The neon sign above my shop reads, “Emporium of the Ethereal”. We–and by “we”, I mean “I”–make an effort to advertise this establishment as a place where nobody (and nothing) will be turned away.
Just last week, for example, a gentleman brought in the pistol used by John Wilkes Booth to kill President Lincoln. According to him, the embittered soul of Honest Abe himself was attached to it. After performing a certain ritual to test the authenticity of such a claim, I saw the tell-tale apparition of the tall, bearded Commander-in-Chief himself, which nearly caused the man to jump out of his skin, partly due to said spectre being considerably irate. It wasn’t his spirit, not really; more of an echo, a leftover of Lincoln’s spirit. Anyway, having proven its realism, I dismissed the echo and it returned into the weapon. I determined the worth of the object to be $15,500 (or any equivalent thereof). He grew irate, saying it was worth at least $30,000, that he could go to the pawn shop in “Pulp Fiction” and get a better price, that he could get more for the gun at Ed and Lorraine Warren’s museum.
I…acted a bit unprofessional after that last bit, I won’t lie. I had to give him a bit of “encouragement”. Said encouragement came in the form of ringing a bell with a dog symbol on it three times, then watching him grow pale as a sheet as the three-headed dog bounded out from the back of the shop and growled at him. Handing the gun over and accepting the money, he fled as quick as he could. I dismissed the dog, then took the gun and put it in the warehouse.
Then you have my more “unique” clientele. Two days ago, a huge amorphous blob of eyes and tentacles slithered through my door and dropped a strange device on my counter. “Non-Euclidean” would be doing it an injustice. Every view I took of it was a different shape; look at it from the side, it would be spherical, above, triangular, below, a cube, and numerous variations thereof. According to the customer–whose name I won’t even try to spell–it was an ancestral artifact used to determine the direction one was supposed to go. Said ancestor had used it to find a new world for their people. In short: an otherworldly being brought me an old compass. After examining it–using certain methods that the previous shop owner told me to never disclose–I determined it to be worth 700 q’mutofla, (which for them would be what $150,000 is for humans). At this, they excitedly chirped and screeched in gratitude and eagerly shook my hand with their long, slimy appendage, then apologizing profusely for said slime. Telling them it was no problem, I washed my hands and gave them the money, then trying to avoid looking at the device too hard, I put it in another part of the warehouse reserved for eldritch items.
Now, by this point, you may be wondering, “Where the hell is this place?” Or maybe not. I’m not a mind-reader; that’s my watch’s job. Anyway, it isn’t really “located” in one specific place; it’s in a kind of “space-and-time-between-spaces-and-times” if you understand me. I’ve had at least twenty different people bring just Booth’s gun, all authentic, with varying reactions. You can’t find it unless you know damn well what you’re looking for, and if you call ahead using a specific number, which I can’t give out. This shop is on Earth and in the 21st century, but at the same time isn’t. It’s complicated, but necessary information, just so you know how I’m posting here.
This brings me to the reason why I’m posting here. See, I’ve been getting threatening phone calls lately. I wouldn’t be too unnerved, except the stalker gets a bit too close for comfort. They describe what I’m doing, what I’m eating, what part of the shop I’m in, standard stalker schtick. Why is this a problem? Put yourself in my shoes: you run a shop in a place that’s not supposed to have anyone but you living in it, and you’re getting phone calls from someone or something that knows details about your place of business and your location in vivid detail.
Then there’s what happened last night. I heard a clattering noise from the warehouse, which is accessed through a door marked as such. Quick detail about the warehouse and shop: the shop is relatively tiny, but the warehouse acts as a kind of pocket dimension, allowing for infinite storage. The reason this is important is because last night, I saw someone or something casually perusing the WMD/Hazmat section of the warehouse, looking at our fragment of the Elephant’s Foot as if it were jewelry. “Sorry, bud, but those ain’t for sale,” I said, the gravity of the situation not sinking in yet. I turned on my flashlight and froze. It looked human, but when I shone a light at it, the thing, whatever the hell it was, seemed to be covered in a glossy, black substance. It had no mouth, nose, or pupils. Well, at least, it didn’t have a mouth until its face opened like a flower, revealing a pinkish, grinning face with long, anglerfish-like teeth and the same eyes. It stood there, body compressing and expanding as it breathed.
Then I took a step back. As if to mock me, it took a step forward and stayed there, that grin still plastered on. My eyes darted from it to the door, then back to it. As wide as the grin was, it seemed to get a bit wider. It knew I was trying to gauge the distance between it and the door. It was daring me to make a run for it. A dare I decided to take. Sprinting for the open door, I heard it screech at me, and bounded on all fours. Its fingers were just about to grab me before I re-entered the brightly-lit shop, then slammed the door, and heard the impact of its body on the door. I stood for a moment, breathing heavily. Then after about an hour, I reached behind the counter and unlocked a cabinet that held a pistol, only meant to be used for emergencies. Checking and loading it, I slowly undid the barricade and peeked inside. Nothing. No trace of the thing, no residue from whatever substance covered it. Everything was completely normal. I had almost sighed in relief when a panicked jolt shot through me. There was a light knock on the glass door.
It was the creature, still grinning at me. It gestured toward the desk, where the phone was. It rang, and I cautiously answered, “Emporium of the Eth–” “I was just doing a bit of browsing, that’s all,” the stalker’s voice rasped mockingly, then chuckled sadistically. I looked at the door, seeing it was still there, pressed against the glass, no phone in its hands and its mouth unmoving, except to tauntingly open and shut its jaws. “You’re quicker than the others, I’ll give you that.” Its “outer face” folded back over the true face, concealing its mouth. Then with no warning, it scampered off, and the line went dead. Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep that night. I stayed up, pistol in my hand, looking back and forth from the warehouse door to the front door. It didn’t come back.
I don’t know what that thing, whatever it was, intended, whether it really wanted its hands on WMDs or if it was just screwing with me, how it got in, let alone out. I’ll need to phone my benefactor, ask them about it. In the meantime, I’ve got a customer to attend to.