My name is Velma Higgins and I worked in a haunted specialty shop, stereotypical I know. But it wasn’t haunted in the “traditional” sense. While, yes we had one or two extraordinarily pissed off spirits, real jerks actually, it’s not them that gave us a reputation in our nothing town, it’s the people and other things that visited the shop itself. When I mean us, I mean myself, and my lunch eating coworker Linsey. Don’t get me wrong, Linsey didn’t only eat my lunch, she also smoked questionable substances on the job, but damn if she didn’t make a good batch of brownies.

 Let me explain, I worked night shift half the time, and please don’t ask why a little tourist trap has a night shift, I still don’t know either. This being said, of course I almost dropped the “uranium” vase I was holding when Linsey came in at nearly three in the morning. “Ratpack came by again,” I started dryly as I counted the cash in the register, almost not noticing my coworker let out a visible shiver as she ate my sandwich.

 

 See, Ratpack was an almost unbelievably ancient man, the skin on his face sagged too low and wrinkled so much you’d swear you where looking at a Shar Pei trapped in a man’s body. But what’s off putting isn’t his age, or even his seemingly unblinking eyes, but the fact that the owners have made some kind of deal with him. He brought us boxes of seemingly well, nothing, and in return  we give him the rats we catch behind the refrigerator. I occasionally let my mind drift to what he does with the grotesquely oversized rodents when he walks back into the woods with them, but based on his breath which could make an onion cry, as well as the stained, ever-growing, patchy, fur gown? I don’t think I really want to ask. 

 

“I’ve been having dreams again” Linsey commented as I snapped out of my daydream and finished off the bitter coffee she had picked me up from the gas station around the corner.

 “Your parents disapproval or Jason Voorhees?” I asked half heartedly, ignoring the faint static as I continued dusting off one of the weird ass, human eyed birds some chick had brought in a few days ago, damn taxidermists.

 

“Moths! Giant, biting moths!” she choked out, spitting out whitebread crumbs, I laughed at that, shitty I know but it genuinely surprised me, and I still don’t get surprised much any more.

 “So you can deal with everything here,” I gestured to the ever dusty displays, nearly knocking one of the crystallized skulls over, while she stared into the dimmed shop illuminating the various pieces of obscure taxidermy, bone jewelry and the ever staring army of antique toys that lined the walls, shelves and floor of the building “But not moths?” I asked, my voice crackling with snark. 

 

“You don’t understand!” She looked around nervously as if to see if anyone in our nearly ten mile radius out of town could hear us before leaning in “Moths are a sign of death” she whimpered into the open air.

 I snorted at that “Next you’re gonna tell me the lines on my hand mean my future is grim. Look man, I can put up with Ratpack, the dumpster goblins, and the probably irradiated wildlife we sell, but prophetic dreams is where I draw the line”. I stated dryly, my voice seemingly a distant screech, at that point she grabbed the EVP recorder, wrote a final letter, and walked out. Maybe I should have been nicer, maybe then she wouldn’t have left. I miss her, but I think I just miss working with the  living.

photo credit: softmothslut on tumblr