Free The Keepers by Ted Sanders

wonder, but more than either of these things, he felt regret. He was disappointed in himself for having taken so long to discover what the box could do. Maybe he’d simply been too afraid to let the box speak to him clearly. He’d believed all along that the box had to remain empty—and it turned out to be true! Just not at all in the way he’d imagined.
    Horace placed the D&D figurine in the box—an elven archer—and threw in the two marbles for good measure. He held the box over his head, looking up at it. The archer’s form and the two marbles were just visible—smeary silhouettes through the glass. Horace slid the lid into place, hoping he’d be able to see what was happening inside, but as soon as it closed, he could see nothing. There was no flash of light or anything—just the tingle, and then: no more archer, no more marbles.
    Horace leaned back against his bed, the box beside him. He knew that objects could not be completely destroyed, leaving nothing behind. Plus, it just didn’t make sense that the box would work that way—what would be the point? No, the only reasonable hypothesis was that the box was sending these objects somewhere else, a tantalizing thought. “Teleportation,” Horace whispered aloud. But if that’s what was happening, where were these objects going?
    It was time to put the next part of his plan into motion. He crept to his desk, opened a notebook, and began to write in his neatest handwriting.
    My name is Horace Andrews. If you are the finder of this message, please contact me immediately.
    He thought hard about what to say next. He had never before written a note to be delivered by teleportation. He needed to convince the finders of this message to tell him where they were—to tell him where the box was sending things. He tried to think what sort of message would make him, Horace, respond to a strange note that appeared out of nowhere.
    This note has gotten to you by a power I can’t control and don’t understand. It is a mystery I am desperate to solve. I can only solve it with your help. Please believe me, I am 100 percent serious. Here is my address:
    Horace Andrews
    3318 N. Bromley Street
    Chicago, IL 60634
    He read over what he’d written. He crossed out can’t control and wrote haven’t mastered . After the address, he added:
    USA
    He considered it one last time, and then added a final line. After all, you just never knew:
    Earth
    Horace read the note over about twenty more times and decided it would do. If there was anyone—or anything—on the other side, surely this would get a response. He folded the note it until it was small enough to fit inside the box. On one side he wrote PLEASE READ , and on the other NOT GARBAGE . He put the note inside the box.
    Just then, a soft scratch at the door yanked Horace’s heart into his throat. It came again, and Horace realized with a sigh of relief—it was only Loki. Horace leaned over and cracked the door. The cat sauntered in out of the shadows, brushing awkwardly against Horace’s leg.
    â€œYou’re just in time,” Horace whispered, latching the door. He gripped the box firmly. He closed the lid. He felt that prickly vibration in his fingertips again—the note had been delivered. Now all he had to do was . . .
    Horace frowned. Now he had to wait. It was 11:59; the new day was about to begin. How many more days would he have to wait before he got any answers? He realized now that he should have listed his phone number on the note, or his email—not his address. Addresses were too slow. And speaking of addresses, what had he been thinking? Earth? Logically speaking, that was a pointless thing to say . . . wasn’t it?
    Frustrated, he rummaged through some of his stuff. Idly he picked up a blue pencil sharpener and sent it through the box—a tingle, and it was gone. The act was so satisfying—thebox was