If browsing charity shops, you might come across a small wooden box, about the size of a small hand. It’s made of a light-coloured wood, well kept but unremarkable, apart from there being no sign of any way to open it.
“I think it’s a puzzle box,” the woman on the till says when you buy it. “Put people off when they couldn’t work out how to open it. You probably have to press here, and pull there, or something. Do you need a bag, love?”
Every so often at home you pick up the box, turn it round in your hands, press here, pull there, but you’ve never found out the trick of opening it.
Which is a shame, because if you ever could, you would free the soul that’s been trapped inside it for three hundred and twenty-two years.
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