While on a hike six years ago, he had come across the body of a lost hiker. Bloated, crawling with beetles and maggots, the thing that really stuck with him was the smell. Like pork that had gone bad, tossed in the garbage, and left to sit out in the bin for a week under a hot summer sun. He gagged in anticipation as he opened the bag.
There was no rotting smell to assault his olfactory senses; no body, not even bones. The bag was empty. As soon as it was opened, it lost its human shape, and was just a ratty old bag. Tommy let out a manic chortle as he tossed the bag out of the hole. The bag hit the trunk of the tree, and clinked on contact. The bag wasn’t empty after all.
He held the bag out as far as he could—no telling what manner of insect had made it their home— before upending it. A metallic disc came tumbling out and made a thump as it hit the earth. He picked it up. It was very shiny, and was about four or five inches in diameter. It looked like a CD made from silver or platinum. There wasn’t a speck of dirt or grime on it. He ran a thumb across both sides, leaving a smear of thumbprint down both sides. The prints vanished almost immediately.
He hurried inside, clutching the disc to his chest as though it would escape the moment he let his guard down.
In the attic he found his old Sony Discman. He sat down hard, felt the satisfying click as the top opened up, and he slotted the CD thing in. He hopped it wouldn’t play. He hoped it would play.
It played.