Lowbridge was quiet that night.
Too quiet.
Not the kind of calm that brings peace, but the kind that presses against your ribs and makes you double-check the locks.
At Witherthorn Hall, a noble estate that stood like a mausoleum on the northern cliffs, Mr. Sallow sipped a glass of claret by the fire, listening to the logs crackle as he reread the letter that had sparked all this.
It was short.
"Sir, there is a man in Lowbridge. He calls himself a shopkeeper. They call him 'The Curator.' I've seen things in that shop I cannot explain."
Sallow didn't believe in such thungs. Not really. He believed in power. In secrets. In leverage.
So if a strange little man was running a strange little shop and strange little rumors kept piling up around him... well, it was time someone looked into it.
He summoned four of his men. the kind of men who ask few questions and tell even fewer stories afterward. Investigators, of a sort. Paid well. Trained to observe and report. They had looked into cults, secret tombs, a family of necromancers and such.
"This won't be like other mission," Sallow told them. "Just look into the man. Quietly."
And with that, they were off.
Dorian's Curiosities didn't look like much in daylight. But at night, it looked like the building itself might bite you.
Its windows were smeared, its shingles uneven. The faded sign swung on rusted hooks. Inside, the glow of oil lamps leaked through the curtains like a fever dream.
The hired men slipped in just past midnight. The lock was old. No alarm. No traps.
But the air inside felt… wrong.
The smell was the first thing. old wood, wax, something faintly metallic. Then came the clutter. shelves of bizarre items, jars of murky contents, paintings that didn't look quite right.
One of them bent to read a faded label.
"Whispering Bell – Don't Ring Unless You Mean It."
"Creepy," he muttered.
"Fake," the leader replied. "Stagecraft."
But they moved slower. Carefully.
The whole place was dim, dusty. and cold. They saw what looked like a baby grand piano made of bones. A chessboard with pieces that moved slightly when no one was watching. One shelf held only mismatched dolls, all staring in the same direction. A wind-up monkey blinked even though no one touched it.
"Okay," whispered one of them. "What the hell is this place?"
Just then. SLAM.
The front door banged shut behind them. Hard.
They all jumped.
The leader cursed under his breath and rushed back to the handle. It didn't budge.
"Is it him?" he said, though his voice wasn't steady.
"I don't think-" one began.
"Shh. Do you hear that?"
Footsteps. Upstairs. Slow. And Uneven.
"Someone's coming," the youngest whispered, eyes wide.
"it's the Curator," the leader said. "Calm down. We'll hide, wait for him to leave."
But the footsteps didn't sound right. Too steady to be panicked. Too heavy to be casual.
Dorian, barefoot and rumpled, was sleepwalking.
He shuffled down the stairs in a half-conscious daze, wearing an old robe with a mustard stain on it and muttering about "bloody hinges" under his breath. He didn't notice the men, who'd scattered like mice. one behind a curtain, one in the closet, one under a table, and one into the basement.
Dorian walked to the front door, squinted at it, and frowned.
"Huh," he grumbled. "Thought I locked you…"
He turned the bolt, yawned, then glanced at a statue near the counter. It was chipped, one arm cracked, but Dorian looked at it fondly.
"Agh… I remember you," he mumbled. "Took forever to carve, didn't it? Kept collapsing every damn time. Still, turned out nice."
To the men hiding?
It sounded like a confession.
The man under the table broke into a cold sweat. The closet man was praying. The one in the curtain muttered, "We need to leave, now."
But downstairs… was worse.
The basement was darker, colder. Dust hung like mist. The man who'd fled down there clutched a lantern and tried to calm his breathing. until he turned and saw the shape in the rocking chair.
A man. No, a corpse (The previous owner). Mouth slightly open. Face shriveled and gray.
It was just sitting there.
He backed up slowly.
Then fainted.
Upstairs, Dorian wandered behind the counter, poured himself half a glass of something strong, and toasted to no one in particular.
"Still alive," he muttered. "Barely."
That was the last straw. The man under the table couldn't take it anymore. he darted out, knocking over a small statue of a one-eyed owl. The others followed in blind panic, pulling the basement man up by the collar as he groaned. They bolted for the door and flung it open.
Dorian blinked, halfway through a sip, as four wide-eyed strangers ran screaming into the fog.
He stared.
He looked at his drink.
"…No more brandy after midnight."
(Probably for the best)
Back at Witherthorn Hall, the four men collapsed in Mr. Sallow's parlor. Two of them were sweating. One was pale. The basement man had bits of cobweb in his ears.
"Well?" Sallow said.
No one answered.
Finally, the leader spoke. "He… he talked to a statue. Said it took him ages to carve."
"I think he meant a person," the youngest whispered.
"There was a corpse in the basement," added another. "it was Smiling."
Sallow narrowed his eyes. "You're sure?"
(Pretty sure)
They nodded quickly. No embellishment. Just fear.
Sallow stared into the fire.
He didn't believe them. Not entirely.
But he also didn't not believe them.
He would go himself.
The next morning, Dorian was livid.
His shop. his glorious, borderline cursed disaster of a shop. looked like a bar fight had taken place during an earthquake. The tapestry rack had been knocked over. A glass cabinet was shattered. Someone had disturbed the "Don't Touch Under Any Circumstance" shelf.
"This place is already falling apart," he growled.
He swept up shards of mirror. Picked a boot print off a dusty table. The stuffed mongoose was missing its little hat.
"This is some bullshit."
He muttered the whole time, stomping around, barely noticing the bell above the door chime as someone entered.
Mr. Sallow stood in the doorway, quietly taking it all in.
It was exactly as the men described. worse, even. The clutter was oppressive. The atmosphere almost… charged. But the man at the counter? He didn't seem dangerous. Just tired. Grumbling. Talking to himself.
Dorian walked past a broken mannequin and sighed.
"I told you to stay upright," he muttered. "How am I supposed to sell you with no arms? I don't care if it was the fall. So grow new ones."
Sallow's eyes narrowed. Was he… talking to it?
"Still," Dorian continued, "not the worst mess I've cleaned. Remember that guy who melted? Had to scrape him off the floor."
Sallow flinched.
Dorian turned then and blinked.
"Oh! Didn't see you there. Sorry. bit of a mess this morning."
He brushed his hands on his apron and smiled faintly. "You here to browse or…?"
Sallow straightened. "I'm Mr. Sallow. I've heard things about this place. About you."
Dorian raised an eyebrow. Chuckling. "Oh dear. You didn't come to accuse me of fraud right?"
'shit I'm busted'
Sallow hesitated.
Behind them, a lamp flickered. A porcelain angel twitched slightly on the shelf.
Dorian didn't notice. He was busy rebalancing a cracked globe on top.
"Well," he said. "If you've come all this way, might as well stay a bit. Care for tea?"
Sallow didn't answer.
Because as Dorian walked behind the curtain, humming something tuneless, a wooden sign behind the window. one that hadn't been there before. slowly swung into view.
"I am Always Watching."