The Shopkeeper (Flash)

The brass bell jingled above Tim Whitlock’s head. Orange light spilled through the windows and illuminated the dust in the air. The little storefront couldn’t have been more than twenty feet deep and wide. Along both walls were tall shelves of assorted trinkets and in the middle of the shop were a handful of small tables with haphazard piles of dirty toys.

Tim’s stomach rumbled. That was strange. He hadn’t been hungry since lunch that day. Not once as he’d walked home from work, had he felt anything resembling the pang of hunger.

“Welcome in!” a small, wrinkled man said from behind a crowded counter along the back wall.

Tim waved and gave him a fake smile usually reserved for strangers he made eye contact with on the street.

He turned to the mannequin in the window and checked for the patches on the back of the worn denim jacket. They weren’t there, but it had the same frays on the front—or so he thought. Maybe they weren’t the same rips.

“Can I help you find something?” The shopkeeper said.

“Oh,” Tim turned, and the shopkeeper was a few feet behind him. “I was just looking at this jacket. It’s almost just like the one I had in high school. But it’s missing some patches.”

“Really?” The shopkeeper said. “Well, I’m sorry about that.

“Totally fine. I was just reliving the glory days.”

 “Well, if you’re local, maybe I have some of your other stuff. I’ve been getting a lot of donations recently.”

“Oh, I was really just here to see the jacket,” Tim said. “I should get home. My wife’s got a stew…”

“Nonsense,” the shopkeeper placed a hand in the middle of Tim’s back and steered him toward the counter. “If I’m not mistaken. You were looking for an old rockstar’s jacket, and a rockstar usually has a guitar. Am I correct?”

“I did have a really nice Gibson Explorer back in the day, but…” Tim said.

“You’re kidding. That’s the exact guitar I have in the back. Let me go grab it for you.”

“Oh it’s…”

“Just wait here.”

The shopkeeper disappeared behind an old door with peeling paint.

The shop was quiet and suddenly uncomfortable. Tim stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels. He whistled an old tune his band had written between gym and math class.

A few minutes passed and the man had not reappeared. Tim contemplated leaving but was curious to see if the guitar could be anything like his. Of course it wasn’t possible. He’d flung his guitar into a wall after high school when his band broke up and he was trying to get off cigarettes.

Withdrawals were no joke.

Tim stepped to one of the tables of dusty toys and picked up a little plastic firefighter that looked just like the one he had when he was six.

Mass manufactured toys were a funny concept. Nostalgia could hit you out of nowhere.

He strolled over to another shelf and a pocketknife caught his eye. He picked it up and turned over the dark wood handle in his hand.

His stomach gurgled. How could he have gotten that hungry so fast? He felt the urge to run out and find the nearest McDonalds as fast as possible but was struck by the familiarity of the knife.

He flicked out the blade. It was coated in silver and “Timmy” was written in ornate cursive along its side.

Tim’s breath caught in his throat.

How could this knife be here. It was impossible. That same blade was sitting on his bookshelf back home next to his adventure novels. It was the last remnant of his grandmother and he’d made sure to keep it through all his moves.

“Found it!” the shopkeeper reemerged from the rotten door and held a 1984 Gibson Explorer, formerly white but faded yellow with age. Right at the base of the neck was a chip in the paint where Bill Peters had hit it with a screwdriver while trying to change out the pickups in ’92.

Tim dropped the knife and his pulse sped. The wrinkles in the man’s face had disappeared and he appeared to be about six inches taller.

“Where’d you get that?” Tim held out his hands to receive the guitar.

He noticed his fingers were lined with wrinkles, like he’d just taken a long bath. His stomach growled again.

What is happening to me?

“Don’t worry about that,” the shopkeeper said.

Tim knew he was responding to his spoken question, but his answer felt more like a response to his internal one.

“That guitar should be broken,” Tim said.

“Things tend to find their way to me.”

Tim noticed a dirty bundle behind the counter. He approached the shopkeeper to take the guitar and investigate.

Behind the shopkeeper’s legs was a mummified man, shriveled to the size of a small child. Tim was keenly aware of a sulfuric smell and an excess of flies.

“I found him like that,” the shopkeeper said.

Tim made a break for the door.

The guitar struck him in the back.

Tim fell. A dull pain rippled across his back. He tried to push himself off the ground, but all the strength had faded out of his arms.

The shopkeeper stomped on Tim’s back and pinned him down.

“You aren’t leaving until I’ve taken every ounce of your life energy,” the shopkeeper said.

Tim struggled to push him off, but it was futile. The edges of his vision began to blur. His breath felt weaker.

His head rolled to the side. He’d close his eyes and slowly drift into his death. He thought of his wife and all the work he’d put into their little home on the edge of town. All that he’d accomplished, for nothing.

“It’s not often my shop attracts washed-up musicians,” the shopkeeper said. “Usually, it’s just some sad realtor trying to relive their high school ball days.”

A flash of orange light caught Tim’s eye.

“A guitar is a much more fun weapon than a football helmet.”

It was his silver knife. He reached out and grabbed it.

“I do love a little flair in my work.”

Tim swung the knife behind his back and connected with the man’s heel.

“AH!” the shopkeeper fell.

Suddenly, Tim was filled with a burst of energy. The skin on his fingers, curled around the knife, became taught again.

Tim pushed himself up and positioned himself over the surprised man.

The strength in his muscles drained.

He fell and positioned the knife against his chest, blade out.

The knife plunged into the shopkeeper’s heart and a black liquid sprayed from the wound over Tim.

He was filled with strength again.

He pushed himself up of the shopkeeper who now appeared to be deflating.

Tim ran from the store, his heart pounding and black liquid dripping from his arms. He looked back and the storefront had reverted to an empty building for rent.

Terror washed over him, as he sprinted home to his wife.

Payne Spiva (c) 2024