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In! Flash rule please.
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Jan 16, 2024 01:52
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| # ¿ May 14, 2024 14:15 |
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Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall Word Count: 1478 Your tiny town's antique store has a hidden back room that sells Things You Ought Not be Able to Buy. There was a part of me happy to be back at Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall, the folksy gem of Westcott, Missouri’s historic downtown. Not that I thought much of it growing up. Most of the time spent was in the parking lot, under the grinning cowboy mural on the side, teaching my little brother how to sell pot. Early step of the path that led me to prison on a B&E charge, and Greggy Boy to somewhere much scarier. The sulfur odor almost suffocates me from the moment I enter. I wonder if whatever dark magick that got my brother killed figured I’d be a good one to follow next. I wonder if the devil himself lays in wait, knowing I’d be dumb enough to wanna bring Greggy back. But honestly, this stink’s an upgrade. The place usually smells like mothballs and cedar wood. ”Samuel!” Old Miss Edith shouts as I drag over the store counter, a .38 snub nose pointed towards her head. “Samuel Liddel! You stop this right now!” There’s enough of the old woman I remember to give me pause. She scolds me like she would me and my brother growing up. He’d always get us caught shoplifting. Greggy would always fill his pockets a little too full trying to impress me. Hell, back then, he kinda did. “I’m just gonna ask you one more time, Miss Edith. Show me al-Hazred’s gold.” A crowd of thrifting retirees starts to gather from the mismatched, dusty cakes shelves. Their expressions blank as they shamble into a semi-circle around the counter. Miss Edith desperately points towards them, shouting Latin commands they echo with a chant. Loose glassware and porcelain rattle as they outstretch their arms. A few Paul Anka records and bigoted jockey figurines fall to the floor as the shop begins to quake. Just as I feel the creep of electricity begin to pull at my muscles, surely meant to shred them from the inside, I squeeze off a shot through Miss Edith’s throat. The bullet passed straight through, hitting the commemorative serve tray she had displayed by the register. It lands right on the hat of that same grinning cowboy, right under the old timey font text reading Thank you, Henry Westcott. “Next one’s in your brain!” I shout, moving the barrel to the old woman’s temple. “Now move!” She staggers upright pretty quickly for someone who just took a slug to the gullet. Her eyes go white as black bile pours from the open wound. The rest of the old folk cult don’t put up much of a fight. If the wound didn’t break whatever connection she had with them, the noise did. They eat collapse in turn as I push Miss Edith. She claws at me best she can, but this ain’t the first time I’ve used a human shield. “You’re a little poo poo, Samuel!” she hisses at me. “You and that little bastard brother! Worthless shits!” My stomach churns when she mentions Greggy Boy. I get pissed for a minute. But then something in my gut drops. I feel the muscles in my face sink and my limbs tremble slightly. I shake myself out of it, swallowing the sad and focusing on the angry. “Yeah, whatever. Keep moving.” I push her to the back of the store, in a little corner decorated with that same cheerful cowboy, his beaming grin watching from velvet paintings and wooden cigar store statues. A place of honor for the town founder, I guess. From kindergarten on in this town, you’re taught the story of Henry Westcott. From local fairs to parades, you’ve heard the story about the friendly rancher who saved an unnamed trading post from the mysterious caravan from the East. I got to play caravan leader Ahathoor al-Hazred in a middle school play, wearing a costume that looking back even makes my rotten rear end blush. If you went to school in the 20th century, al-Hazred was often called a bandit or a warlock. Most recent generations have picked a different word, judging from the “Kicking terrorist rear end since 1876” t-shirt on display. But the point is, Westcott killed the travelers, using their treasure to build the town that bears his name. What I didn’t know, until I started shaking branches, is that al-Hazred had some very old wares. And Smiling Henry himself got interested in a business very different than ranching. Miss Edith waves her hand as I push the revolver into her head. A section of the stucco wall vanishes, revealing a staircase leading into what appears to be a dungeon. I push her through. The sulfur odor fades into a headache inducing mass of bitter spices and incense. The splintered wooden shelves are covered in cobwebs. One set adorned by urns or gold and clay. Another of skulls, some human, some animal, some I can only assume. Tanned hides and scales hang from hooks. Glass vials of questionable fluids are set near an old rear end chemistry set. Me and the old lady push down the torch lit stacks. Then I see it. At the end of the center row of shelves stands a glass display case. A human body missing limbs stands inside with its chest open. Miss Edith manages to slip away while I approach, transfixed on what’s left of the face poor bastard inside. It’s been cut apart, but enough remains for me to recognize the face of my younger brother. Christ, I think to myself, what happened to you? “Kid couldn’t keep his nose where it belonged,” Miss Edith says, her black wound already closed. “but he was also a fast learner. Careless little punk was too busy pulling cheap scams and pissing off the wrong he didn’t realize how powerful of mage he became. Oh well… at least we can sell his body parts as artifacts.” I feel nauseous. I want to break down. Here I was thinking hard time and hard living numbed me to that poo poo. But the only thing that horrifies me more than that preserved corpses scraped for parts is the reflection of the sorry bastard that led him here. “Open the case,” I shout at the old woman. ”What are you going to do, Samuel?” ”You’re gonna bring him back.” ”No, I’m not.” I point the snubnose. “Yes you are.” Edith doesn’t flinch. ”Where’s your stash?” My stash? She laughs at my obvious confusion. “You’re telling me a crook like you doesn’t have a money bag hidden somewhere outside town? I’m not going to bring your brother back. But if we work out a deal, I can show you how.” Her voice softens towards the end, sounding more like the Miss Edith that never quite had the nerve to ban two little thieves from her store. I lower the gun. “You got a pen?” # Miss Edith gives me a package. Even helps me get my brother’s body into the car. I take it to the edge of town, well pass the jewel town facades and technicolor flowerpots of Westcott’s “historic” downtown. Into the abandoned Restoration-era factories and half demolished grain silos you don’t see on the highway billboards. This is where you hid after you held up a liquor store or knocked over the downtown bank. Dragging Greggy’s corpse into the old stove company felt like a homecoming for us. I lay the body out as Miss Edith instructed, placing the candles and six shooter bullets at the exact points around it. I put on the ceremonial cloak and the white Stetson. The radio of my rental car plays the old country classic. ”Ride on,” the 30’s crooner sings. “Henry Westcott! Point your iron and shoot al-Hazred dead.” The old lady’s cursive gives me trouble, but I manage to recite the Latin phrases she has written down. One of the bullets pops with a flash. The smoke fills the old building, and I see him. A silhouette in a ten gallon hat approaches, his white teeth glowing from his smiling face. I freeze only for a second before finding the English half of her instructions. “Hail to you, Lord Henry Westcott,” I read aloud from the paper. “I beseech thee with humility and graciousness to ask—“ In a flash, he quick-draws on me. The world goes white as I feel the impact against my chest. I leave my feet, but I do not fall. It doesn’t occur to me that I am floating until an image forms before me. A dark human form takes shape and I realize I have left my body, which crawls to its feet over my brother’s mangled corpse. The ring of the blast still echoes in my ears, but through the rattle I hear my voice. ”Holy poo poo,” my body says, as it crawls towards Greggy Boy’s corpse. “That’s me.”
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Jan 22, 2024 05:53
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