A SHOP TO DIE FOR

by J.W. Davis

7/20/24

-AN OLD FACE-

The shell of the building was sandwiched between a flower shop and a bakery, the perfect place for my future. It was bare, with millions of possibilities waiting to be released. The street and sidewalk were quiet for a Tuesday, but I didn’t mind. It was the perfect opportunity to stand and admire what was to become my dream. It was half-past eleven, according to my old watch, and my knuckles were white from clutching paperwork while waiting for the real estate agent. I bobbled from foot to foot, knowing the coming dread that would arrive with Mr. W.

Months had passed since I first found the building. It was the perfect distance from home and within a reasonable distance of passersby. It would indeed be glorious, with aromas beckoning people as the first selling point. However, it was the only marketing I could think of right now. 

Despite the daunting price of thirty thousand dollars for the rundown space, I was determined to make it mine. My earnings from the server job barely covered my apartment costs, but I refused to give up on my dream. The shop had been empty for five years, with rumors of the last owner’s spirit haunting it. I dismissed these as mere childish superstitions. The price continued to drop monthly, but I couldn't afford to wait any longer. I had to have it. 

I’m unsure what to do if my loan isn’t approved. This is it for me, my last chance in this town to follow my dream. Nothing like this glorious temple was going to come along soon. That’s when I noticed him in the window's reflection. 

He stood across the street, facing me. A fedora and a long black trench coat were the images that came back to me. I slowly studied him, though I didn’t turn to look directly at him. His right hand clung firmly to a cane. I couldn’t make out the details of his face. He did not move, and neither did. He was unnerving me. The silence of the street and the man's stillness created a chill that slinked up my spine. I was frozen, unable to tear my gaze away from him, my heart pounding in my chest. 

I almost screamed as a hand touched my shoulder, breaking me from my trance. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Mr. W said, a smile on his boyish face.

I nodded and gave a small smile. My eyes darted across the road. He was gone, vanished in two seconds. I looked down both sides of the long street—no one in sight. 

“Are you looking for someone?” Mr. W looked bewildered as he leaned in toward me. 

I shook my head as I turned back to the building facade. 

“Wonderful property,” Mr. W fiddled with his briefcase and undid the two latches. “All signed?” Mr. W held out his hand, and I handed him the papers. “Eerie place, though. Old man Andrews’ shoe story stood here for forty years, sad that he had to die of a heart attack at his workbench too.” He shivered as he read over the documents. 

I bit my lip while waiting for the shoe to drop. Mr. W would ask for the money, and I would have to request another extension, which they’d already given me last month. The loan still wasn’t approved by both parties, so I had to wait another week. 

I could go back to my server job, but having to do that would mean having to face the hordes of drunks that inhabited the pub. I rolled my neck, thinking about it. No. I won't go back. 

“Well…what are you going to do with it?” Mr. W set down his briefcase and began fiddling in his pockets. 

“Sorry?” I ask. 

“The space? What are you going to turn it into?” he asked, still unable to find what he was searching for. 

I inhale. “Oh! Bookstore and coffee shop.”

“That should be nice!” 

As I exhaled, I couldn't help but feel a surge of cautious optimism. "If I get the space," I muttered under my breath, acknowledging the uncertainty that still loomed over me.

“Sorry?” He looks up at me. 

“Nothing,” I say with a smile. 

“Ah, there you are!” Mr. W yanks his hand from the fifth pocket of his long woolen coat and holds out a fist. “These are yours.” He opens his hand and reveals a set of gold keys. 

I don’t move. I stay completely still. My eyes go from Mr. W’s hand to his face and back again. When Mr. W handed me the keys, I was so shocked that I almost passed out.

"It’s mine?' I stammered, unable to believe what was happening. 

“All yours.” Mr. W looks genuinely pleased as he forces the keys into my hand. “Can’t wait to grab a coffee!” 

“Um, thanks?” I pop an eyebrow up. “They never told me the loan was approved.” 

“It wasn’t.” Mr. W looks at the shop’s front as he wrinkles his nose. “Donor.” He clears his throat. 

“Donor?” 

“Someone paid for it. But it’s your name on the deed, so…” He rocks his head back and forth. “It’s yours!” 

“I…” 

“What are you gonna call it?” 

“I…” 

“Right, need time to live in the space first. I get it.” Mr. W puts up his hands. “Well, I’ll be back soon with the paperwork to finish up, but until then, better clean. Looks like a right mess in there.” He chuckles to himself as he walks away. “See you soon!” 

I stood like a statue for around a minute, but who knows? I probably was there for an hour before a bird chirped and was freed from my stone prison. 

I stepped slowly to the door, my hand shaking like someone going through withdrawals. As the key finally fits into the lock and I hear the click, I push the door open. I’m smacked in the face by the smell of must and something like mildew—best not to think about it. I exhale as I study the interior of the front room. 

Old racks line the walls, and a large wooden counter with shelving behind it sits near the back. The tiniest tinge of leather hits my nose as I creep closer to the counter. I find newspapers scattered across the floor that read, “The Finest Shoes in Sarmenta. February 23rd, 2014.” 

“Kept some mementos, Mr. A?” I say, finally reaching the counter. I run my hand along its surface, picking up a heaping of dust. “Alright, dusting, add to TBD list.” 

The front room looked manageable enough. Would it take me a week? A month? A day? My forehead smacks against the counter, shooting clouds of dust into the air.

I rear back as a load of it goes into my open mouth; I begin to fight for my life. I hack as I stumble through a curtain behind me, hitting almost every surface in the vicinity. 

Bathroom? Bathroom! 

My cough settles after I guzzle water down my throat and shut the bathroom door behind me again, finally realizing where I stand. 

A room filled with old metal gadgets, some with bands, some with metal tools hooked to them, and the occasional odd shoe on a workbench illuminated by a small lamp. 

“How do you still have power?” I shimmy my hand down the cord until I find the outlet and yank the plug out. 

The light shuts off and leaves me in the shadow to find my way back out as I hear the floorboard behind me creak. I jerk around, but only dust sits before me. “Oh, just you.” I roll my eyes. Of course, ghosts don’t haunt places, especially an old shoemaker. Who in their right mind–

“Who shut off my light?” a gruff voice says behind me. “Hm. Excuse me. Throat filled with dust.” He clears his throat again. 

I don’t turn around to see the voice coming from behind me. I don’t even open my eyes. They are squeezing together with the force of three bulls. 

“Hello?” the man’s voice says again, this time clearer. “Are you alright?” I inch my eyes open ever so slightly and find a pair of dark brown leather boots accompanied by a pair of tan pants standing on the other side of the workbench. 

“I’m…fine.” I stay crouched, formulating the best plan. I could grab a shoe tool and stab the intruder. Running out the front and calling the police is an option. Yes. Yes. That is a good idea. 

“Are you the new shop owner? Glad to see someone finally is going to keep the old girl going.” The man claps his hands together. 

I finally rise, not understanding why I’m not doing option two–or even one, but I breach the edge of the workbench and come face to face with a wrinkled, older man who stands four inches shorter than me. And then it hit me: a face I had just seen. I was having a hallucination. 

There was no way this is…

The cheerful man’s rosy cheeks rise on his face as he smiles broadly. “Mr. Andrews, at your service.” He extends a hand to me. 

I pass out.