The little chime above the door sounded with a gentle, pleasant sound, the kind that should have accompanied the arrival of collectors, wanderers, or bored locals. But the shopkeeper, reclining behind the counter, already knew these new visitors were nothing of the sort.


    He’d felt it—a disturbance in the quiet hum of his shop. He did not look up, merely licked his finger and turned another page of the book he was pretending to read. His other hand casually adjusted the silk shawl around his neck, a habit he’d never managed to shake in a thousand years.


    Four men entered, and with them, the acrid scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne. Leather jackets, heavy boots. The type of men who believed the weight of their steps would be enough to make people cower—the type who had never learned to be afraid of the right things.


    The tallest of them, broad-shouldered and rather sleek, stepped forward. His gaze swept the shop, analyzing the cluttered shelves, and the strange assortment of anything and everything. He did not seem impressed.


    Ullie, annoyed with their mere presence, shut the book with a loud snap, slowly lifting his gaze to meet theirs. After a few seconds, he got up, cracked his fingers, and welcomed the unwanted customers. “Hello,” he sounded. “Welcome to Little Vrevramil’s Antique Shop. What can this humble purveyor of the past do for you gentlemen? Are you buying, selling, or just browsing? We’ve got some great prices for you if-"


    “No,” the boss-apparent croaked, as the floorboards creaked under his feet. “We don’t need the crap you’re peddling,” he added, in an even less intelligible tone.


    “Oh, so what do you need, then?” Ullie asked playfully, as he slid past them and approached the front door. “I could still recommend certain items that would pique your interest. Most people come here not knowing what they-”


    “We know it’s here,” the man insisted, his voice rough, impatient.


    The shopkeeper sighed, stopping mid-step. No one noticed when the key turned in the lock and the letters on the front door sign changed. Without looking back, he muttered, “I hope you’re not referring to my signed first edition of ‘A Treatise on Arcane Malevolence’, because that one is mine, and I’m quite possessive. Anyway, you’ll have to be more specific. I do stock an awful lot of items. Judging by your appearance I must ask, are you looking for something that burns, something that whispers, or something that bites?”


    "The three people that were just in here brought something with them," another of the goons scowled at him, a brute with a face like a badly carved pumpkin. "Thing is, it wasn’t theirs to give. We’d like it back."


    “Ah,” Ullie returned, stretching the word with obvious delight. “That narrows it down, doesn’t it?”


    The goons, however, did not share his amusement. The third one, a wiry man with a perpetual sneer, reached into his coat, revealing the glint of a knife. “We ain’t got time for your bad jokes.”


    “Neither do I." He too reached into the pocket of his coat and plucked a small, unassuming trinket—a tiny brass whistle, dented with age. He blew into it. There was no sound.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    The effects, however, were immediate.


    The chandelier above them flickered, casting long, restless shadows across the shop. Every artifact in the room seemed to shift, their latent magic stirring. A suit of armor in the corner turned its helmeted head with a faint creak. The temperature dropped by several degrees, and the shop seemed to thrum with some kind of an unseen force.


    The boss’s expression darkened. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”


    “A little trick. You see, I’m just waking up my wares.”


    The boss’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “Listen, freak, we don’t care about your parlor tricks. You give us the artifact, or—”


    “Or what?” Ullie interrupted cheerfully. “You’ll make more empty threats? Delightful!, but I collect those, you know. Keep them in a jar labeled ‘bad decisions.’ It’s rather full at the moment, but I can always make room.”


    The fourth goon, the quietest of the bunch, took a step back. He was no fool—he could already tell this was a losing battle. “Boss…” he muttered.


    The boss ignored him, growling like a dog, “We’re done perusing. Where is it?”


    “Boss, that thing is moving.”


    “I’m afraid I don''t know what you’re talking about," Ullie persisted, lingering beside them, but not too close.


    "Cut the crap. We know you''ve got the artifact. Hand it over, and no one gets hurt."


    “Like I said,” Ullie tilted his head. “You have to be more specific.” his smile didn''t waver, but his eyes now glinted with a mad gleam. He leaned in, feigning a conspiratorial whisper. "Unless, of course, you''re after a particularly rare chamber pot from the Helu`ant dynasty? I have one in the back."


    The goons exchanged confused glances, but their leader wasn''t so easily deterred.


    "Is that a no?" he said sourly. "I don''t think you understand the situation very well. We will take it back, and you can either give it to us willingly or..." he pulled a metal rod from the lining of his jacket and tapped on one of the glass cases closest to him, "We will equal the scales with all this junk."


    "Junk?" Ullie squealed with a raised eyebrow and a devious smirk on his face. "I beg to differ. I have an exquisite selection of cursed relics, slightly murderous but full of charm. Would you like a tour?"


    The third goon scoffed and spat. “Yeah, right.”


    "Hear that, boys? He is taking us for fools," said the second one, shaking his pumpkin head. "So how about we break you instead?"


    The boss, having lost all patience, stepped closer, just enough for Ullie to get suffocated in a toxic could of bad breath. He straightened, nodding toward the uncanny opponent. “Let’s put this clown out of his misery.”


    “Very well, if you insist on being boorish… ” Ullie tapped his chin, pretending to consider.


    “Don’t play games,” the second goon sneered.


    "Ah, but I do love games." Ullie clapped his hands together, looking over the shop. "Shall we play one?:


    The third goon, being smaller and more jittery than the others, shifted uneasily. "It''s time you shut up. Folk said you was weird. Didn’t say you was crazy."


    Ullie grinned, showing teeth. "Oh, darling, I am the very picture of sanity. It’s the world that''s mad. Now, let’s see…"


    "Cheeky one, aren’t you? Shake him up, see what falls out."


    “Yes Boss,” said the pumpkin head as he tried to grab Ullie by the scarf, but his hand fell through the illusion, catching nothing at all. "Sorcery," he screeched. "Where the hell is he?"


    "The bastard tricked us."


    The image of the shopkeeper dispersed into a fine golden dust, with a burst of lingering laughter bouncing off the walls, coming from nowhere at all.


    “Boss, that thing is moving again. It''s really moving.” the fourth good insisted, hiding himself behind the others.


    “What thing, damn you?” Following the outstretched arm of his companion, the boss observed a tall dark statue in the other corner of the shop, armed with a long, glistering sword. The metal was shiny, yet scarred in several places, well maintained, but used. “I don’t care. We need to search this place, burn it to the ground if we must, and the lunatic with it.”


    “Yes Boss,” they agreed unanimously and scattered around the room.


    “Boss, it’s coming for us.”