“Again, you disappoint me, shopkeeper.”
The hungry voice of Mr. Gripp as he entered the shop was how my Saturday started. It is times like these that make me wish that people like Mr Gripp should never have been told the secret of the Emporium of Dread - the only shop in the world that sells fear.
Yes, you read that right. I sell fear. I am a procurer, manufacturer, and seller – for the right price, of course – of fear. And Mr Gripp? Well, every shop, be it a normal retail store or a supernatural shop like mine, is cursed with insolent and never-satisfied customers. And Mr. Gripp was my bane of existence.
The Emporium of Dread, hidden within the labyrinthine heart of a decaying shopping district, bore an unassuming façade as if its true nature was meant to be obscured. It was a place where the boundaries of reality blurred, nightmares became tangible, and the price of indulging one’s darkest desires was far steeper than any mortal could fathom. The shop held secrets known only to those who dared to seek them, and within its dimly lit corners and among its otherworldly objects, I served my cursed role, eternally bound to a malevolent trade, cursed to seeing the fears I sell being used for every kind of atrocity in the world – for every time one of the fears I sold was used, I was bound to experience it from the victim’s point of view – truly no worse fear could exist in the world.
“It seems you don’t know your own trade, shopkeeper.”
Mr Gripp’s icy voice could have swept an Arctic glacier before hitting my eardrums.
I sighed, my patience waning but well-practised over the years. “I apologize if our previous transactions didn’t meet your expectations, Mr. Gripp. Perhaps we can discuss your preferences, and I’ll do my best to provide you with a suitable experience.”
Mr. Gripp’s dismissive wave was almost insulting. “I’ve sampled your pathetic offerings, shopkeeper. The fears you peddle barely register as mere shivers down my spine. I want something truly spine-tingling, something that will make the very soul tremble.”
I pondered for a moment, knowing that satisfying Mr. Gripp’s insatiable appetite for fear was no easy task. “Have you considered a custom experience, Mr. Gripp? We can tailor it precisely to your desires, delving into your deepest fears.”
He scoffed, his arrogance unwavering. “You think I’d entrust you with my innermost fears? You, a mere peddler of dread? Don’t insult my intelligence, shopkeeper.”
I bit back a retort, maintaining my composure. “Of course, Mr. Gripp. I understand your reservations. We have other unique items in stock, ones that might offer the intensity you seek. Perhaps a cursed artefact or a cursed relic?”
“How many of these do you sell on an average day, shopkeeper?”
“Not from this collection, Mr. Gripp. This is reserved for our most valued and… discerning patrons. I have only a few at hand.”
His eyes narrowed, but a glimmer of curiosity danced within them. “Go on.”
I cautiously continued, “I have a collection of objects, each with its own dreadful history. They can evoke fear like nothing else, but they come with their own risks, Mr. Gripp. Are you sure you’re willing to tread such perilous paths?”
Mr. Gripp’s lip curled into a malevolent smile. “Risk, shopkeeper, is what makes fear truly exhilarating. Show me these cursed artefacts, and I shall decide if they are worthy of my time.”
I led Mr Gripp deeper into the shadowy recesses of the Emporium, where the collection of cursed artefacts lay hidden, concealing my growing unease. Mr. Gripp was pushing the boundaries of our cursed trade, and I knew that the consequences of his insatiable greed could be dire. But I had another nagging thought at the back of my mind – could this be the end of days as I knew it?
But first, my duty. I carefully revealed five of the most malevolent objects, each with its own dreadful history.
“Here,” I gestured to the first artefact, a cracked, blood-red mirror. “This is the Mirror of Regret. Gaze into it, and you will confront your most haunting past mistakes.”
Mr. Gripp inspected it, then scoffed. “Regret? I have none. My enemies have none. At least those who survive by now. This is worthless.”
I moved on, showing him a twisted, blackened crown. “This is the Crown of Madness. Wearing it will plunge one’s mind into a maze of insanity.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Madness? My boy, anyone who is at my level has already embraced their inner madness. Next.”
Next, I showed him an ornate, obsidian dagger. “The Dagger of Soul’s Torment. A single touch can bring unspeakable suffering to any living being.”
Mr. Gripp inspected it with disdain. “Suffering? I’ve witnessed worse.”
Next, I presented a tattered, ancient book. “The Tome of Endless Whispers. Its pages reveal secrets that can unravel even the most resilient souls.”
He flipped through it dismissively. “Secrets? The only secret that I’m interested in is finding the basest, purest form of fear. Nothing else.”
My patience was wearing thin, but I had one last offering. I revealed a hauntingly beautiful but cursed, music box. “Okay? How about this Melody of Desolation? Its haunting tune will haunt one’s dreams, weaving a web of despair.”
He shook his head. “Every despair is fuelled by hope, shopkeeper. The kind of fear I look for must not have any hope in its form, except for the hope of being released from the said fear.”
There, he’d said it.
Maybe this day would end much, much better than I’d hoped for.
“Very well, Mr. Gripp. There is one more item, but it comes with great risk. The Sceptre of Shadows. Its power is immense, but its price is steep.”
He regarded the sceptre with newfound interest. “Power? Tell me more.”
As I began to explain the nature of the Sceptre of Shadows, I couldn’t help but feel an idea growing inside my mind. Mr. Gripp’s insatiable appetite for fear was pushing him closer to a perilous edge, and I sensed that the consequences of his actions would soon become apparent.
“Son, you speak of power and yet you know nothing of it. Do you think true power is in the shadows? Why? Because shadows are dark and men fear the darkness? The unknown? We have come full circle and all I’ve witnessed is another shoddy performance.”
Hook.
“But Mr Gripp,” I started, trying to maintain an innocent voice, “there is more to power than fear.”
“Poof! Nonsense. Power is the ability to compel anyone to do my will, and there is nothing more potent than fear for it. What was that you tried to say? Love? Son, even love is only as powerful as the fear of losing it or the hope that one would get it, and I’m not surprised you fail to see why in either case!”
Line.
“So… you want to be the most powerful person… and so you seek, what, the biggest fear in the world?”
“Yes! I seek the worst fear in the world!”
Sinker.
Hook, line, and sinker.
Mr. Gripp’s eyes gleamed with a malevolent triumph, and in that momentary daze, I think he missed the knowing glint in mine.
“Mr. Gripp,” I said cautiously, “are you absolutely, positively sure you want to acquire the worst fear in the world?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: I want to purchase the worst fear in the world, and cost is of no object!”
“So be it,” I said, my voice tinged with a subtle, ominous gravity. “As you wish. I hereby grant you the worst fear in the known world.”
The moment those words left my lips, the atmosphere within the Emporium of Dread shifted. Shadows grew deeper, and the air grew heavy with an oppressive darkness. I watched as Mr. Gripp’s expression changed from triumph to one of dawning horror, realisation dawning in his eyes.
It was happening—the transfer of the shopkeeper’s role, triggered by Mr. Gripp’s insatiable greed for the worst fear in the world. The curse was relentless and unforgiving, and as Mr. Gripp’s body began to convulse, contorting in unnatural ways, I could see the torment etched onto his face.
You see, those are the very words you must never utter in my shop – unless, of course, you wanted to be me.
Bones cracked, and a guttural scream filled the air, a sound more chilling than any fear he had ever sought to experience. Mr. Gripp’s skin grew pale, his eyes turned as black as the abyss, and his limbs elongated into grotesque proportions. In that horrifying moment, he had become the new shopkeeper, forever bound to the malevolent trade.
I took a step back, my role as the shopkeeper was finally at an end. I watched as the transformation continued, feeling a mixture of relief and regret. Mr. Gripp was now experiencing every fear that he’d bought and used on anyone else. Worse yet, he was now trapped in a never-ending cycle of torment that I used to occupy, forever selling fear to those who sought it. I watched as Mr. Gripp, the new shopkeeper, completed his gruesome transformation, becoming a grotesque amalgamation of his own fears and desires.
It was time to explain the rules to him. He deserved that much.
“Welcome to your new role,” I said, my tone tinted with a strange mix of empathy and resignation. “You are now the shopkeeper of the Emporium of Dread, bound by the curse that I once endured.”
Mr. Gripp, still disoriented from the transformation, struggled to find his words. “What… what have you done to me?”
I sighed, knowing that I had once asked the same question. “I’ve granted you the worst fear in the known world, just as you wished. You will sell fear to those who seek it, but the price is steep—a never-ending cycle of torment.”
He clutched his head as if trying to grasp the gravity of his situation. He tried to utter something but I think the trauma of the transformation had robbed him of his power of speech.
I leaned closer, my voice low and conspiratorial. “The curse, Mr. Gripp, is fueled by insatiable greed, a hunger for more power through fear. To break it, you must find a patron who is even more consumed by that hunger than you are, someone who seeks power above all else. Offer them the choice to take your place willingly, to become the new shopkeeper, and in doing so, they will take on the curse.”
Mr. Gripp’s eyes widened with a twisted hope. Like he said mere minutes ago: true fear does not have any hope in its form, except for the hope of being released from the said fear.
“And if I find such a patron?” He croaked.
I nodded solemnly. “If you find such a patron, and they willingly accept the role of shopkeeper, the curse will transfer to them, and you will be free. But remember, Mr. Gripp—I beg your pardon, shopkeeper— the curse is relentless, and those who seek power through fear often meet a fate worse than death.”
As I turned to leave, I couldn’t help but look back at Mr. Gripp, the new shopkeeper, with a mix of relief and regret. The cycle would continue, fueled by the insatiable hunger for power through fear, and I could only hope that one day, someone would break the cycle, setting us all free from the Emporium of Dread.
“Goodbye, shopkeeper.”