ENTRY 001: THE BROOM THAT WOULDN'T QUIT

Dear Diary,

My pawn shop has officially reached a new low—and I mean this quite literally. Courtesy of a certain broom.

It all started when a witch waltzed in last week, looking every bit the stereotypical hag: black cloak, pointy hat, the whole deal. She claimed to be downsizing. “Time to embrace modern transportation,” she said, tossing her enchanted broom on the counter like it was a pair of old boots. “The broom’s yours for twenty gold, young man.”

I asked why she didn’t sell it to another witch, but she just cackled (I hate it when they do that). That should’ve been my first warning.

The broom seemed innocent enough at first. A little worn, but sturdy, with rune carvings along the handle and bristles that glimmered when the light hit them just right. I stashed it in the backroom and didn’t give it much thought—until the sweeping started.

At first, I thought a customer had snuck back there. Then I thought maybe a draft had knocked something over. But when I went to check, there it was: the damn broom, diligently sweeping an empty corner of the room like it was preparing for a royal inspection. I tried picking it up, but it wriggled out of my grip and went right back to sweeping.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The next day, I found it still at it. The floor was spotless, gleaming so brightly I could see my reflection, but the broom didn’t stop. It kept sweeping. Over. And over. And over. By day three, it had worn the finish off the floorboards and started digging an actual groove into the wood.

Now, I’d like to think I’m a practical half-orc. I deal with magical junk all day, and I’ve learned not to ask too many questions. But this broom? It was testing my limits. I tried hiding it in the storage closet—it swept the walls. I tied it up with rope—it shredded the ropes with its bristles and resumed its relentless mission. By the time I realized there was no stopping it, the backroom looked like the aftermath of a woodcarver’s convention.

And that’s how I ended up in the bizarre position of purposefully littering my shop floor. It turns out the broom will only stay in one place if it has something to clean. The moment the floor is spotless, it starts roaming. So now I spend my mornings scattering dust, crumbs, and scraps of paper like I’m hosting a party for a pack of hobgoblins. The broom stays busy, the floor stays intact, and I try not to think about the sheer absurdity of it all.

I briefly considered selling it to someone else, but the thought of subjecting another poor soul to its relentless sweeping feels too cruel—even for yours truly.

I’ve dealt with cursed artifacts, enchanted trinkets and obnoxiously sentient paintings, but this broom might just sweep its way to the top of my list.

If it ever gets its bristles on a ladder, I’m doomed.

Yours in profit,

Garren