8
Walk-Ins Welcome

 

The morning light bled through the bleary windows of The Old Curiosity Shop, Mr. Horum’s magic emporium in the heart of Colta City.

Bronson slipped the currency strap off a bundle of crisp one dollar bills then slid them into the cash drawer underneath the register. Posters, paintings, and fliers lined the walls. They showed great magicians performing their signature feats:

Alexander Herrmann with his goatee and tailcoat. Across from the register, Harry Kellar levitated Princess Karnak. A painting of Okito The Mystic, clad in red oriental robes, hung in the back. He suspended a small orange ball between his hands.

The office door behind the register swung open. Mr. Horum stepped out, carrying a large ledger under his arm. He dressed like an Omani sultan and walked like he needed practice.

“You set up register good like I show you, boy-oh?” Mr. Horum asked.

“Sure thing, Mr. Horum,” Bronson said. “Still need some quarters but we should have enough to last until I can make it to the bank on my lunch break.”

Mr. Horum leaned down, squinting as he examined Bronson’s eyes. “Your eyes dark and puffed up. You get in big superhero fight again?”

“No need to worry about me,” Bronson said. “I haven’t been sleeping well the past few nights but nothing weird besides all these thieves popping back up and all.”

“Thieves?” Mr. Horum said. “Like one who try to turn you into bad guy?”

“Yeah. The Guild of Thieves. I hurt a couple of them pretty bad.”

“Wait until I find them,” Mr. Horum said. He swung his plump fists at an imaginary enemy. “Then they have reason for to worry.”

“No, I’ve got it under control. I don’t want them shooting you again or anything,” Bronson said.

“Don’t forget. I been ‘round long time. I know ways of world.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bronson said, grabbing the broom to give the shop one last sweep before they opened for business.

“What make you sleep bad?” Mr. Horum asked.

“Thing is I sleep, but these nightmares I’ve been having keep me from getting any rest.”

“You get bad dreams?” Mr. Horum asked. “I get them too at times. See other life, other Horum. It spooky stuff up here,” he said, tapping his temple.

“They’re always about that day my parents—” Bronson still had trouble saying it. “You know. It’s like I keep going over what happened that day looking for some way to change it.”

“This worst thing you can do. You keep these bad things inside they pull at you whole life long,” Mr. Horum said. He put a hand on Bronson’s shoulder, but the boy wouldn’t look him in the eye. “You shake off bad stuff, you gonna sleep easy you betcha.”

“How do you shake it off?” Bronson asked.

“First, you make special place in head,” Mr. Horum said, taking two black and white striped handkerchiefs from underneath the counter. He opened a small red box then shoved the handkerchiefs inside it.

“You keep good thoughts of you mom and pop in this special place. They safe there, but sometimes you put sad thing there by mistake. This get it all mixed up pretty good, hmmb?” Mr. Horum closed the box then gave it a shake. He opened the other end.

The handkerchiefs inside were transformed; red and yellow polka dots broke up the crisp stripes. “Now they in head when you want to remember, but they have bad stuff all over them, yes? This fine when you awake. Easy to see what is what. But when you sleep, it harder to tell these apart.”

He closed the end again then placed the box on its side and opened the panel on the front. The handkerchief’s kaleidoscope pattern contained so many colors Bronson struggled to count them.

“This make big mess, hmmb? You got to sweep away bad stuff before it become big mess. You love you mom and pop, miss them even, but they only dreams in head now. You tell friends, get it out of own head, you gonna be able to sort it out you betcha.”

Mr. Horum closed the panel then knocked three times on the top. The sides fell away, revealing two handkerchiefs: one black, one white.

“I can’t talk to anybody about this stuff,” Bronson said. “The way everything went after the crash… I don’t want you thinking less of me.”

“You talk to your Cindy?” Mr. Horum said. ”She like you. She listen.”

Bronson flipped the sign on the door to the OPEN side then unlocked the deadbolt. “I tried once but she blew me off,” he said.

“She come around, boy-oh. You no see what Horum see or hear what Horum hear. She listen in time.” Mr. Horum dug through the decks of cards in a plastic bin beside the register. “Why no gaff decks up here?”

“Oh yeah. We’ve been moving a lot of those. Give me two seconds. I’ll take care of it,” Bronson said, running back to the office. When he opened the storage closet boxes bulged out filled with all manner of tricks, baubles, and do-dads. He moved the boxes from the closet to the floor until he found the box with the gaff decks.

The bell rang out in the shop, indicating a customer had come in. Better get back out there quick before Mr. Horum gets too friendly and scares them off, he thought.

He picked a few decks out then set them on the desk. He considered Mr. Horum’s advice as he put the other boxes back in the closet. Maybe he was right about Cindy. I mean the last time I brought it up, she wasn’t even my girlfriend yet. Yeah. I’m gonna do it. I’ll finish my shift then go talk to her. What if she thinks I’m nuts though? Maybe I should wait.

Bronson put the last box back into the closet then grabbed the decks and headed out to the shop. As he approached the door, two muffled voices drifted in. He couldn’t quite make out what they said but he recognized the overly eager tone in Mr. Horum’s voice. Time to go calm him down, he thought.

He closed the door almost as soon as he’d opened it. His chest burned, breath wheezing through his throat. The man’s familiar features troubled him: eyes like a serial killer behind old-fashioned spectacles.

Bronson knew the man as a card-carrying member of the Guild, but he had a feeling if he didn’t act he’d know him as the man who killed Mr. Horum.

 

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