Why do the taxidermy mounts keep changing positions? What causes the temperature to drop in certain aisles? How do the shadows move between the displays? Why do the night staff hear animal calls when the shop is empty? What makes the security cameras show impossible angles?
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Speaking personally, you can have my gun, but you’ll take my book when you pry my cold, dead fingers off of the binding.
― Stephen King
Elena had always prided herself on being a practical woman, but standing before Morrison’s Guns & Hunting Shop, she felt an inexplicable chill despite the afternoon sun. The weathered sign creaked in the stillness, and through the dusty windows, she could make out rows of rifles gleaming like metallic teeth.
The brass bell above the door released a mournful tone that seemed to linger far longer than physics should allow. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of gun oil and something else---something organic and unpleasant that caught in the back of her throat. Behind the counter stood a gaunt man whose eyes held the hollow intensity of someone who had seen too much.
“Looking for anything particular?” Morrison’s voice carried the rasp of disuse, though he’d spoken to three customers before her that morning. Elena explained she needed a rifle for protection at her isolated cabin, but found herself unable to look away from the trophy heads adorning the walls. Their glass eyes seemed too bright, too aware, and she could swear the massive elk head had shifted position since she’d entered.
Morrison’s recommendations grew increasingly elaborate---high-caliber rifles with scopes designed for long-distance precision, boxes upon boxes of specialized ammunition. “You can never be too prepared,” he whispered, sliding a key toward a locked display case she hadn’t noticed before. “Some things require… specific tools.” Through the glass, she glimpsed weapons unlike any she’d seen, their metal surfaces inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly.
That night, Elena lay awake in her cabin, the new rifle propped against the bedroom door. But it wasn’t external threats that kept her vigilant---it was the certainty that something had followed her home from the shop. In the darkness beyond her windows, she could feel eyes watching, patient and hungry, belonging to creatures that no conventional weapon could possibly stop.
