3

I’m standing in front of a small but well-kept antique shop, the sign has the same bronze lettering from the postcard, Murray’s Antiques. It’s at the very edge of the city, along the road to the suburbs. It’s surrounded by other shops that have obviously been deserted and not as well-kept as this one. As I open the door, small bell dings, alerting the owner of my arrival. The lights on the inside are dim, there are weird-looking figures and statues and pots and paintings all over the walls and shelves and some on the floor. The air smells old and damp, like an old man’s closet — it’s a strong smell but I can get used to it. Crystals from the old glass chandeliers gently clash together and 3 or more music boxes are playing quietly all at once — the shop is filled with the sound of the twinkles.

I walk to the front desk, it’s made of beautiful — and what seems to be hand-crafted — mahogany wood. The surface is smooth as I run my fingers along the edges. An old man walks through the door to the back of the shop, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

“Yeah, it’s cool! I don’t really know much about antiques but a lot of the things in here really are mesmerizing,” I said, looking around to prove my point.

He smiles and leads me to the room he just walked out of, “We don’t have a uniform here, but we can have your name tag ready in less than a week.”

“Thank you,” I say, “wait — does this mean I’m hired?”

“We’re incredibly understaffed, I would hire anyone at this point!” He forces a laugh, poor old man.

“What’s your name kid?” he grabs a piece of paper and hands it to me.

The paper was a normal get-to-know-you form — it reminds me of a similar form I filled out back in 3rd grade.

“I’m Cass,” I smile at him. I take the form and quickly fill it out on the desk.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Name: Cass Dawson

Age: 17

Gender: Male Female Other

Preferred Pronouns: . She/her .

I quickly finish the form and continue to look around. Life doesn’t feel real in here.

I wander around the store while his back is to me. Sitting on a shelf — all alone — is a dainty, perfect-looking, porcelain doll. Her hair is redder than red, perfectly curled into two pigtails. She’s wearing an elaborate white dress with a blue ribbon and bow, and black, shiny little shoes. Her eyes are hazel, and the sun shines through the window and into the irises making them glow green. She’s indescribably pretty.

“I see you’ve found Martha,” The old man says, joining me and staring at her in awe.

“Pretty name for a pretty doll,” I sigh. That name sounds familiar though…

“She’s the first antique I’ve ever put up for sale in this shop, she’s been here the whole time,” he looked at the doll lovingly.

“It’s almost hard to believe that a gorgeous doll like this wouldn’t sell.”

“Oh, she did sell,” he smiles, “she’d keep getting returned though. All her reviews say she’s haunted!”

Well, shit.

“Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to Nessa,” the man puts his hand on my shoulder, “I’m Murray, by the way.”

“I figured,” I smiled back at him, “we’re in Murray’s Antiques, and they’re your antiques.”

He laughed, “Smart kid, I’m glad I hired you. Feel free to continue exploring, it’s not a big place and we rarely get customers, but it’ll be good to get a lay of the land.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say.

Murray turns and goes back through the door to the back room, I follow him. Two walls are filled with shelves of boxes. There’s a plastic table with two cheap folding chairs, one more folded on the back wall — the back door is right next to it. Murray takes a seat in the chair closest to that door and picks up the newspaper that was previously lying on the table. The only light illuminating the room is a swinging lightbulb on a wire — it flickers every few seconds.

There are 5 lockers next to the doorway I’m standing in. 2 are open, and 3 are closed. One of the closed ones has stickers all over it, and I think a flannel hoodie is poking out through the bottom. The one next to it is rusting, it looks older than the others — like it hasn’t been opened for a long time. The last closed one — the closest to me has a piece of paper with sparkly star stickers over it, it says Murray with a smiley face.

“Pick a locker,” Murray says behind his newspaper, “only one of the open ones, please.”

I pick the one with the least crumbs and rat shit in it. I put the love letter I found and the postcard in a shoe box. I place the shoe box on the highest shelf in the locker, then lock the door with the lock I was supposed to use at school. I don’t even need a locker for school, so it’s the perfect use for it.