The Ampule - Third installment

I set the ampule upon the mantel over the fire place in my dining room.

It should come as no surprise that I was unable to focus on anything else for the rest of that day. I must have eaten the American Goulash. I must have paid. I must have driven home without incident. It must have been in that same trance that I had placed the ampule on the mantel over the fireplace in the dining room.

Why did I feel as if I had gotten news of a death? It was through that kind of daze through which I moved. Without even removing my jacket, I lowered myself into my big chair in the living room. I sat there and it must have started unconsciously, but I found myself gently dabbing the edges of the wound in my palm with my thumb. I couldn't have gotten it from the ampule. I must have made that up in my mind afterward. Perhaps I cut it on the glass I tipped over? Could it have been from something under the table?

This ampule should have been a fun mystery. An intrigue. A riddle. Instead, it felt like a burden. An unwanted guest. Like a search and rescue crew who had come to deliver news. "We know there is hope but we have no details at the moment." And now he was still sitting in my house.

The letter would have provided details. "Herewith Venerable Antiques is sending you a piece you requested us to seek on your behalf. Please remit payment." Or perhaps, "As the closest relative of Mrs. Gertrude Geldhahn, you are inheriting this heirloom in accordance with her last will and testament." Or even a gift from an acquaintance whose handwriting I would not have instantly recognized. "Mathias, Saw this and thought you might like it, what with your fascination with such things and all."

But without the letter, the ampule was a silent sentinel. I did not need this taunting.

Was someone (who may or may not be associated with The Society) expecting a response? Was I beholden to someone for having and keeping this item? I couldn't return it even if I wanted. Where to? Was it a new version of a Nigerian bank account scam? "I am the son of a Nigerian prince who has been deposed and now is persecuted. Please keep this valuable family antique in your possession to protect it from being seized. To make it seem like a legitimate transaction, wire two million dollars to this account number, which of course I will return to you."

Yes, for all I knew the ampule was contraband! Which would put me in a peculiar bind. I could not have it assessed by a reputable antiquities dealer for fear that I might become entrapped in some theft ring of which I would have difficulty explaining my innocence since I was in possession of the item.

What might have been intended to be a simple gift had now become a Trojan horse. Within the confines of my home, the questions sprung out and barraged me, slaying my logic, reducing my confidence to ruins, poisoning the well of my contentment.

The trouble was, the real underlying trouble, the trouble that would give me bad dreams that night is that I knew the power of ampule. I had brushed it off in the diner with Sassy, but I knew it was true what she said: It was a genie bottle. There was no denying that. I don't know why I didn't recognize that as soon as I saw it in the envelope, but somehow in that moment, all my perceptual senses were distorted.