Mundane Work Chapter 1 (Remastered)

Transcript of recording- 121 GLBUTTERFLY-AM-1203██-14:31

Priya: (leaning back in her chair, twirling a pen) “Aman. Aman. Aman. What’s your deal?”

Aman: (doesn’t look up) “Deal?”

Priya: “Yeah. You’re like… really… normal? No offence. But last week, the coffee machine started bleeding, and you just… plungered it. Like it was… normal.”

Aman: (stamps another permit) “It was clogged.”

Priya: (snorts) “Clogged with what? Was it a blood clot? (leans closer) And don’t think I didn’t see you ‘fix’ the printer when it started screaming. You used a staple remover. Was it also clogged?”

Aman: (monotone) “Paper jam.”

Priya: (throws hands up) “That’s impossible! You’re impossible! (pauses) It doesn’t even make sense. Like, how’d you get Mrs. Carmichael’s cat out of the ceiling tiles after it… merged with the HVAC system?”

Aman: (looks up, dead-eyed) “Ladder.”

Priya: (stares) “…Right. (mutters) Ladder. Sure. More plausible at least. (sighs) You know, sometimes I think—”

(The office lights flicker. A spreadsheet on Priya’s monitor glitches, cells filling with glowing runes. The air tastes like burnt copper.)

Priya: (panicked whisper) “Aman. Aman. The budget report is… alive?”

Aman: (pulls a USB drive from his drawer, plugs it in. The screen dies with a whimper.) “Virus.”

Priya: (wide-eyed) “That wasn’t a virus! That was— that was magic! Or some crazy hack! Or—”

Aman: (handing her a stack of forms) “Double-check these zoning permits. Page 7 is missing a signature.”

Priya: (defeated) “…You’re infuriating.”

(She slumps at her desk. Aman’s phone buzzes—a text from --------)

Priya: (calling after him) “Where are you—”

Aman: (over shoulder) “Fire drill.”

Priya: (to herself, staring at the dead monitor) “…I need a new job.”

Note: Priya has been unable to find a new job and, in this economy, cannot afford to quit. Refer to HR for positivity training and try to keep her away from Aman. She has expressed distinct discomfort at his presence. Usual employee salary raise cancelled due to her circumstances.

Note: Get Aman to go through his “A Warm and Welcoming Workplace” training with HR. Again.

Note: Aman has skipped HR training again. Please inform him that any more skips (reasons valid or not) will harm his bonus this year.

Aman

coffee

Somewhere, out there, in the vast, wide, world, there was once a man stuck underneath a mountain of paperwork and empty coffee mugs.

Actually, there are probably hordes of people stuck underneath massive workloads at any given moment — but this story isn’t about them. This one sat in an office that very well might have been a stock photo. Aman’s cubicle was a purgatory of fluorescent lights and synthetic carpet that clung like molasses. No windows pierced the walls, time seemed to ebb and flow at inconsistent, meandering paces; the clocks were all late or early, only ever right on blue moons.

You would be forgiven for thinking mildew and lemon were all offices could smell like if you ever ended up there, so pray you never do. If fate feels unkind, however, it is recommended for you to hold your breath until you get out. You really don’t want to catch soul rot. In a place that represented eternal, thankless toil and monotony, would you believe that Aman was happiest there? Not happy, but he wasn’t miserable like the rest of them. That’s happy by civil servant standards.

Aman sat back down at his desk, sighing loudly. He never made complaint about any of the work, but this wasn’t an average appeal or incident report. In this unremarkable office, in front of a man so dull he was considered boring for abureaucrat, sat a stack of papers that glowed faintly in the now-dark office after-hours. If you listened closely, you might hear the sound of laughter or glass shattering echoing from the pages. Some smelled of rot and decay and looked like they would fall apart at the lightest touch, while others bled and screamed whenever held or written on. He gathered the papers into a neat pile and sighed.

It was this, or work at the DMV.

Aman simply flipped through the glowing documents, grimacing as he read yet another complaint about the death toll of a recent natural disaster he signed off on, 102 dead, 267 injured, 328 still missing. Apparently he had killed off some people favoured by a god or two. Honest mistake, really, people died all the time. It just so happened that it was sometimes his job to facilitate it.

The report was horribly written and filed, he’d have to do it all over again. In triplicate no less. From his desk, he produced a seal; which ,by all measures, was perfectly ordinary. Its handle was wood, its body was metal and if you put it to your ear, elevator music played. The seal’s muzak was “Girl from Ipanema” — Aman’s least favorite. He tolerates it. Don’t mention the fact that his feet tap along to the tune. Seriously, don’t mention it.

Serial numbers on the body of the seal, invisible to the naked eye, began to glow like glyphs. The cocktail of smells and sounds emanating from them suddenly halted, as if someone turned off a tap, but the faint glow remained, they could be silenced, but not restrained. Aman suddenly noticed the smell of burnt toast in the air. It wasn’t there before, Aman didn’t like that, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps someone burnt some bread in the breakroom that day. Forget that it’s been hours since anyone but Aman has been in the office. Some things are best not thought about.

Aman settled back down in his cubicle, setting his focus on the papers before him. Tonight would be a long night.

Various applications and forms writhed on his table. The vast majority of them are from The Liminal, with various requests. They’re technically the god of thresholds and journeys, but to Aman, they’re the god of wasted hours of his day and red ink. The headliners of this round are a petition to change all “Taco Tuesdays” to “Nacho Nudesdays”, some sort of affidavit written entirely in poetry, seemingly attesting to how “Everyone thinks The Liminal is the best”, written in crayons. Each piece of paper is promptly stamped DENIED, then shredded for various reasons, be it breaking Ordinance 12C or The Standardisation Act of 1988, and clear forgery of signatures. However much Aman wished he could skip reading each ridiculous piece of paper, he couldn’t. Procedure was procedure; it’s better to be safe.

In conjunction with those requests, more routine paperwork fills the table. Ledgers on crop rotations, human sacrifices, another permit application to buy and sell souls, a few documents detailing recent profits and tax returns of faustian bargains and a zoning permit for “Liminal Alleyway #621”. A small consolation for Aman was that his other clientele at least respected his time and didn’t file frivolous documents for the heck of it. That didn’t help much since the little they did file was usually all wrong. Gods are invariably poor administrative staff. If a god ever comes in for a job interview at your place of work, remember that only managerial positions shall suffice.

Stamp. A hundred lives, gone, just like that.

Stamp.The moment the wax seal left the page, halfway across the world, a butterfly’s wings began brewing a storm.

Shred. An idea is laid to rest, it shall never touch mortal minds for at least a century.

Stamp. The head of a nameless, ruthless king falls, another takes his place.

Shred. A story finds its full stop, the warp and weft of fate itself is cut.

File. The past is set, not in stone, but in a binder so thick it might as well have been made of stone. It is not impossible to change history, but carving new stones would be an easier feat.

As midnight bleeds into the cubicle, Aman stamps the final form. The office sighs, the hum settling into false calm. Even the seal seemed tired and silent. Aman felt the air grow thicker, like the office itself was exhaling its own breath. The fluorescent lights flickered again, casting shadows that seemed to stretch toward him.

Somewhere, a door creaked open. The Liminal’s laughter echoed down a hallway that shouldn’t have existed. The smell of burning copper filled the air. Aman blinked, only to find a piece of mocking poetry on his desk. He has long since learned that, like all bullies, all The Liminal wants is a rise out of him. One they will never get.

Aman doesn’t look up to see where it came from. He sighs, knowing he will have to patch it up and file new paperwork for the permits and structure of the building to make up for the sudden addition. Whatever the case, it would be more work.

“Friday,” he mutters, as he sipped his coffee from his mug. It is emblazoned with “World’s Okayest Apostle”, a gift from The Liminal to infuriate him. On the contrary, Aman actually quite liked the gift, to the eternal frustration of the trickster god.

With the main portion of his work complete, Aman moved on to his field work. Well, field, but mainly just the office. By this point, his neat shirt is crumpled and stained with dread and his tie is beyond recognition. Constantly being around divine documents has caused some incidents around the office and Aman’s job description includes dealing with them.

During the day, a shredder had started spitting confetti that read “HELP ME” in dead languages. It was probably where that intern ended up after being sucked into the printer’s shadow… not that anyone but Aman noticed. He discreetly put an “Out of Order” sign in the morning and he began the dirty work in the night.

Aman opened the hood of the shredder, finding a mangled and grotesque abomination of meat and machine. Eyes, teeth and orifices where only gears and metal should have been. It was like mold growing in clumps. If the mold was fleshy, pink and stared at him. He methodically disentangled tendons from toner cartridges, humming along to the elevator muzak. The hybrid machine growled at Aman’s touch. He had found it best to treat machine-merged occurrences like wild animals, unpredictable and dangerous. The insides were warm and wet in a way that made even the strongest stomachs churn at the sight. Aman rolled back his sleeves—a motion perfected over 37 identical incidents—and began plucking teeth from the paper tray. The shredder gurgled gratitude. Or indigestion.

This was the third time this month and cleaning out the fluids from his shirt didn't appeal to Aman. It also stank to high hell and his coworkers had avoided him like the plague for a few days after each incident. For the best, really, there was a non-zero chance it was the actual plague. Aman managed to separate the intern from the machine and get his parts back in order, the exact details of which are best left vague, for the benefit of whatever meals you shall or are having and saving the cost of ink in printing such disgusting things.

The intern stepped out of the office, muttering apologies for staying back so late. He was met with Aman’s signature apathy. Aman didn’t have time to chit-chat. He does however accompany them outside, to keep them out of trouble he’d say. Though, there was some office gossip that Aman was warmer than his words, action or demeanor let on. Besides, his coffee had turned into an unidentifiable black sludge. It was both something he would have to deal with and a personal peeve that his holy nectar was tampered with.

He would also need to staple The Liminal’s new hallway shut and check the wiring. It tended to become frayed and burned whenever a god popped by. It might cause another circuit breaker to trip. Aman had gotten a lot of flak for that the last time. Don’t forget to do that.

It should have been an ordinary night. It was an ordinary night. Except for a dime-sized visitor, a little glass butterfly. They often visited Aman, in that regard its appearance was normal. Aman always preferred they come after-hours anyways, as they had the tendency to erase the existence of mortals that saw them. They were just another complaint waiting to happen, in short, yet more work. However, in that moment, it looked rather beautiful in the moonlight, silicon wings refracting the little light that streamed in into infinite colours. Aman quickly rid himself of the thought, after all, he remembers colleagues who never existed. He billed the god a hefty fine for each of them. No, the unordinary thing was the message it had. Not a direct message from the hidden god as usual, but a recording. The beautiful butterfly’s wings reflected Aman’s face—fractured, flickering, older than it should be. “Anomaly. Sector 12. Tick-tock.”

Aman, he who is strangely mundane

Over the taxes he holds his reign

Forms upon forms

I wish they were torn

And he were the one who got stamped “LAME”

-NOT The Liminal

If it isn’t clear by this point, Aman is a bureaucrat through and through. Though, if you ever give him directions, for the love of paperwork, please just tell him the street name and not the bureaucratic sector. Aman had been sent on assignment after assignment with nothing but the sector codes a number of times and they were all nightmares. While infinitely useful when discussing title deeds and city planning, the codes are little help to a man on the streets. Unlike street names, sector codes don’t happen to be pasted on each signpost. Aman could put the codes on the street signs but it would be impractical for anyone but him and would cost the city a small fortune. He doesn’t let himself imagine what the treasurer would do to him if he ever tried to pull such a stunt. Nowadays, Aman keeps a pocket directory in his coat pocket at all times. Sector 12, if anyone was wondering, was a rather small and unremarkable town. It was the kind of place where everyone knew everybody and neighbours were like family.

It was going to be a massive pain in the ███.

As wonderful as the town might sound, Aman had found through his experience that the closer-knit the community, the less kindly they take to strangers. That is to say, Aman’s nosey little excursion was unlikely to be received with a smile. Especially since Aman just couldn’t help but give everyone write-ups for their city code infractions. In the few minutes he’d been in the town, he’d already spotted, noted and filed at least 4 violations. Outdoor barbeques improperly maintained, hydrangeas too tall, and most egregious of all, trash lids not properly closed. Think of all the pests that would attract!

The residents he wrote up didn’t share his civic-mindedness, though they did share a few choice words for him. He’d take intern-fused machinery over this any day. He did, however, still have a job to do, and the glass butterflies were not to be taken lightly. If that god decided it pertinent to send Aman here, there had to be a good reason why.

Cittadina Soleggiata, a sufficiently charming name for the quaint town, written in stylised calligraphy on the sign at what Aman thought was the town square. He wondered if the residents knew it meant “sunny town” in Italian. Whatever the case, it certainly lived up to its name. The sweltering rays of the sun speared the bureaucrat, drenching him in sweat. Despite this, the locals seemed comfortable enough. Aman was like a fish out of water, stumbling around aimlessly looking for the anomaly.

Whatever it was, it seemed to also avoid busier areas. Aman mumbled a small gratitude to whatever reality-warping rift or other for that small mercy. He was just about to leave the cafes and confectionery stores behind when he caught a whiff of a familiar scent in the air. Burnt toast.

Something in Aman stirred at the smell. Something disturbing. In his line of work, his physical senses proved shockingly important. The scent of copper burning indicated the presence of divinity, the scent of ozone alerted him to dangers not of this world, the scent of coffee followed him wherever he went. He had become a bloodhound for the strange and unusual, quite literally, he realised.

Despite all his years of employment, burnt toast was new. Aman didn’t like that. Yet, he followed it. Followed it to the doors of a coffee shop.

Until he got distracted by a lady feeding her dog a red velvet cupcake. That was animal abuse under the Nature and Conservation Act of 1908 and he was not eager to do the paperwork for that. The lady also had a disgusting cup of coffee abomination in her hand. Aman only took his black and that was about the only strong opinion he had. In short, this lady was screwed.

“Miss, chocolate is poisonous to dogs, please stop it.” Aman stated, in printer tone. He must have said it sharply because the woman in heels took offence.

“Excuse me?” she spoke, voice shrill, “are you mansplaining me?”

“No miss, I’m just doing my job.”

“What is it? Being a busybody?” If Aman had an ounce of human nature in him, he would have felt smug about what he was going to say. Unfortunately, he doesn’t so he says matter-of-factly, “In a way.”

“I’m Aman █████ █████from the central bureau, I am holding this animal in custody until protective services arrive and am charging you with animal abuse.” The dog eagerly came into his arms. From an unseen pocket Aman produced a slip of paper, freshly printed; still warm, and handed to the lady. “See you in court.”

“Wha? You can’t do this! I didn’t even catch your name!”

“I can, miss. It is my job.” Just as Aman finished the sentence, two officers appeared out of thin air and pried the dog away from Aman. It really liked his smell. They promptly disappear, leaving the lady stammering at Aman, who had already diverted his attention to a different matter. By the time he was done writing the incident report about the woman, who didn’t go down without a fight, the scent was gone. ██████.

Aman resolved to continue his investigations elsewhere. Perhaps the sun was getting to him, the heat producing mirages and phantom senses. He really shouldn’t get distracted like this. In fact, he hadn’t ever been distracted for all the centuries he’d been Normalcy’s Apostle. He couldn’t age, so it wasn’t that. He couldn’t tire, regardless of how tired he always felt. It must have been the sun.

Searching for shade in the “sunny town” was just as difficult as it sounds. Did these people forget the invention of umbrellas, or shelters? If he knew that it was technically the colder season, Aman might have counted his blessings. He eventually wandered his way to the “historic” part of town, even if it was mainly the shade that attracted him. The buildings there were clad in tasteful art deco, in contrast to the red brick that the rest of the town seemed insistent on. Aman would’ve thought it tasteful too, had he not noticed that they were merely pasted onto the buildings. It seemed that this was the tourist trap of the town, sheltered for the benefit of non-locals. Aman missed the days when forgeries were not nearly so blatant, and rarer of course. Aman had, however, also heard that old axiom about judging books and covers so he decided to take a small detour new perspective in his inquisition and entered a store. You wouldn’t guess from looking at Aman by looking at him, in fact there was nothing you could guess about Aman, that he was a history buff. His work had actually acquainted him with the fine art of discerning genuine antiques, and to his great disappointment, there was not a single authentic piece there. It was a small matter, there were so many stores on the street, it was a statistical impossibility for all the shops to be charlatans.

To Aman’s even greater disappointment, there was not a single article of true worth, even more so because he was going to have to do so much paperwork to make sure the stores disclosed their lack of authenticity properly in the future. He was starting to think they didn’t value Section 16 of Business Practices and Procedure or perhaps had never even read Business Codes and Ethics Vol. 3. It really was a classic. You ought to read it.

By the time Aman had finished combing the stores, it was already dark out. It must have been fifteen hours or so. Aman never had a good sense of time, being immortal and almost always in windowless office spaces, but that was unusual — even for him.

Whatever the case, at the very least, the stores were prosperous. For so many stores to be competing in such a niche industry, it seemed like Cittadina Soleggiata had marketed itself quite well. Perhaps that was why the locals were more welcoming than he’d expected, being a tourist town. By no means welcoming, but not unamiable. Until Aman started writing them up that is. One shop, however, caught his eye. The one closed shop, seemingly abandoned. He stalked it, however one might stalk an unmoving building lot. Aman trusted his senses, honed after centuries of work like this. There was something… off about it. Then, he caught a telltale whiff of ozone and a single, spying glass butterfly. There.

Aman pulled out his seal, its muzak louder than it had been in a long time, excited by the prospect of drama. The illusion over the lot burned at the seal’s touch, divine authority melting away its lies. Suddenly, Aman’s heart fell like a brick. Taunting words glared at him, and he could just hear that woman’s voice. The Midnight Emporium. Aman never liked the name. It never had anything to do with Midnight. That, and the fact that it was just as much a contributor to his paperwork pile as The Liminal was. Aman spied through the store’s window, noting the sudden and suspicious disappearance of his fellow voyeur.

████.

Aman’s thoughts were wiped as he witnessed thatwoman pushing a civilian into a gaping hole in the store. He was not going to do the paperwork for that. She also hadn’t filed the proper permits for this new location and she wasn’t permitted to do such deals here either. Aman strolled in, seal thrumming hot in his hand, and said

“Cease and desist at once. You are in violation of this city’s zoning laws.”

That woman had the gall to look offended.

Liam

toast

Approximately sixteen hours before Liam nearly got erased from reality, he was working in a coffee shop ina sunny town, thinking of his grandmother.

The earthy scent of roasting beans always reminded him of his grandmother’s signature coffee — the only way she’d ever take it. Two cubes of sugar, one and a half packs of creamer, stirred clockwise for exactly two minutes. His grandmother would say, “Coffee keeps the dark at bay.” Back then, it would have been considered a ludicrously complicated order, that’s why his grandmother always had to make it at home. Nowadays… not so much.

“Do you have a double-spiced macchiato with extra ice, two pumps of cream, half part almond milk, half part soy milk, actually cut the cream, I’m on a diet, just add a dollop and… are you listening?”

Liam was definitely not listening.

“Yes, of course, double spiced macchiato, extra ice, soy and almond milk half and half, right?”

For a moment the lady looked stunned before her brows furrowed again; “You forgot the dollop of cream!”

“Yes, of course,” Liam said curtly. Listening-but-not-paying-attention was a skill he learnt in high school and perfected in his retail job. “Will that be all?”

“I wasn’t done. Get me one of those red velvet muffins too.”

“I thought you said you were on a diet?”

“It’s not for me, you idiot, it’s for my dog.” Liam paused for a moment and wondered if the woman knew that chocolate was toxic to dogs, or that red velvet contained cocoa powder. He decided she probably knew neither facts. While he did feel bad for the poor dog, there was little use arguing with people like her. Some things are best learnt through… personal experience. He rang up the lady and thought about his penance for indirectly causing the suffering of a poor dog. He decided he’d go down to the animal shelter after his shift and donate a little, after he caught himself in the moment. An uncharacteristically cold thought, though the colder season was approaching, and the winds tended to carry cruelty to town with them, or so his grandmother often said. Liam shivered.

His coworker, and only friend, Myra, cast him an emphatic glance before returning to her own work. Liam had a crush on her since he started working at the cafe. Although, if you asked him about it, he’d vehemently deny anything of the sort. What a virginF. Regardless, she was a small breath of air in the otherwise suffocating workplace. He caught himself staring into empty space and returned to work, shaking off the angry gaze of the woman still at his counter.

He quickly handed the lady her abomination. “Would you like a receipt with that?” Liam asked, smiling as superficially as he could. The lady simply walked away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the lady take a sip of her coffee and make a face of absolute disgust. She eyed him suspiciously, probably wondering if he’d sabotaged her order somehow as payback. He didn’t, but Liam liked the scowl on her face. He thought his grandmother would too.

As Liam watched the wretched woman leave, he saw her get into some sort of confrontation with a tired-looking man outside.

Karma is a █████, isn’t she?

“Karma’s a bitch isn’t she?” Liam turned back to the source of the voice, wondering if he had accidentally said his thoughts aloud, only to catch Myra glancing smugly over his shoulder. He stifled a laugh and continued to serve other, impatient customers. Don’t tell Liam’s boss but his productivity had dropped significantly after realising his unfortunate infatuation. The total losses tallied to about three and a half hours of time spent dreamily staring at Myra, around fifty-eight dollars and eighty cents of goods since Andrew tended to be more generous when in a good mood, one overfilled cup while dreamily staring at Myra and two smashed cups valued at ten whole dollars while, you guessed it, dreamily staring at Myra. What a creep.

While Liam’s boss didn’t pay them to mete out social justice, that never stopped Liam before. What was he gonna do? Fire him? Not in a town as small as this, they were already short staffed. Besides, no one else in town was desperate enough to work their hours for the peanuts he paid them. It was mutually parasitic beneficial.

“Hey, Mari, I’ll be clocking out now.” Liam said, hanging up his apron.

“Yeah, no problem. Actually, scratch that, the next 3 hours are gonna be hell alone.”

“Hey! Don't say that,” Liam smiled, “you’ll have all the customers for company!” His patronising words were met with a well deserved jab to his gut.

Liam always walked the same path home every day. Round the corner, cross the street and up to his apartment. It was always a blessing to live so close to his place of work, his rent definitely reflected that. The short walk back was surrounded by shops selling oddities and curios; it was that kind of neighbourhood. Liam always did like them, and the owners liked him, he always got a good deal on knick knacks and second-hand furniture. One of the shops on the street closed a few weeks ago, owned by a Mr Selfford, closed the shop due to his old age, and that it was apparently leaking money like a sieve. It had been big news, at least in town, nothing of interest ever seemed to happen here. The locals liked it that way.

Liam always had liked Mr Selfford and felt his heart sink when he first saw the empty husk of the abandoned store. Compared to all the newer ones, it possessed an old-timey charm that Liam had a soft spot for. It was strange. Mr Selfford’s shop always had good business. He really wouldn’t have expected imminent closure.

I wonder how Mr Selfford's doing now, I haven’t seen him in a while…

However, today, there was a new antique store in its place. Midnight Emporium, a rather tacky name for Liam’s tastes, but it was par for the course for the type of establishment that littered the street. It smelled faintly of ozone. His grandmother had always hated the smell of ozone, always brewing ever more coffee to cover up the smell.

Well, it could wait. He had his penance to attend first.

Turning his heels, he faced down the street, but he couldn’t help looking back at the store. He found his feet felt just a little heavier as he tried to walk away, becoming lighter again when he was finally some distance away from the store… wait.

The store was there again. Midnight Emporium, in gothic letters, emblazoned with stars that seemed to have been ripped straight from the night sky itself. On closer inspection, there were other things written in a language foreign to him. Despite himself, his brain supplied “The World’s Okayest Apostle” for some reason. His grandmother’s voice whispered: “Coffee keeps the dark at bay.”

Liam wondered if he’d somehow walked in one great big circle. Whatever. He walked down the familiar path again, round the corner, cross the street and straight back to… the Midnight Emporium. That seemed off. Again, Liam walked down the streets he knew like the back of his hand. For a single second, Liam wondered if it were the shop, reeling him in. An angler, fishing for its next meal. It felt hungry. Hungry for not just for profit, but for him, the sidewalk, for everything. It seemed to avoid the moldy tuna sandwich in his bag, however. He really should get around to removing it. The thought was very quickly put down, he probably just subconsciously wanted to go in. He also thought he saw a very nice lamp that would look great in his living room, for an absolute steal as well. Penance could wait.

Just as his hand reached for the door, Liam could have sworn heard a growl. Was it his guilt for abandoning his holy mission of redemption? He chose not to think about how deep it had been, how no animal could have possibly made a sound so hollow.

Cling—the door chimed.

Liam’s senses were immediately assaulted by a barrage of sights and smells. While the window displays were not particularly remarkable, minus the lamp, the shop’s insides were filled with piles of stuff. There were teacups and lamp shades and rolls of duct tape, piles of someone’s tax returns and animal skulls and objects he couldn’t pick out from the mess — it all blurred into one great congealed mess. The ceilings of the shop seemed to stretch higher than Mr Selfford's old store. Yet all the excess space was swallowed up by what would’ve been an impressive collection of things, had it all not been so disturbing. The smell was the worst of all, the entire establishment stank of ozone and mold. Liam finally realised why his grandmother had hated the smell, it gave him vertigo, like he was high up in the air, like he was falling. Liam stumbled, trying to find his balance and trying to hold his breath.

He would get the lamp. He would get the lamp. Then he would get out. That was the plan.

The plan, however, did not account for him getting lost in the store. Liam knew the dimensions of Mr Selfford's shop well, ten metres across, twenty metres in, three rooms, one bathroom, two leaky pipes, one key rack, and twenty seven patches in the carpet. He knew this because he was accidentally locked in once and had nothing else to do to pass the time until Mr Selfford came back from lunch. This was not Mr Selfford's shop. It was labyrinthine and far more massive than it should’ve been, than it could’ve been. But no, the store just went on, and on, and on. It felt like a crypt, eerily silent and filled to the brim with uncomfortable things.

Liam looked out the window. The world outside stood still. The window to the outside seemed to stretch forever and regardless of how fast Liam tried to run, trying to escape this singular trapped moment, the scene outside refused to move, like every mile in here was just an inch out there. He could’ve left, but the lamp, that lamp, he wanted it. No, he needed it. He couldn’t turn back. He couldn’t. It would look so beautiful next to his oak bookshelf, or maybe next to his bed or maybe right in front of his window and become the envy of the neighbourhood. What a waste, for it to be rotting in this nowhere shop, or with some other nobody.

The hallway only seemed to get longer, as if space inside the shop had been stretched thin, like the hard candies his grandmother used to… just as the memory popped into his head, it seemed reality snapped back, one big rubber band smacking him in the face. The lamp was right there, in front of him. Liam fell to the floor but scrambled back up.

Liam always fancied himself to have an appraiser’s eye. He had spent many afternoons on his days off in these antique shops. He prided himself on spotting a hidden gem among the clutter. It was a talent honed over countless weekend afternoons spent wandering through dusty aisles. Even an amateur could’ve discerned the lamp was worth far more than its listed price. He gently inspected the fine cloth, the mahogany stand and fell into his thoughts.

Twenty-five pounds? Are you kidding me? That beauty is worth at least two hundred and fifty! Look at those Victorian frills, the rich ultramarine pigment, true, blue Dhaka muslin fabric. And the details, the carvings on the stand.

His grandmother would’ve hated for him to have such pompous thoughts. Thankfully, she wasn’t present. Liam leaned on a nearby wall, trying to breathe deeply and slow his racing heart. It wasn’t like him to get so… riled up. Liam could just imagine it, his grandmother, scolding him. He didn’t hear it, but the shop started to creak louder, something deep inside stirred.

“Hello sir! It seems my lamp has attracted your interest,” teased a voice from behind him, sending a jolt down Liam’s spine, “might I be of any assistance?”

“Oh, I didn't mean to startle you darling. Please, do take a closer look. Don’t let my presence make you uncomfortable.” Liam spun back to be greeted by a woman with unwieldy hair. Her Victorian-esque gown rustled with her steps, her face veiled, leaving her only visible feature a knowing smile. Her hair was large and shiny with a few dyed white streaks, Liam almost wanted to ask what brand of conditioner she used. On her wrist hung a chain, like half of a handcuff, a strange fashion piece that Liam thought looked too tight to be comfortable. Liam thought she would fit in better in some edgy teenage clothing store. On the breast of her gown, a nametag hung on for dear life. It read “June”.

Ofcourse, the owner had to appear now, and of course, she would look like that.

“I… was just looking around. I guess the lamp really caught my eye…uh, June.” Liam offered a sheepish smile, scratching his head. The lady, June, did not reply for a few seconds, just long enough for an awkward void to settle in Liam’s bones. Just as he was going to open his mouth to excuse himself, she beat him to it.

“Please, touch it. I insist. You were staring at it so much just now, you might as well have.” said Lady June, voice as sweet as honey even when making sharp comments. Liam felt himself blush but couldn't bring himself to say no. A jolt surged through him as his fingers brushed the divine cloth—not pain, but the hum of a living thing, the inhalation and expiration of breath. The shop’s whispers stuttered. For a heartbeat, the walls solidified, the impossible void above receding into a popcorn ceiling stained with water damage. The strange bangle-chain around June’s wrist visibly relaxed, not that Liam noticed. He pulled his hand back quickly, pulling the void and the chain back with it.

Liam panicked. His breath hitched. His eyes darted in every direction. What else was he supposed to do? How else could he have reacted? His world had been shattered countless times today; the new store, the endless hall and finally, the lamp. The scent of burning toast filled the air. Elevator music drowned out the beating of his heart, the racing of his mind. The walls bled. Crimson ichor poured from the damp spots in the ceilings. The whole store shuddered. The chain around June’s hand glowed red hot. It squeezed her wrist so tightly her hand turned a shade of corpse white. The lamp’s frills floated like tentacles, wrapping around his limbs and torso. At that moment, Liam heard a voice.

79°C, two sugar cubes, stir clockwise—

The memory clamped onto the chaos, ironing it flat. The lamp’s frills dulled to mundane floral patterns; the chain around June’s wrist slackened. The shop breathed a sigh of relief.

“An excellent choice, sir. Now will you be paying upfront or through installments?” For a few seconds, all that could be heard was the chirping of birds outside and the heavy breathing.

“No, no, no! What was that, all of that! I… tell me what the hell just happened!”

“Calm down, sir. Now, sign here and here, initials here and the lamp is yours!” June smiled brightly, “I’ll give it to you thirty percent off, terms and conditions apply, of course.”

“What? No, I don’t want the shitty lamp, I want to know what just happened! Stop fucking with me!”

“Language, boy.” June’s face immediately turned sour, “I’ll accept the mess as a side effect of your eagerness but I won’t take disrespect.” June spat. “Now sign.”

Liam knew he should've felt afraid, but all he felt was anger. It simmered and sizzled and the smell of burning toast and printer tone filled the air again.

“No.”

June’s head twitched. She smiled. Her chained hand moved up against her forehead and she started to laugh. “I’m trying to grant you a mercy here. Believe me, you’re worth more to the shop dead than alive.”

“Pass! I’m not selling my soul or whatever else it is you want from me!” Trying to get away, he scrambled for the exit but it was as if he was running through water, thick and heavy.

“You stubbornlittle…” June cursed, “Pass? Darling, the shop already tasted your ambition. You bought the, as you called it, shitty lamp the moment you stepped in and touched it. Do you know what happened to the last person to owe me a debt and default?” June tapped her heeled foot against the floorboards, “Poor old Mr Selfford. I assure you, you’d much rather die.”

“You… you… freak! You monster!” Liam fell to the floor after an unexpected quake shook the shop floor. June didn’t so much as flinch.

“Ouch, you’re really hurting my feelings here.” said Lady June, Liam crawled backwards whilst facing the good lady. His hand reached backwards towards the door, only to find a fleshy, tooth lined pit had opened from the wood floor behind him. He felt his thumping heart drop as he fell into the hole of cash registers. Mr Selfford’s scream echoed in the pit. Liam’s own soon joined the cacophany.

As he fell, he realised June, whatever she was, was what his grandmother had warned him about. The cruel thing that cold winds brought to town. Liam closed his eyes and braced for the worst. This was not how he imagined he would die. He didn’t want to die. He wished Myra well and hoped she would not come here. Mr Selfford was already dead, or worse. Liam did not have anyone else to wish well for.

Then, a strange thing happened.

A hand held tightly to his own, pulling him with supernatural strength. In a voice that sounded almost sympathetic, almost earnest, June whispered, “Sign, and you get the lamp. Refuse, and it’ll take more. Last. Chance.” The chain around her wrist crackled. “I have need of you yet.”

There, cast into the bronze metal, glowing an unworldly white; Chiaty’s Law, coffee keeps the dark at bay.

Then, that man walked in, the one arguing with that woman from earlier, holding a wax seal like it meant something. He looked bored, or maybe tired. And he reeked of coffee.

Liam could not help but feel as if he had ruined a moment.

Transcript of recording- 105 GLBUTTERFLY-JN-1107██-23:31

Mr. Selfford: (voice cracking, clawing at the chains)“Please, June—Lady June—I’ll give you the deeds to the shop, the inventory, the—the money, all the money! Just… just don’t take the rest of me. My daughter, she’s only six, she needs—!”

Lady June: (leafing through a ledger, her quill scratching in the details of forfeiture)

“Ah, Mr. Selfford. ‘Deeds,’ ‘inventory,’ ‘money.’ How… quaint.”

(She snaps her fingers. The chains tighten, hissing as they burrow into his wrists. Blood pools, spelling DEFAULT in cursive.)

“You pledged twenty years of service. Not nineteen. Not nineteen and a half. Twenty. And yet here you are, begging to renegotiate… after squandering my generosity.”

Mr. Selfford: (sobbing, a tooth clattering to the floor as his body decays)“I didn’t know—! The shop, it’s alive, it’s hungry—! I tried to feed it, I swear! I gave it the beggar from the alley, the taxman, the—!”

Lady June: (plucking his fallen tooth, examining it like a flawed gem)“You fed it scraps. Scraps. And now it hungers for… you. I’m inclined to let it have its fill. It’s earned it. You’ve earned it. A first for you, isn’t it?”

(She drops the tooth into a jar labeled PETTY CASH. It screams.)

“A deal’s a deal, Mr. Selfford. You wanted prosperity. I delivered. Those ‘customers’ you miss so dearly? They paid triple for the privilege of being devoured. Triple.”

Mr. Selfford: (collapsing, his remaining eye weeping black ichor)“I’ll do anything! Anything! Take my voice, my hands—!”

Lady June: (leaning forward, her veil parting to reveal a smile like a slit throat)

Lady June: “But I already have. Clause 7b: ‘In the event of default, the undersigned’s corporeal and incorporeal assets shall be forfeit’. It’s not even small print.”

(She taps the ledger. The floorboards splinter, revealing the Maw’s gullet—a kaleidoscope of teeth and cash registers.)

“Don’t fret. Your daughter will inherit the shop. Till then, I’ll hold it in trust. I’m sure she’ll make a lovely heir. Until her first… miscalculation. Or perhaps she’ll do better than her dear old papa. We can certainly hope.”

Mr. Selfford: (screaming as the chains drag him toward the void)“MONSTER! YOU’RE A MONSTER!”

Lady June: (Waving as he’s consumed, her Chain clinking like coins. Crunching can be heard in the background.)

“Monster? No, Mr. Selfford. It’s just good business.”

To be continued...

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