tote bag tightly to his chest, but his usual excitement was gone.

“Aidan?” she asked, her tone sharp with concern. “What happened?”

Aidan didn’t answer. He slid into the back seat and stared out the window.

At home, Hannah pressed him for details, but he remained silent until dinner. Finally, as he pushed a pile of peas around his plate, he muttered, “All my stuff is gone.”

Hannah frowned. “What do you mean, ‘gone?’”

“The bag,” Aidan said, his voice trembling. “I put all my things in it this morning—my blanket, my sketchbook, my pencils—and they’re not there anymore.”

Hannah’s initial annoyance softened into confusion. “Did someone take them? Did you leave the bag somewhere?”

“No! I had it with me all day,” Aidan insisted. “I checked at lunch. They were still there. But when I got home, everything was gone.”

Hannah didn’t believe him. Not entirely. “Maybe you didn’t zip it up all the way. Things can fall out.”

“No,” Aidan whispered, his eyes welling with tears. “I checked all the pockets. They’re gone, Mom. They just disappeared.”

Hannah sighed, her frustration mounting. “We’ll look again tomorrow, okay? Go wash up for bed.”

That night, after Aidan was asleep, Hannah picked up the tote bag and inspected it. She found nothing unusual—just a clean, empty bag with an almost factory-new sheen.

The next morning, she brought it up with Michael during a brief exchange on the phone.

“He says all his stuff disappeared out of the bag,” Hannah said. “I don’t know if he lost it or what.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Michael said. “Maybe someone at school took his things?”

“There’s no sign of theft. No one saw anything. It’s weird.”

“I’ll ask him about it when he’s with me next,” Michael offered.

“Sure,” Hannah said, but her tone was curt. “I swear, Michael, if this is because of that stupid bag—”

“It’s not the tote,” Michael said firmly. “It’s just a bag, Hannah,” Michael said firmly. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Hannah scoffed. “We’ll see. Aidan’s upset, and if it’s because of your little gift, you’re going to have to deal with it.”

Michael clenched the phone tighter, swallowing his irritation. “I’ll talk to him. Let me know if anything else happens.”

She hung up without another word.

* * * * * *

The week dragged on for Michael. Every time he thought of Aidan’s voice over the phone—quivering, hurt—he felt a pang of guilt. The boy adored that bag–not to mention all the things he’d trusted it to keep safe–and the idea that it had somehow caused him distress ate at Michael.

By the time Friday arrived, he was more than ready for his scheduled weekend with Aidan. When he picked him up, Michael noticed the lime-green tote still slung over Aidan’s shoulder, though the boy clutched it less tightly than before.

“Hey, buddy,” Michael greeted, crouching down to hug him. “How’s my guy doing?”

Aidan smiled faintly, but his usual excitement was subdued. “Okay,” he mumbled.

Michael waited until they were driving home to broach the subject. “So… your mom told me you had some trouble with the bag this week.”

Aidan stiffened. “It wasn’t the bag’s fault,” he said quickly.

“Okay,” Michael said gently. “I just want to understand. Can you tell me what happened?”

Aidan hesitated, his small hands gripping the straps of the tote. “I put my stuff in it, and it was all there at lunch. But then… after school, it wasn’t. I looked everywhere, Dad. I checked all the pockets, but they were empty.”

Michael glanced at him in the rearview mirror, noting the worry etched into his son’s face. “You didn’t leave the tote anywhere, right?”

“No! I kept it with me the whole time.”

“And nothing fell out?”

“No,” Aidan said again, his voice growing shaky. “It’s like it just… disappeared.”

Michael frowned. It didn’t make sense. He knew Aidan was responsible with his things—more responsible than most kids his age. And yet, the boy was visibly rattled.

“Alright,” Michael said, keeping his tone calm. “When we get home, we’ll look through it together. Maybe there’s a tear inside or something.”

Aidan nodded, though he didn’t look reassured.

When they arrived home, Michael sat down with Aidan at the kitchen table. He flipped open the tote bag and began examining it thoroughly. The zippers slid smoothly, the compartments appeared perfectly intact, and the fabric showed no signs of wear or damage. It was pristine—almost too pristine, considering Aidan had been using it daily.

Michael ran his hands along the inside seams, feeling for any tears or hidden pockets, but there was nothing unusual. He looked up at Aidan, who was watching him with wide, anxious eyes.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Michael said finally. “No holes, no loose stitches. It’s just… empty.”

Aidan’s lower lip quivered. “It’s not fair, Dad. I really liked those things. My blanket, my drawings…”

Michael’s chest tightened. “I know, buddy. I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Aidan nodded, but the sadness lingered in his expression.

* * * * * *

The next day, Michael took Aidan out for ice cream and a trip to the toy store, hoping to lift his spirits. They picked out a new plush dinosaur and a fresh pack of colored pencils, which Aidan carefully placed into the tote bag.

For a while, things seemed normal again. Aidan’s laughter filled the car as they headed home, and Michael felt a small sense of relief. But as they pulled into the driveway, Aidan unzipped the bag to check on his new items—and froze.

“Dad,” he said, his voice trembling.

Michael turned in his seat. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re gone,” Aidan whispered, holding the empty bag open for Michael to see.

Michael’s stomach dropped. He grabbed the bag, rifling through it with mounting urgency, but Aidan was right. The pencils, the dinosaur—everything was gone.

Michael’s hands began to shake. “You’re sure you put them in here?”

“Yes!” Aidan cried. “I put them in right after we bought them! I didn’t take them out! I promise!”

Michael stared at the bag, his mind racing. This wasn’t possible.

Part III

Michael couldn’t stop staring at the empty lime-green tote bag. The fabric looked untouched, the zippers gleaming as if the bag had never been used. But the items Aidan had put inside—his blanket, his toys, and now the brand-new pencils and plush dinosaur—were all gone.

“Maybe they fell out in the car,” Michael said, his voice edged with desperation.

Aidan shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t open it, Dad. I swear.”

“I believe you,” Michael said quickly. He got out of the car and searched the back seat, checking under the seats and in the cracks between the cushions. Nothing. He felt like he was losing his mind.

He even looked in the trunk, though he knew it was pointless. When he returned to Aidan, who was still sitting motionless in the car, the boy’s face was pale, and his lower lip quivered.

“It’s not your fault, buddy,” Michael said, crouching down to Aidan’s level. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

“Okay,” Aidan mumbled, but the tremor in his voice made Michael’s stomach churn.

That night, after Aidan had gone to bed, Michael spread the tote bag out on the kitchen table. He flipped it inside out, inspecting every inch of the fabric. There were no holes, no secret compartments, nothing to explain the disappearance of Aidan’s belongings.

He grabbed a flashlight and shone it into the bag, half expecting to see… something. A clue, a tear in space, anything. But the light revealed only the same clean, empty interior.

Michael sat back, running a hand over his face. He couldn’t explain it. And worse, he didn’t know how to comfort Aidan when the boy asked him why his things kept vanishing.

* * * * * *

The weekend passed slowly. Michael tried to distract Aidan with games and movies, but the boy seemed subdued. He kept the tote bag close, though he didn’t put anything new in it.

When Sunday evening came, Michael drove Aidan back to Hannah’s house. He was still dreading telling her what had happened with the bag, knowing she’d find a way to blame him.

Hannah opened the door as they arrived, her arms crossed and her expression already sour. “You’re late!” she snapped.

Michael checked his watch. It was 8:03. “Three minutes, Hannah.”

She ignored him, turning her attention to Aidan. “Did you have fun with your dad?”

Aidan nodded silently, clutching the tote bag as he shuffled inside.

Hannah glanced at the bag, her eyes narrowing. “Still using that thing?”

“Yes, Mom,” Aidan said quietly.

Michael braced himself for a lecture, but Hannah didn’t start in right away. Instead, she sighed and motioned for Aidan to go upstairs. “I’ll be up in a minute,” she said.

Once Aidan was out of earshot, Hannah turned back to Michael. “So, what’s the deal with the bag?”

Michael hesitated. “He loves it.”

“He also said all his stuff disappeared out of it,” Hannah said, her voice sharp. “Do you know how upset he’s been? He thinks he’s to blame.”

Michael felt a flicker of anger. “It’s not his fault, and I’ve been trying to figure it out. There’s nothing wrong with the bag—it’s not torn or broken. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me his things just vanished into thin air?”

Michael met her glare. “I’m telling you I don’t have an explanation. Maybe something happened at school. Maybe someone’s messing with him. I don’t know.”

Hannah crossed her arms. “You don’t know, or you don’t care?”

The words hit harder than they should have. “You think I’d let this happen if I could stop it?” he snapped.

“I think you’re too busy trying to play the hero to notice when things go wrong,” Hannah shot back.

Michael bit back a retort. This wasn’t helping. “Look, I’ll keep looking into it, okay? We’ll sort this out.”

Hannah didn’t look convinced. “Fine. But if this keeps happening, that bag is going in the trash. I don’t care how much he loves it.”

The next morning, Hannah decided to use the tote bag herself. She needed something sturdy to carry a few family heirlooms—her mother’s antique jewelry box, a porcelain vase, and a small album of old photographs—to her parents’ house.

She packed the items carefully, zipping each compartment securely. The bag’s size and organization made it perfect for the job, and though she hated to admit it, the lime-green fabric didn’t look half bad against her coat.

Hannah left the bag in her car while she exchanged Aidan with Michael at their usual drop-off spot. She noticed the way Michael glanced at the bag but ignored it, feeling a small surge of petty satisfaction.

By the time she arrived at her parents’ house, though, the satisfaction had soured. She opened the car door to grab the bag and froze. It was light—too light.

Her hands trembled as she unzipped it and peered inside. The bag was empty.

“No,” she whispered, frantically checking all the compartments. Nothing. The jewelry box, the vase, the photo album—they were all gone.

She stared at the bag in disbelief.

Hannah stormed back into the house, the tote bag clutched tightly in her hands. She dialed Michael’s number, her anger boiling over the moment he answered.

“What the hell did you do?!” she demanded.

Michael’s voice was calm, if confused. “Hannah, what are you talking about?”

“My heirlooms!” she snapped. “The things I put in your stupid bag—they’re gone!”

“What? Hannah, I didn’t—”

“Don’t you lie to me!” she interrupted. “You’ve been messing with this bag all weekend, haven’t you? What did you do to it?!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Michael said firmly. “Hannah, calm down and think. Where were you when you last saw them?”

“They were in this bag!” she yelled. “And now they’re gone! I swear to God, Michael, if you—”

“Hannah,” Michael said sharply, cutting her off, “you know me. You know I wouldn’t touch your things. Think for a second—did anything else happen?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Hannah spoke again, her voice was quieter, but no less furious. “This isn’t over.”

She hung up before Michael could respond.

Part IV

That evening, Hannah sat at her kitchen table, glaring at the lime-green tote bag. It sat innocuously on the chair across from her, its vibrant color almost mocking her. She had checked the car and the driveway, and even retraced her steps back to the exchange point with Michael. There was no sign of the heirlooms.

She reached for a glass of wine and took a long sip. “You’re just a bag,” she muttered under her breath, as if saying it out loud might dispel the irrational dread that had taken root in her mind.

Frustrated, Hannah decided to get rid of it. She grabbed the tote and stormed out to the trash bin, tossing it inside, as promised, with a satisfying clang, where it landed atop a pile of molding, discarded leftovers. The lid slammed shut, and she marched triumphantly back into the house, brushing her hands off as though she’d just completed a chore.

That night, she slept soundly—until she woke at 3 AM to a damp, musty smell and a strange, sticky sensation under her body.

Groggily, she reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. Her breath caught in her throat.

The lime-green tote was lying beside her on the bed, its fabric stained with what appeared to be marinara. The sheets were ruined, soaked through with the dark red sauce.

She scrambled out of bed. “What the hell?” she whispered, quickly backing away.

* * * * * *

In the kitchen, Hannah stared at the tote, now sitting in her sink. She had scrubbed it clean, but its presence unsettled her. “Fine,” she muttered, “you want to play games? Let’s see how tough you are.”

She reached for the scissors in her junk drawer and began cutting into the bag. Or at least, she tried to.

The first snip barely left a scratch on the fabric. Frowning, she pressed harder, her hand trembling with the effort. Unexpectedly, the scissors snapped, the broken blade clattering to the floor.

Hannah let out a frustrated scream and tossed the ruined scissors aside. She stormed back to her bedroom, leaving the bag in the sink.

The next evening, Michael arrived at Hannah’s house to drop Aidan off as usual.

He knocked, then waited.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time. The porch light was on, but the house was silent. Michael hesitated, then tried the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand.

“Hannah?” he called out, stepping inside. The house smelled faintly of wine and something far worse—something rotten.

Michael’s stomach churned as he followed the smell to the bedroom. He pushed the door open and froze.

Hannah was lying on the bed, her headless body gruesomely mutilated. Her limbs had been cut with what looked like excruciating precision, leaving her torso a bloody mess. Garbage—rotting leftovers and soiled food—was strewn across the bed, coating her in filth.

Beside her, the lime-green tote sat upright and pristine, as if it had been placed there deliberately.

Michael staggered back, his hand covering his mouth to stifle a scream. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath.

He had to leave. Now.

As Michael turned to go, a sound stopped him—a soft creak from behind. He spun around, half expecting to see Hannah’s body moving. But it was just the tote bag, swaying slightly as if caressed by an unseen breeze.

Michael’s mind raced. He couldn’t call the police. They’d never believe him. His fingerprints were already all over the house, and the bitter custody battle with Hannah would make him an obvious suspect.

His eyes darted to the tote. A horrifying thought occurred to him.

Slowly, he approached the bed. He grabbed one of Hannah’s severed arms, gagging as he stuffed it into the tote. The bag swallowed it whole, the blood vanishing as though it had never existed.

Shaking, he grabbed another piece—then another. The bag consumed everything: limbs, soiled sheets, even the bloody kitchen shears he found on the floor.

When the last piece was inside, Michael zipped the bag shut. He waited, staring at it. Seconds passed. When he opened it again, the bag was empty. Clean.

But Hannah’s head was nowhere to be found.

Michael paced the house, searching frantically. The head had to be here. He checked the closet, under the bed, and even the bathroom. Nothing.

“Damn it!” he hissed.

“Dad?” A small voice called from the hallway.

Michael froze. Aidan.

Quickly, he shut the bedroom door and stepped into the hall, forcing a smile. “Hey, buddy! What are you doing up?”

Aidan rubbed his eyes sleepily. “I heard something. Is Mom okay?”

Michael swallowed hard. “She’s fine. She’s just… resting. Why don’t we head back to my place for tonight? We can have an extra movie night.”

Aidan blinked up at him. “Really? Mom said no more extra nights.”

“Well,” Michael said, his voice faltering. “She changed her mind. Just for tonight.”

Aidan’s face lit up, and Michael felt a pang of guilt. “Can I say goodbye to her?”

“She’s not feeling well,” Michael said quickly. “Let’s not wake her, okay?”

Aidan hesitated, but then nodded. “Okay, Dad.”

Michael ushered him toward the door, grabbing the lime-green tote on the way out.

Back at his house, Michael sat on the couch, frantically considering every variable. The bag was clean. The evidence was gone.

Except for Hannah’s head. He had no idea where it could be, and that made him very nervous.

He glanced at Aidan, who was asleep on the couch beside him, clutching a new plush toy. Michael closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of his ex-wife’s dismembered corpse and the feeling of her blood on his hands.

Somehow, he had to keep Aidan safe.

Part V

Michael awoke to the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway and sat up on the couch. For a split second, he thought it might be Hannah, but the reality came crashing back. She was gone, her mangled body reduced to nothing more than a terrible memory—and a missing head.

He glanced at Aidan, who was still sound asleep, clutching his latest replacement plush toy. Michael stood, careful not to wake him, and crept toward the hallway. The footsteps had stopped, but a faint rustling sound came from the direction of his home office.

As he approached, he noticed something on the floor just outside the door. It was the lime-green tote, lying on its side. The bag’s zipper was partially open, and several of Aidan’s belongings—the same ones that had mysteriously disappeared—were scattered across the floor.

Michael froze. His hands trembled as he crouched down, picking up Aidan’s sketchbook and the familiar plush dinosaur. Both were spotless, as though they had never been lost at all.

“What the hell?” he whispered, staring at the bag.

Michael placed the items on the kitchen table and began pacing. The bag had previously consumed everything he’d put inside it—Aidan’s belongings, Hannah’s remains, even the bloody sheets. How was it possible that these items were now back, pristine and untouched?

He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts spiraling. Was the bag reversing its effects? If Aidan’s things were returning, what else might come back?

Michael’s stomach churned as the answer hit him.

Hannah.

* * * * * *

Later that afternoon, Michael made a decision. He would return to the curiosity shop where he’d purchased the bag–there was no other choice.

“I’ll be back soon, buddy,” he told Aidan, who was sprawled on the couch watching cartoons.

“Where are you going?” Aidan asked, his eyes drifting to the green tote, now sitting upright in the hallway.

“Just running an errand,” Michael said quickly. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

Aidan nodded, his attention already shifting back to the TV.

Michael grabbed the tote, zipped it shut, and headed out the door.

The curiosity shop was just as cluttered as Michael remembered. The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood, and the shelves were crammed with strange, mismatched objects.

The shop owner, an older woman with sharp eyes and a knowing smile, was standing behind the counter. She didn’t seem surprised to see him.

“Back already?” she said, her voice cool and amused.

Michael placed the tote on the counter, his hands trembling. “I need answers. What is this thing?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bag.”

“Don’t play games with me!” Michael snapped, his voice rising. “You knew what this thing was capable of when you sold it to me!”

The woman’s smile didn’t waver. “You bought it, didn’t you? No one forced you.”

Michael clenched his fists. “This tote… it makes things disappear. And now they’re coming back! All of them!”

The woman tilted her head, as though considering his words. “Interesting,” she murmured. “It doesn’t usually do that.”

“What the hell does that mean?!” Michael demanded.

She gestured for him to follow. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

The back room of the shop was even more unsettling than the front. The walls were lined with shelves, and on them sat dozens of severed heads.

Michael’s stomach turned, and he staggered back, nearly tripping over a pile of old books. The heads varied in appearance—some fresh, others decayed, and a few so old they looked mummified. But all of them stared blankly forward, their lifeless eyes fixed in eternal horror.

“You’ll find this one familiar,” the woman said, gesturing toward the far end of the shelf.

Michael’s eyes followed her hand, and his breath caught in his throat. Hannah’s head sat among the others, her features frozen in a twisted mask of pain and fury.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, no, no…”

The shop owner watched him with a detached curiosity. “The bag always brings the heads here. I don’t know why. It’s just how it works.”

Michael turned to her, his face pale. “You knew this would happen! You sold me this thing knowing what it would do!”

She shrugged. “When something like that bag comes into your life, you don’t tell it no. It demands sacrifices. I’m just a facilitator.”

“You’re insane!” Michael said, his voice trembling with rage.

The woman’s smile faded. “Call me whatever you want, but you should worry less about me and more about what’s waiting for you at home.”

Michael froze. “What do you mean?”

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked back to the front of the shop, leaving Michael alone with the heads.

* * * * * *

Michael drove home in a daze, the tote bag sitting in the passenger seat. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel as he replayed the woman’s words in his mind.

When he pulled into the driveway, his heart sank. A police car was parked outside his house.

Two officers stood in his living room, their faces grim.

“We received a tip from Hannah’s family,” one of them explained. “They’re concerned. She hasn’t been answering her phone.”

Michael’s pulse quickened as he set the bag down on the hallway bench. “I… I haven’t seen her since I dropped Aidan off.”

The officer’s eyes drifted to the tote. “Mind if we take a look around?”

Michael’s throat tightened. “Of course not,” he lied, the words barely escaping his dry mouth.

As the officers began their search, Michael’s mind raced. He had cleaned everything. The bag was empty. There was no way they’d find anything incriminating.

But then, as if defying the very laws of reality, the lime-green tote bag tipped over on its own.

It began with a low, guttural squelch, like wet fabric being wrung out. Michael’s stomach lurched as a dark, viscous liquid began to seep from the open zipper. Before he could react, the bag convulsed and spilled its contents onto the floor in a grotesque cascade.

Out came Hannah’s severed remains. Her limbs tumbled out first, the clean cuts glistening under the room’s dim light. Michael’s breath caught in his throat as her torso followed, landing with a sickening thud and splattering blood across the hardwood.

The room filled with the stench of decay and coppery blood.

One of the officers staggered back, cursing under his breath. The other wasted no time. “Get on the ground! Now!”

Michael staggered back, his legs buckling. “No…” he cried. “No, this isn’t possible!”

The officers didn’t hesitate. One pinned Michael’s arms behind his back while the other radioed for backup.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Hannah Wallace,” the officer said coldly, his voice barely masking his revulsion.

Part VI

Michael sat in the stark interrogation room, his hands cuffed to the metal table. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow on the lime-green tote bag resting on the table across from him. Despite the blood-soaked horrors it had contained just hours ago, the bag now looked immaculate, its zippers gleaming innocently.

The door opened, and Detective Alvarez stepped in, her expression unreadable. She sat across from Michael, folding her hands neatly in front of her.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Mr. Wallace,” she began, her tone measured. “Do you want to explain how your ex-wife’s dismembered body ended up in your possession?”

Michael’s mouth felt dry. What could he possibly say? That a cursed tote bag had swallowed the evidence, only to regurgitate it at the worst possible moment?

“I didn’t kill her,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “I know how it looks, but I didn’t do it.”

Alvarez raised an eyebrow. “So, how do you explain the remains?”

Michael’s gaze flickered to the bag. “It’s… the bag,” he muttered, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

Alvarez frowned. “The bag?”

“It takes things,” Michael said desperately. “And then… it brings them back.”

For a moment, Alvarez just stared at him. Then she leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth!” Michael’s voice rose, frantic. “We put things in the bag, and they disappear. I don’t know how it works, but I swear to God, I didn’t kill Hannah!”

Alvarez’s expression hardened. “You’re not making this any easier on yourself, Mr. Wallace.”

* * * * * *

The trial came swiftly, and the evidence against Michael was overwhelming. The tote bag, along with Hannah’s remains, was presented as the centerpiece of the prosecution’s case. The clean cuts on her limbs matched the kitchen shears found in Michael’s home, and his prior custody battle with Hannah painted a clear motive for the jury.

Michael’s attorney tried to argue that there was no direct proof of murder, but it was a losing battle. The bag’s alleged properties were dismissed as irrelevant, and Michael’s claims about its curse were chalked up to a desperate attempt to evade responsibility.

The jury deliberated for less than an hour–seemingly oblivious to the fact the bag had been used to transport human remains but was somehow spotless–before delivering their verdict: guilty of first-degree murder. Michael swooned.

As the judge handed down a life sentence without the possibility of parole, Michael barely heard the words. His mind was numb, consumed by thoughts of the bag and its curse.

Months passed. Michael adjusted, as best as he could, to life behind bars. He kept to himself, avoiding the other inmates and spending most of his time replaying the events that had led him there.

Meanwhile, the lime-green tote sat in the evidence locker at the local police department, sealed in a plastic container.

One night, as Officer Riley prepared to incinerate the evidence from the Wallace case, he noticed the bag among the items. He frowned. It didn’t look like something that belonged in a murder investigation—it was too ordinary, too clean.

Curious, he unzipped the bag.

It was empty.

Shrugging, Riley placed it in the incinerator with the rest of the items and turned on the machine. He didn’t see the faint glow emanating from the bag before the flames consumed it.

But the next morning, Riley returned to the evidence room to find the tote bag sitting on the shelf where he had first found it, looking as pristine as ever.

Confused but unwilling to question it further, Riley decided to dispose of the bag quietly. He took it to a thrift store out of town and dropped it off anonymously, relieved to be rid of it.

A year later, the bag turned up again, this time at a local estate sale. It was sold along with other household items, eventually finding its way to an auction. By some twist of fate, one of the bidders was a distant relative of Michael, who, unaware of the bag’s dark history, bought it as part of a lot of unclaimed storage items.

The relative, uninterested in the old bag, added it to a box of Michael’s remaining belongings that had been kept in the attic of his former home.

* * * * * *

Years later, Aidan, now in his mid-20s, sat in the attic of his childhood home, sorting through boxes of old belongings. His father’s things had been sold at auction after Michael’s conviction, but a few items had been left behind in storage.

As Aidan rifled through the boxes, he spotted a flash of green. Pulling the tote bag out, he felt a pang of nostalgia. He had loved this bag as a child, despite the strange things that had happened with it. Thankfully, he had been spared the grisly details of his mother’s death and the exact nature of his father’s involvement.

Smiling faintly, he decided to keep it and later gifted it to his daughter Ashley.

On her eighth birthday, Aidan presented the lime-green tote bag to her, wrapping it in colorful paper with a bow on top.

Her eyes lit up as she tore off the wrapping. “It’s so cool!” she exclaimed. “Thanks, Dad!”

Aidan grinned. “You can use it for sleepovers. It’s got lots of pockets, and it’s really sturdy.”

That night, Ashley packed the bag with a handful of toys and took it to her best friend Scarlett’s house for a sleepover. When she arrived, she unzipped the bag, only to find it completely empty.

As she searched for the missing items, Scarlett’s orange tabby cat wandered into the room, sniffing curiously at the spacious open bag. The girls giggled as the cat pawed at the zippers and climbed inside, and left the feline to have its way with the tote, using it like a makeshift scratching post as they headed outdoors to enjoy the sunshine.

When they returned from playing outside, the cat was gone.

The following morning, Aidan picked his daughter up early. Ashley was upset about her missing toys, and Scarlett about her missing cat. Aidan assured her it was just a misunderstanding, that he was certain both her toys and the cat would show up again soon.

As they drove home, a loud thump came from the back of the vehicle, as if on cue.

When they arrived, Aidan opened the trunk to find the tote bag overturned. His daughter’s previously missing toys were scattered across the trunk floor, covered in something dark and sticky.

Beside them, the cat’s headless body lay crumpled, its fur matted and torn.

Aidan stared in horror, screamed, and gagged. Ashley got out of the vehicle and approached her father, but he had the sense to shield her from the worst of it, and led her into the house, where he called the police.

Meanwhile, back at the curiosity shop, the owner walked into her storeroom. She scanned the shelves of severed heads, stopping when her eyes landed on something new and unexpected: the head of an orange tabby cat. She sighed.

”Really?” she muttered. “Getting desperate, are we?”