Quicksand by Seetha Dodd

The box is palm sized. You wonder if you should open it, but you resist. You tuck it under your bed. Your sleep is troubled by a nightmare you’ve had before: You are alone in a large hall and, without warning, the floor becomes quicksand. You are sinking, slowly but undeniably. You try to call for help, but the words do not come. You are not one for symbolism, so you do not try to analyse your recurring nightmare for meaning.