Page 9 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

Shaking my head, I reach up and grab my jacket from the hook next to the mirror and slip it on.

You’re just going to get this over with, I tell my reflection firmly. Then you can stop stewing on it and get on with your life.

Grabbing my keys and my wallet, I head out of the shop, locking up firmly behind me, and step out onto the street. It doesn’t take long to make my way up to Highbury and Islington station, and I arrive five minutes before the train I need is due. The journey itself takes less than twenty minutes, and I find myself jiggling my knee restlessly the whole way there.

I don’t seem to know what to do with my hands either. I hate feeling nervous and unsure. It really brings out the waspish side of my personality.

What on earth am I going to say to the woman?

Trying to push that thought from my mind, I recount all the healing crystals I can think of in alphabetical order. When that doesn’t work, I begin reciting them all backwards. When that doesn’t work either, I sing the song my dads taught me softly under my breath.

A is for amber, amethyst and aventurine…

I get off at Whitechapel, still humming quietly as I pull out my phone and bring up the maps app.

There’s labradorite and malachite, and not forgetting selenite…

My heart is pounding hard as I follow the directions and find myself facing an almost deserted alley that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Jack the Ripper period drama.

Calcite and Danburite… I murmur, my steps slowing… and back to Amazonite.

I stop in front of a huge, terraced Victorian building that’s at least three storeys high, possibly four when taking into account the dormer windows protruding from the roof.

It might have a cellar too. A lot of Victorian properties did.

On the ground level is an old-fashioned shop frontage which reminds me of an old apothecary. The faded paint on the wooden sign reads Whitechapel Occult Books & Curiosities.

Taped to the inside of one of the small square glass panes that make up the curve of the large bay window is a piece of paper that reads Madame Vivienne’s spiritual readings for those who wish to commune with the dearly departed.

I frown. I’m not knocking anyone using their gifts to make a living, but this sounds embarrassingly cheesy, like something I’d see at the psychic fairs held yearly at the local Devon hotels. I don’t mean to sound judgemental, but this is exactly the sort of sign con artists and those with the least amount of power favour.

Shaking off the thought, I step closer to the door and feel my pulse kick up a notch. Am I really doing this? Am I going to meet the woman who gave birth to me?

I stare through the window of the main door, which has the shop name painted across the glass in gold lettering. My gaze catches on a sudden movement in the shop. A woman appears through a curtain of beads to stand behind a heavy-looking wooden cash desk that holds an ancient-looking brass-plated till, the kind that looks a bit like a typewriter.

But my eyes lock on her, not her surroundings. The woman looks like she could be in her late forties, with long dark hair that’s a bit wild-looking and streaked with grey. She’s wearing some sort of flowing tie-dyed shirt or dress, but I can’t tell which as she’s stood behind the desk. What I can see are rows of brightly coloured bangles stacked along her wrists all the way up to her forearms.

Is that her? Is that my mother? Shouldn’t I feel a shock of recognition or something? Anything.

But there’s nothing.

Only a familiar overwhelming sense of anxiety that always leaves me feeling vaguely nauseous.

Releasing a slow breath, I lift my hand towards the handle of the door, then watch as she roots around behind the counter and after a few seconds produces a bottle of what looks like gin. She unscrews the cap and takes a heavy slug.

Oh my god, I hope that’s not my mother.

Closing my eyes for a second, I try to find my calm but can’t. My control is slipping and fragments of emotions are leaking through, only I can’t tell who they’re from. When I open my eyes again, I look down at my hand, which is still hovering inches above the door handle.

The woman inside still hasn’t noticed me. I can still walk away and no one would know that I’m a coward.

Swallowing past the dryness in my mouth, my throat makes a clicking sound. My body flushes hot then cold, and a strange prickling sensation runs down my neck, as if I’m being watched. I spin around, looking up and down the narrow, cobbled alleyway, but there’s no one there.

The longer I stand there the worse the sensation gets.

My scalp tingles, and it feels like my hair is standing on end, as do the tiny hairs on my arms. For a second, my need to get off the street and away from prying eyes overrides my trepidation at stepping into this little shop of curiosities.

This time when I reach for the handle and my palm curls around the shiny brass knob, a shock of electricity shoots painfully up my arm, making my muscles contract and my grip involuntarily tighten. A rush of overwhelming images explode in my mind: a huge stone archway, a black framed mirror, a wooden floor marked by a burning pentagram and shadows. So many shadows swarming over a large, heavy-looking black leather-bound book.