Iglance up at the sign hanging above the old green door. The morning sun highlights the contrast of the white conjoined twin skeleton, one body with two skulls and wings instead of arms, against the black background of the distressed wood. In gilt Old English style lettering is the name of my pride and joy, Grimm, named after the German storyteller brothers.
Smiling, I unlock the door with a large skeleton key and turn the wrought iron vintage doorknob. I push open the wooden door and inhale my happy place. Dust, time, and the faintest whiff of formaldehyde hang in the air. It smells like home.
“Come on, Lucifer,” I call to the enormous black cat that came with the building. Strutting past me with a twitch of his tattered ear, he jumps to his customary spot in the window, ignoring my existence as usual.
“Good morning!” I call out in a singsong voice to my taxidermy collection and various mummified animals, skeletons, skulls, bugs, and miscellaneous peculiarities. While others may find not only my taxidermied friends but the other contents of my shop bizarre, I have always been at home in the macabre. I find their glass-eyed gazes comforting as they watch me cross the store. They are also far friendlier than my shop cat.
Grimm offers an eclectic collection of curiosities, ranging from wet mounts to framed prints of crime scenes and death tableaus, as well as uncommon antiques, store merch, and vintage horror movie-themed items. Despite the age of the building and most of my inventory, the shop is tidy and well-organized. I treasure my shining display cases with their thoughtfully curated offerings.
Medical antiques are one of my special areas of interest and take up an entire wall—a nod to my brief former career in nursing. The display includes vintage anatomy prints and sketches, old instruments, pathologic cross sections, and even a wax-injected anatomical specimen prepared by the famous Honoré Fragonard.
I think back on how I came to have such an unusual profession. What had started as a child’s love of Grimm’s fairy tales matured into a passion for Dracula, Frankenstein, Dorian Grey, and other creatures of the night. I recall my parents being markedly concerned that even as a young girl, I loved the so-called ‘bad guys’. My little heart broke when the authors fated them to lost loves and persecution by hordes of angry villagers with pitchforks.
In response to my predilections, my father doubled down on his worldview of good and evil. But to me, life isn’t so black and white. Because what is a hero? And who actually are the ‘bad guys’? In the end, it’s all really just a matter of perspective. The world is so very gray.
One of my formative memories was falling in love with Dracula. Despite my father’s best efforts to keep me from “earthly evils,” I discovered the ultimate antihero during a stolen moment with my cousin's miraculous cable television. When the catchlight landed on Dracula’s face, despite the black and white film, I just knew his eyes would match mine.
While other girls dreamed of white knights and princes, I longed to be rescued by a creature of the night. I dreamed he would swoop into my bedroom and save me from the tedium of my life. Whisk me off to his faraway castle where we could be alone. My young mind didn’t get much further than that, but I knew there was something that followed. Something mysterious and wonderful.
I have had a predilection for anything vampire ever since. I enjoyed countless vampire novels and movies over the years, but my favorite always came back to the original Dracula, and Bela Lugosi is my longest-running crush.
As I grew older and fairytales gave way to gothic fiction and old horror movies, I also developed a fondness for dark, dusty things. Those items others disregarded in favor of what is new and shiny.
Unlike the current societal method of throwing out cheap plastic goods for the latest and greatest, I prefer to upcycle and invest in vintage or quality items that will withstand the test of time. Like classic cult movies instead of the new bloody slasher films.
Even holidays were different for me as I cried over the island of misfit toys at Christmas. Over time, I collected those ‘misfits’, whether oddities or people, and offered a refuge for all those misunderstood, cast aside, or thrown away.
As my found family grew, both stuffed and alive, my parents and provincial past, neither of which were accepting of me, became more distant. And as I evolved, I became less accepting of who they are, too. As my world expanded, so did my mind, escaping my small town and its imposed constraints.
My father didn’t understand my “dark obsessions” and concluded I was “trying too hard to be different.” A trait he resolutely believed contributed to both my seemingly permanent single status and my “overactive imagination.”
In his rigid puritanical mindset, my sole purpose in life was reduced to marrying and procreating. So, when neither my personality nor looks were conducive to his cause, they just became more disappointments added to his extensive list.
My mother never contradicted him out loud, although in my mind I begged her to. Instead, she was a source of quiet comfort. Although a woman of few words, the ones she bestowed on me were usually loving and supportive. But it would have been nice for her to stand up for me, to show that my worth isn't determined by my father's expectations. To support my ambitions as my own.
After losing my mom, I gave up on trying to navigate a relationship with my father, who doled out judgments over kindness. The strained truce we kept as we cared for her during her illness could not survive her passing. If anything, things were worse than ever without mom as our buffer.
Her passing was also the crossroads of my career. I had quit my nursing job to care for her full time, and after she was gone, I was just done. Done with one of the few careers my father had approved of for an unmarried woman, done with being stuck in that damn town, and done denying who I wanted to be. Seeking comfort, I turned to what I loved, my collection of misfits and knack for finding them.
With encouragement from my chosen family, I took the little bit of money my mom had somehow squirreled away for me and made a down payment on a rundown old building on the outskirts of a questionable small suburb. It was a gamble, but it was thrilling. I finally felt alive again after those terrible years.
Feeling the familiar burn behind my eyes of impending tears, I lock those thoughts away into the past where they belong and focus on the here and now. Me, successful, loved by my little found family, standing in my beloved Grimm.
Luckily, my macabre tendencies, which once were a source of ostracism, are now popular, or at least popular enough, and my little curiosity shop is thriving. And although my father is far from beaming with pride over my success, my chosen family gives me abounding encouragement.
I couldn’t wait to open my email, waiting to hear back from a contact about some information about my upcoming buying trip to Europe, and also needing to check in with my taxidermy restoration friend Wren.
Lady Luck had been so kind as to send her my way, a kindred spirit in all things stuffed and an obvious addition to my found family. Wren was like the quirky Aunt, always out on an adventure, mysterious, and somewhat elusive. But when you were with her–simply fascinating and so very warm.
So many tiny details to keep my shop organized, welcoming, and thriving. My love for all of it makes it easy to sacrifice so much of my life for my shop’s success. My computer, something I don’t particularly love but is necessary as a business tool, attempts to boot up, leaving me to hope it decides to both work and connect to the spotty Wi-Fi today.
I love the beautiful old building that houses Grimm and my home, but it doesn’t seem to embrace modern technology like the internet or even my laptop. It is part of the building’s charm, and if I ask nicely for something important, the building seems to indulge me with working electronics.
Like pretty please download this book so I can read it tonight, or Docs are on sale, come on PayPal! Despite feeling like the store might be magical, I’ve yet to uncover its secrets.
Thankfully, Grimm’s sales always ring through, even if my email won't always load. A running joke is that my business is at the mercy of this building. But I love this brick-end unit, painted in a pale green with a darker green door, black windows and roof.
Standing across the street and looking at Grimm, it would seem as if the builders had gotten to the end of my row and put everything they had left over into this last unit. The roof stands a little taller, the front a little wider, and it has extra finishing details like deep window sills, stained glass, and fancy gingerbread trim.
