The Coiled Jester

I stepped across the cabin threshold, shutting the dark woods out behind me. Resting atop an overturned cedar crate in the corner was an abandoned tin jack-in-the-box, its painted circus panels scratched and dulled with age. I closed the distance with heavy, even strides until my shadow fell across the rusted brass latch. For minutes, I towered motionless in the quiet, watching the small wire crank jutting from its flank. Lowering my red saw against my knee, I clamped two rigid fingers around the stiff metal handle and forced it forward. With a dry, shrieking click, the lid snapped open, and the faded jester sprang upright on its iron coil, bobbing softly in the gloom.