The Dusk General Store

My name is Arthur Blake. I had just graduated from Ohio State University, and I had exactly twenty dollars left in my pocket.

I'd been looking for a place to stay in Crow's Nest for three days, and it was around dusk when I finally spotted that help-wanted sign on the window of a little general store at the entrance of Misty Oak Estate.

The notice was pasted on the storefront glass. The paper was yellowed, and the ink looked like it had been smeared by rain:

**NIGHT CLERK WANTED**

Requirements: Brave, can stay up late, not religious

Pay: $1,500 per week, housing included

Contact: Ms. V

Fifteen hundred a week? That was more than the bank manager made in this town. I wasn't exactly a daredevil, but staying up late was second nature to me from all-night gaming sessions, and as for not being religious—I was a total atheist.

I pushed the door open. The bell above it let out a rusty ding-dong. Inside, the air smelled like lavender mixed with old wood.

Behind the counter sat a woman.

She wore a black Victorian dress, her skin pale as marble, and she was filing her nails with an ivory file. When she looked up, I noticed her irises were a very pale silver-gray.

"Here for the job?" Her voice sounded like wind blowing through a cellar.

I nodded and introduced myself.

"The work is simple," she said, rising to her feet. Her long dress swept across the floor without a sound. "Ten at night to six in the morning. No fixed days off, but you can ask for leave when you need to. Can you handle that?"

I was stunned. Eight hours a night, ridiculously high pay, and that was all?

"Staying up late is bad for your health, so every three months there's an extra perk. But—" she paused, her silver-gray eyes fixed on me, "you have to be brave enough. At night, you'll run into... special customers."

"Special customers? Like thugs?" I asked without thinking.

She didn't answer. She just frowned slightly. I was six foot two and had been a linebacker on the college football team—I wasn't afraid of a few punks.

"I'm not afraid," I said, puffing out my chest.

The corner of her mouth curved into a barely visible smile. "Good. Start tonight."

She pulled a brass key from her handbag. "The dorm is in Building 2, seventh floor, west unit. You'll have it all to yourself. Go get your luggage."

The moment I opened that apartment door, I was blown away. Two bedrooms, Victorian furniture, velvet curtains, brass candlesticks, and brand-new bedding.

This wasn't employee housing—it was a luxury apartment.

At eight in the evening, I went back to the store. Ms. V saw me and gave a slight nod. "Arthur, tonight is just to get familiar. From tomorrow on, be on time." She never gave her full name—just said to call her Vera.

She showed me how to use the old 1970s cash register, which made a heavy clack with every key press. Then she walked me through the aisles.

The store was about a thousand square feet, with a storage room and a bathroom in the back. I walked along, memorizing where everything was, until I reached the deepest corner.

My feet stopped dead.

That shelf was filled with things that had long gone out of production: Edison wax-cylinder phonographs, brass pocket watches, ladies' corsets with bustles, lace handkerchiefs, tin wind-up toys, and even a 1920s candlestick telephone.

All antiques.

"Ms. Vera, these things..."

"Oh, if a customer picks up anything from that shelf, just let them take it—whether they pay or not."

"Why?"

"They're not meant to make money." She didn't want to explain further.

Then she pointed at the storage room door, and her expression turned deadly serious. "Never, ever go into the storage room. Even if the shelves are completely empty. Understood?"

I nodded, though I was dying of curiosity about what was inside.

At ten o'clock, Ms. Vera picked up her black handbag. "Arthur, I'm leaving. Dinner and a late-night snack are in the fridge—you can heat them up in the microwave. Feel free to eat any snacks in the store, but—absolutely no alcohol."

"Don't worry, Ms. Vera."

"I'll be back at six to take over. If you get bored, you can do whatever you want to pass the time." With that, she glided out like a shadow.

Just as I'd expected, this new residential area had very few occupants. Everything around was pitch black, and only this general store had its lights on. In the two hours I'd been there, not a single customer had come in.

It wasn't until midnight that I finally heard footsteps.

Thank God—a real customer.

A middle-aged man walked in, wearing an old-fashioned tweed coat. He looked surprised to see me. "Oh, a new face?"

"First day today. What can I get for you?"

He looked me up and down, then pointed at the cigarette cabinet. "Give me a pack of Lucky Strike."

I blinked. Lucky Strike? That brand had been discontinued since World War II. But when I looked down, sure enough, there was a pack right there—fifty cents.

I handed it to him. He didn't open it—instead, he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he placed three rusty coins on the counter.

"Smoked 'em my whole life. Nothing beats Lucky Strike."

I couldn't help adding, "Sir, cigarettes are bad for you—you should take care of yourself."

He looked up sharply and gave me a long, serious stare. "Kid, you seem like a decent person. Take my advice—quit this job. Run as far and as fast as you can."

Before I could ask why, he turned and walked out into the darkness—and left no footsteps behind.

I stood there, confused and uneasy.

Not long after, the door opened again.

A woman walked in. Her gait was odd. She wore a blood-red Gothic dress with black lace at the collar and cuffs. Without a word, she headed straight for the back corner of the store.

She was breathtakingly beautiful. Porcelain skin, jet-black hair pinned up with an ivory hairpin, the dress hugging her perfect curves—she had an old-world aristocratic elegance. But her face was too pale, and her lips were as red as blood.

I figured she was a member of some Goth club.

"Is this handkerchief pretty?"

I was lost in thought when she suddenly appeared at the counter, holding a lace handkerchief, her face expressionless.

An ordinary lace handkerchief, but in her hands it looked like a museum piece.

"It's pretty. It suits you," I said.

She said nothing, turned, and walked away—still with that strange gait.

Just as she reached the door, I realized—she hadn't paid!

I was about to call out, but then I remembered Ms. Vera's rule: things from that corner shelf were free. I bit my tongue.

I couldn't help glancing at her back. That one look froze my blood.

She wasn't walking.

Her feet weren't touching the ground. She was floating—gliding just above the floor!

While I stood frozen, a child's voice came from right in front of me:

"Mister, I want this tin soldier."

I looked down. A boy about seven or eight years old was standing at the counter, holding a tin toy soldier. He had big blue watery eyes and had appeared out of nowhere.

That tin soldier was also from the antique shelf. I forced a dry laugh. "Take it."

The boy beamed. "You're so nice, mister! Way nicer than that mean priest who stole my soldier!"

With that, he turned and floated away too.

The old wall clock struck thirteen times.

One in the morning. In the middle of nowhere—where did a child come from?