It all started because I wanted to be a good person.
I had taken some old things of mine, stuff from my parents’ house that I had shoved in the back of my closet, and donated them to Habitsville’s local second-hand shop. I figured someone else could use my threadbare Habitsville High t-shirts more than I was at the time.
What I didn’t intend, however, was to give away Bob.
This next bit is a little embarrassing. Bob is a small, pink, stuffed bear, with a little jingle inside his stomach. I’ve had him since I was a baby, and although I’ve outgrown other such childish things, Bob is sacred.
That’s why, heart sinking, I retraced my steps last Thursday, back to the second-hand store where I was sure Bob had accidentally slipped into one of my donation boxes. It took some coaxing, but an employee eventually informed me that Bob had already been purchased.
A tingle of silly grief swept through me. But then, I was given hope.
Bob had been bought by Nora van de Velde, owner and chief proprietor along with her two sisters, of Narrow Street Antiques, right here in Habitsville.
A quaint little bell chimed when I entered the shop. The musty smell of decay and history hugged my nostrils, not in an unpleasant way. The shop was crowded, but not with people. The sheer amount of things, even just in the foyer, was insane. Books were stacked higher than my head, their spines peeling with age. Knick-knacks and figurines covered every surface, and I suddenly became hyper-aware of my limbs. I made my way inside carefully.
At the front desk were three women: the van de Velde sisters. Two were seated in rocking chairs on either side of the counter, their eyes dark under cloth hats, knitting slowly from a single ball of yarn in a centered basket. It was impossible to tell what they were making. Something large and dark.
In the center, standing perfectly still, was Nora van de Velde. She had wild gray hair and a lined face, with sharp eyes that locked onto me as soon as I entered. “Good afternoon,” she said, her voice a cold and unconcerned rasp. “Welcome to Narrow Street Antiques. Can I help you find anything?”
I took a few steps towards her, already unreasonably nervous. “Yes, uh, I’m looking or a specific item I was told you purchased from the second-hand store a few days ago. It’s like a small… stuffed bear. Jingles. Pink?” I asked hopefully.
She smiled, her aged lips curling upward so slowly I thought they might creak. “Oh, yes! We’ve put that particular items onto our shelves. He’s around here somewhere.” Her grin widened, and I subconsciously took one step back. “Why don’t you go find him?”
I gazed over my shoulder. There was a ton of stuff in here, sure, but judging from the shoddy exterior of the building, this place wasn’t that big. I’m not one to complain about customer service, so I just nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
I turned heel and headed into the opening between the stacks of books. “Good luck. Just make your way back up to the counter once you find Bob.”
I nodded, before entering the slim aisle. By the time I realized I had never actually told Nora Bob’s name, I couldn’t see the front counter anymore.
My first hour or so—at least, what felt like an hour—went smoothly. My eyes were peeled for any sign of my stuffed friend, and as I weaved through tall wooden cabinets lined with figurines, and racks of sweaters from the 1980’s, I actually found myself enjoying the hunt. Walking deeper into the antique shop was like rappelling down a ravine—every few feet, a new strata of time was revealed.
The only thing that troubled me was that I had been there for an hour, and I still hadn’t found the back wall of the antique shop. Not only had I not found the back wall, but I hadn’t turned, or moved out of this single aisle for quite some time. It was like one particular path had been built for the customers to move through, so slim that if one wanted to move in front of another, they would literally have to climb on top of each other. If I was claustrophobic, I might have had to turn back. I supposed that was why they called it Narrow Street Antiques.
I had an old toy truck in my hands when I first saw it. I was considering the fact that perhaps Bob wasn’t actually out in the shop, that Nora had been mistaken. That I was in the wrong place. It was during this thought that it happened.
There, in the very corner of my eye, just for a moment—a flash of something dark and quick. I turned my head quickly, but there was nothing. I didn’t think much of it.
Then I turned by head again, back towards the front. There, blocking the only path forward, was a huge shape. It was dark, foreboding, and utterly terrible. It wasn’t a person, necessarily. It was like a heavy blanket had been draped over a set of stilts, and a bowling ball had been balanced at the top. Flies buzzed around its head—or, what I assumed was its head, and the scent of decay and death wafted towards me in a powerful wave.
There are few times in my life when I had felt pure, unfiltered dread such as this. I stood completely still, and the figure did the same. Except, there was movement beneath its sheet. Small shifting, as though the entire shape was vibrating.
Then, through a little ring sized hole in the front of the sheet, something came out.
A tiny, pink and plump child’s finger.
My breathing was shallow as the finger pointed at me. Then, the entire figure lurched forward, swaying as though the top was attached to the bottom. I was still stuck in my fear-driven paralysis. It got closer, and my eyes watered from the wretched smell. It was like my feet were incapable of turning back, running back down the slight path and out the door. The buzzing of the flies got louder and louder.
I shut my eyes.
And then, it all stopped.
I opened them again, to see that the creature was gone. Not even a fly remained. I was shaking violently. I didn’t need Bob this badly. I raised a foot to turn back, and—
It refused to budge. It was like some invisible barrier existed between myself and the back half of the path. Frightened at the prospect of being stuck in this spot, to wait for the creature to return, I tried a step forward. It was as easy as it had ever been.
The message was clear. There was no choice but to continue.
I can’t be certain, but I believe three days passed in the antique store until I saw the creature again.
It’s hard to be sure of the time because, as far as I can tell the shop never closed. The lights overhead never shut off. I didn’t hear the door at the front open or close either, but that could be because I had traveled a great distance from there to here.
It was strange. I didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, and I never had to use the bathroom. I didn't need to sleep. I would think I was exaggerating the time, had about three day’s worth of stubble not sprouted from my chin.
I was somewhere in the 1940’s when I thought I saw Bob. Amid a slew of war memorabilia and faded postcards, I saw it—something like a little light pink arm sticking out amongst some other worn stuffed animals.
I grabbed onto it, pulling eagerly. Nora had told me, albeit multiple days prior, that if I found Bob I could bring him back to the register. I had to hold onto the hope that once I found what I was looking for, I would be able to leave the shop.
I yanked it loose, but it wasn’t Bob.
Instead, in my hand, I held a tiny child’s finger.
Immediately I dropped it to the ground, feeling that familiar rush of anger that often accompanies a terrifying surprise. It bounced once on the surface, before lying still, a tiny Vienna sausage.
I stared at it. That feeling of hope when I had first thought I had found what I was looking for was extinguished, and instead, a crushing feeling of hopelessness and despair filled me. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I couldn’t find my way out.
I was lost.
As soon as I had that thought, I jumped back. The finger, which had been lying still, moved. It flipped, so the nail was facing up towards me. Then, slowly, it began to inch its way along, continuing down the narrow path.
I looked up, and there he was.
He stood still, The Antiquer. If he had eyes, I assumed they were fixed on me. We remained, me paralyzed by my immobile feet, and he, waiting in place, as the finger dragged itself across the floor over to him.
I thought it might stop when it got to the edge of his shroud, but instead, it merely crawled underneath.
It joined the scattered movement that cause the material to jolt around. And, then, I saw it again.
The child’s finger emerged from the hole in the shroud, and pointed at me.
It was happening all again. The lurching movement towards me, the flies buzzing around, some hitting my face in their flurry. The smell nearly made me vomit, perhaps I would have if I could move, but the only thing there was to do was to watch the figure approach.
I didn’t shut my eyes this time. I watched as it reached a close distance, about six inches in front of me. Then, it bent at the middle, the top leaning down over me.
I felt hot breath on the cold sweat that had broken out across my forehead.
There was something in there, beneath the shadow, that much I knew. But I couldn’t bring myself to life my chin and see it for myself.
And then, it was gone.
Another shudder rattled through my tired body. My eyes were watering, from the acrid smell and from relief.
My chest was heavy with a terrible uncertainty. And yet, I was sure of two things. One, I never wanted to see that thing again; and two, the only place to go was onward.
By my second or third week at Narrow Street Antiques, I thought I had found a way to keep The Antiquer away. Thinking about it now, when my mind is less plagued with whatever influence the shop held over me those weeks, it’s hard to say whether or not I was right. But this was at least my working theory:
The Antiquer is looking for lost things. Because that’s what antiques are, right? Things unstuck in time. Items that have outgrown their usefulness, their relevance, and so their natural place is no longer as a singular object. An antique is meant to be picked up, dusted off, and added to a collection.
And I think, if I get lost enough, The Antiquer will add me to his.
I was in the late 1800’s by that point, the items around me growing more decayed and broken with each step that I took. I had learned something new, something incredibly exciting: the path that I had been following, miles and miles on the same straight line through the seemingly endless shop, was not the only road available to me.
My eyes had grown heavy and unfocused while I was trudging along, and my foot caught on the leg of a table. I stumbled, holding out my arm to catch my fall against a large wardrobe to my right, and when I did, it rocked, ever so slightly.
It created a gap in the wall of old knick-knacks that surrounded me, just for a moment, and through that crack, I could see it: a new path. Then the wardrobe fell back into place, and it was gone.
I heaved against the wardrobe, pressing my shoulder hard against its wooden surface. It was incredibly heavy, but at this point, multiple weeks, if not months in this antique shop, I was as determined as I had ever been.
I nudged the bulky piece of furniture, inch by inch, until I created a crevice that was wide enough for me to slip through.
The New Path took my breath away. Not because it was beautiful, no, far from it.
Because it was terrifying.
They were baby dolls. Not modern one’s, either. These had to be from the 1700’s, maybe even older, all made of cracked china, with faded red lips and black dot eyes. They were dressed in plain cloth dresses and gingham trousers. They weren’t lined on shelves, or sat up on tables—they made up the walls themselves. A sea of them on either side, and when I looked up, I could see they covered the ceiling as well, a tunnel forming that I couldn’t see the end of.
And when I looked closer, I could see it. Something strange, even stranger than what I’d already seen.
None of the dolls had their fingers.
Absolute terror gripped me. A thousand beady eyes staring at me, no sign of what I had come for—and though I tried to beat it back down, I was feeling more lost than ever.
As soon as the inkling crossed my mind, there he was.
The Antiquer, standing still as he always was, blocking my path as he always did.
I couldn’t fight it this time. I couldn’t reassure myself, couldn’t look away, certainly couldn’t turn back. I just watched The Antiquer, as he watched me.
And then, something started to happen.
The shapes that writhed beneath his shroud began to rumble and shake. They moved faster and faster, and soon, I saw something I wish I hadn’t.
The fingers, small and fleshy, began to crawl out from under The Antiquer’s shroud.
They inched, faster than the last one had, and as I watched, they did something remarkably horrible.
Crawling like caterpillars, they each made their way onto the hand of a doll.
When the last one stopped, there was a moment of stillness. There were no more wriggling shapes under The Antiquer’s robes. We both stood, facing one another.
Then, the last finger appeared, through the single hole in the shroud, and pointed at me.
That was when the dolls began to close in.
They spilled, like water from a dam, in from the walls and down from the ceiling, the only thing propelling them forwards the fleshy fingers on their dead, porcelain hands. They dragged their little bodies along, and as they approached, I tried something desperate.
I took the first step back that I had in weeks.
After that first step, another followed, and soon, I was running back down the path, out from behind the wardrobe and back down the narrow path from where I had come. Fleshy fingers and cold ceramic touched my shoulder for only a moment, but the small space that had led me into the doll hallway had slowed down the figures considerably.
I was sprinting, my breath hard, and then I skidded to a stop.
In front of me, finger still pointed, suddenly was The Antiquer.
I looked to my left, where a large shelf stood tall, lined with glass animal figures.
With a single push, it crashed to the ground.
I ran down this new hallway, lined with decorative kites from the 1800’s. I ripped through their carefully preserved paper bodies, and found myself in a another new place, this time lined with novelty can openers from the 1920’s.
I glanced behind me as I dug through the metal bits, and saw the first hints of the tiny porcelain children appearing down the long stretch as I found a path to somewhere new.
50’s kitchen aprons.
60’s false teeth.
70’s record players, all with a different disk playing in a minor key.
And then, suddenly, there we were.
90’s stuffed animals.
It must have been, because there, between a giraffe with a rip in his neck and a rabbit with a twisted ear, there was Bob.
I grabbed him, the familiar jingle briefly bringing me nostalgic calm.
I was running again, knowing that I was nearing the front of the store by the time traveling forwards.
I dug through the other stuffed animals, throwing them behind me with one hand while I clutched my prize with the other. Then, there was the smallest opening, and I could see it: the foyer, where all of this had began, weeks before.
I stuck one foot through, then my shoulder. I went to step out, and then—
Something yanked me back, and I turned. One doll, the fastest of them, had clung onto Bob’s arm, it’s flesh fingers locked into an iron tight gripped.
I pulled.
It pulled.
There was a long rip, the sound of stitches tearing.
And then, I was out, the only casualty being Bob’s left arm. Stuffed animals fell together, closing the gap. It was as though there had never been an opening at all.
I panted, my hands on my knees, my body disgusting with the build-up of sweat and fear on my skin.
“Welcome back!”
I looked up. There was Nora van de Velde, standing in the same place she had been when I left her. In fact, she was even wearing the same clothes. And her sisters were still sitting in their rocking chairs, barely any progress made on their knitting since I had left.
I moved my mouth, but no words came out, so long had it been since I spoke.
Her eyes moved down to Bob and his mangled arm. “Oh, it’s a shame that’s been damaged. I know our shop is a precarious place.” She smiled, slow and knowing.
“That one’s on the house.”
I went home. To my great shock, it was a mere thirty minutes from when I had first entered the shop, despite the beard that had begun to form on my face, and the tired feeling in my bones.
There’s still so much that I don’t know, about Narrow Street Antiques, and The Antiquer that lies within it.
But sometimes, in the very corner of my eye, I can see it for a moment. A dark shape, vibrating with a thousand tiny fingers, waiting patiently for me to lose my way again.
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Credits
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