Page 10 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

I wrench my hand away and stumble back, breathing hard. Looking up, my vision flickers, and for a terrifying moment, the walls of the building contort and waver like a mirage in a desert.

For the first time in my life, I actually pause to wonder if Dad was right, that my mother had been trying to protect me. Everything in my mind is jumbled and I can’t make sense of it right now. All I know is there is something in that place, something ancient and dangerous.

I turn away sharply, pulling my jacket tighter as if to stop the pieces of me from flying apart. I quicken my pace in an effort to put as much distance between myself and that shop as I can.

As I walk towards the end of the alleyway, I see two figures approaching. I flick them a quick, surreptitious glance and almost stumble in surprise. One of them is a six-and-a-half-foot drag queen. She’s wearing a skintight zip-up bodysuit, go-go boots, and a bright blonde wig styled into Farrah Fawcett flicks.

Her companion is a tiny, old woman in mismatched socks, sensible lace-up shoes, a heavy winter coat, and a knitted hat that looks like a tea cosy.

I quickly dart my gaze away, and it’s not because of their odd appearance. It’s because they’re both dead. I may be able to see spirits, but I don’t involve myself in their business, whatever that may be.

They pay me no mind as I pass them by, and for that I’m grateful. My mind is still reeling. I need to go back to my own shop, to my sacred space, and recentre myself. Only then can I begin analysing the things I saw in my vision.

Not paying attention to where I’m going, I exit the alleyway and crash into someone. Before he can hit the ground, I reach out and grasp his arms to steady him. It’s a man—about my age, I’d guess—with wild, curly brown hair, green eyes, and thick-framed glasses. He’s cute if you’re into the nerdy twink look.

I’m not, and I don’t have time to make small talk with a stranger. I’m too unsettled, and when I open my mouth to speak, my tone is sharper than I intend.

“Be more careful where you’re going next time,” I bark, and I’m instantly mortified. After all, it’s not his fault. I’m the one who ran into him.

Seeing that he has his balance, I release my grip on him and skirt around him, not waiting for a response, although I’m certain I hear a muttered “Sorry.”

As soon as he’s out of sight, my anxiety and confusion hit apocalypse levels, and I take off, running like a demon is behind me.

I don’t stop until I reach the train station.

3

Iclose the door to my office behind me with a quiet click. Crossing the small room, the weathered floorboards creaking under my feet, I edge around my desk and drop into the squeaky leather of my chair.

The small square room is every cliché you’d expect of a private investigator’s office with its frosted glass door, scuffed wooden floor, and plain walls. Heavy metal file cabinets line one side, and a low, sagging crimson sofa backs up against another. In front of the window is my desk, which faces the door and is piled high with paperwork, under which is buried my laptop. Somewhere.

The whole place looks like it’s been transplanted straight out of a 1930s film noir, and I match it perfectly. With my long beige trench coat, loosened tie, white shirt, and dark trousers, I probably look like the love child of John Constantine and Columbo.

I snort at the thought. My black hair is longer than I used to always wear it, no doubt messy since I constantly run my hands through it, either in frustration or to keep it out of my eyes. It’s so far away from the man I used to be.

I barely recognise myself these days.

I unconsciously trace my fingertips down the length of the scar running from the corner of my eye down past my cheekbone.

Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to go back to being that man. I can’t.

My hand drifts to my ribs, and I rub at the phantom pain there. It’s been almost a year since the vicious attack that almost took my life—or maybe that’s exactly what it did. I may have survived physically, but my life as I knew it was over. Friends and family turned their backs on me, and I was fired from my career as a detective for the West Yorkshire Police.

I snort quietly although there’s no amusement in the sound. Yeah, my life is exactly what it took.

But maybe that wasn’t exactly a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’d been happy. I could have carried on that way and never known any different. But I do know now. The world is not what I thought it was.

My physical injuries healed, but I learned things I never would have believed existed. That brush with death left me irrevocably changed and able to do things that should be impossible.

As crazy as it sounds, the past year has been like a superhero’s origin story…or a villain’s. I haven’t decided which yet.

I toss the large envelope I’m still holding on the desk and several very explicit photos spill out. Rubbing my face tiredly, I lean down and open my desk drawer, then pull out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and a glass.

What the hell, might as well complete the stereotype, I think as I pour myself a drink. Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a sip and let the notes of spice and smoke dance over my tongue as I eye the damning pictures.

Another unfaithful spouse, another divorce, which seem to be my bread-and-butter clients these days. I shrug and take a deeper gulp, savouring the burn that warms my throat.

At least it pays the bills, I suppose.