Why do the artifacts whisper in forgotten languages? What makes the mirrors show scenes from other times? How do the shadows form patterns older than the items? Why do the clocks tick backwards at midnight? What causes the dust to settle in impossible geometries?
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What is the sweetness of flowers compared to the savour of dust and confinement?
― Peter Ackroyd
Margaret had always prided herself on her discerning eye for antiques, but standing before Whitmore’s Curiosities at half past nine in the evening, she wondered if her obsession had finally led her astray. The shop’s windows glowed with a warm, amber light that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat, casting dancing shadows across the weathered brick facade.
The brass bell above the door chimed a discordant note as she entered, the sound lingering far longer than it should have. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of old wood, tarnished silver, and something else—something organic and unpleasant that reminded her of flowers left too long in stagnant water.
“Welcome, welcome,” came a voice from the depths of the shop. The proprietor emerged from between towering shelves, a thin man whose age seemed to shift in the flickering lamplight. “I was just about to close, but for a collector of your… caliber… I can make an exception.”
Margaret frowned. She had never seen this man before, yet he spoke as if they were old acquaintances. Her eyes wandered over the cramped shop, taking in the usual assortment of china dolls, grandfather clocks, and oil paintings whose subjects seemed to track her movement. But there, on a high shelf near the back, something caught her attention—a small, carved wooden box with intricate symbols that hurt to look at directly.
“Ah,” the proprietor smiled, following her gaze. “You have excellent taste. That piece has been waiting for the right owner for some time now. Quite some time indeed.”
As Margaret reached for the box, she noticed her reflection in a nearby mirror. But the woman staring back wasn’t alone—dozens of other faces crowded behind her, their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes pleading. She spun around, but the shop was empty save for the proprietor, who was no longer smiling.
“Some collections,” he said softly, “collect the collectors in return.”
The box felt warm in her hands, almost alive, and as the brass bell chimed midnight somewhere in the distance, Margaret realized she had become the newest addition to Whitmore’s carefully curated inventory.
