Showing up the next day was all it took for regret to set in.

  Goblins.

  Everywhere.

  Crawling across shelves, swinging from chandeliers, licking objects to determine how magical they were.

  A few were arguing loudly about whether a three-legged chair qualified as “inventory” or “art.”

  Aisle Two’s cloaks were whispering in the corners like mean girls at a school dance.

  One even snickered when I walked by. I don’t know how, but I felt judged.

  Maybe I would clean Aisle Two extra good one of these days and let the store handle them.

  “This place is rubbing off on me,” I mumbled.

  Aisle Three let out a creak as I passed—like it had a secret it was desperate to tell... or someone had died just so it could.

  I really didn’t want to know.

  I think it was supposed to be a welcoming creak.

  It was still ominous.

  To make matters worse, the entire store was humming. A deep, low thrum.

  Like an agitated beehive.

  Lights flickered. Shelves… shifted slightly when I wasn’t looking directly at them.

  Wonderful.

  The store was cranky.

  At least it was happy to see me.

  I hope.

  And in the middle of it all was Vaarg. Clipboard in hand. Eyes sharp. Barking orders with the ease of a practiced politician.

  Every few seconds he’d whack a goblin trying to pocket something - without looking up from his clipboard.

  Maybe it was like a magic mirror?

  “You don’t inventory things into your pocket, you little grub,” he grabbed a goblin and turned it upside down.

  The goblin hissed back at him, a singing teapot falling out of his pocket.

  Vaarg slapped it out of his hands with the clipboard.

  “That is a class three cursed item, not a gift for your mother,” he huffed.

  He looked up, spotted me, and stomped over.

  “You,” he pointed at me like I owed him money. “With her.”

  Stupid skidded to a stop next to me, breathing heavily and grinning with the manic joy of someone who should be supervised.

  She had a massive satchel strapped to her side, labeled in what I think was ketchup:

  “Counting Things (Not Stealing).”

  It jingled ominously.

  “I’m putting you on Deep Storage,” Vaarg huffed. “Aisles Eighteen through Never-Go-There.”

  “…That’s not really a name, right?” I asked.

  He took a sip of his ever-present green goo and stared at me.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he continued, ignoring my question. “Don’t look at anything too long. Don’t smell anything.”

  I winced.

  “I feel very unauthorized,” I muttered.

  “Yay! Dangerous place!” Stupid bounced on her heels.

  We made our way toward the back of the store, passing signs like:

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Do not Enter

  and

  If You are Reading This, Turn Back

  We even saw one sign labeled.

  Authorized Staff Only. (Not You Beeg)

  Like. Really?

  “Do we have to go this way?” I asked.

  “Sign says no,” Stupid replied, bouncing up and down in excitement.

  “…So we’re going.”

  “Yeth!”

  I took a moment to groan before following.

  —

  Inside was worse.

  Dust coated everything like a decade-old curse.

  Shelves sagged under the weight of items that looked like they had opinions.

  There were screaming masks, cursed snow globes that showed cities on fire, and one spoon that barred tiny, jagged teeth at me when I got too close.

  “Who organizes this?” I whispered.

  “Is organized!” Stupid beamed. “Alphabetical! A is for ‘Aaaaah!’”

  “Perfect.”

  “No!” She giggled. “P is for Possessed!”

  I blinked.

  Then I saw it.

  Near the far end of the room, nestled in a locked glass box with six padlocks—five open, one broken—sat a glowing, rune-etched orb. A single, laminated card was taped to the front:

  DO NOT TOUCH.

  “Touchy ball!” Stupid gasped.

  “No.” I backed up. “No, we are not touching the cursed orb.”

  But it was too late.

  Stupid was already windmilling down the aisle towards the orb.

  I watched with a mixture of abject horror and terrified fascination as she stopped before it, the green light washing over her.

  “Stupid…stop,” I whispered.

  She turned to look at me.

  While reaching out to poke it.

  The light went out.

  Then it felt like I was being pulled inward.

  Stupid shrieked happily.

  The orb pulsed.

  Then gravity flipped.

  I hit the ceiling.

  Hard.

  I didn’t even have time to flip around. Just catapulted up and smashed my head on one of the boards.

  I looked up through watering eyes—just in time to see Stupid float by like a happy balloon.

  Everything in the room hovered for a second. A mask screamed again—gleefully, this time.

  Then gravity snapped back.

  I landed face-first in a barrel labeled “CAUTION: Vengeful Pickles.”

  Vaarg stormed in just as I pried myself out.

  He saw me. Saw the orb.

  He didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed.

  Then:

  “You absolute gelatinous sack of why.”

  He looked torn between throwing the clipboard at me - and his worry at the prospect of having to pick it up again.

  “When I send you with Stupid, it is to watch her,” he barked.

  “So, get to watching.”

  He turned around and stormed off.

  This was so completely unfair.

  A moment later, It poked his head through the door, looked at the room, then looked at me.

  “Touched it, didn’t you?”

  I opened my mouth.

  He raised a finger. “Don’t.”

  Then he turned and walked out, muttering, “New guy always touches something.”

  Stupid happily followed.

  “But…I didn’t -“

  Then, I was left alone.

  With the screaming masks.

  The spoon.

  And a mop I hadn’t noticed before.

  I sighed and grabbed it.

  “I’m going to die in this store,” I muttered. “And they’re going to list it as inventory shrinkage.”

  —-

  I stood there, breathing in the smell of pickles—vengeful ones, apparently. The mop was still in my hand, and the store was once again eerily quiet, as if it was waiting for the next thing to go horribly wrong.

  I glanced around at the mess—the floating items, the masks that would never stop screaming, the spoon that still bared its jagged teeth like it was daring me to make eye contact.

  And then I realized something.

  I hadn’t actually died.

  In fact, I hadn’t even been seriously cursed.

  Yet.

  And if I was being honest, that felt like a weird kind of victory.

  “Maybe I’m not as bad at this job as I thought,” I muttered to the empty room.

  There was a thud as something—likely a cursed broom—fell over in the corner.

  I sighed.

  “I‘ll just dust the shelves today. The store will like that.”

  The mop waggled in my hand approvingly.

  “Of course you’re cursed,” I sighed.

  Then the mop exploded into a cloud of black.