I ain’t the kinda guy who believes in curses, crosses, or any of that Dracula crap. I just needed rent money, and the Thirteen Bells thrift store paid cash for the graveyard shift. “Easy gig,” the manager said, shoving a name-tag at me that already had someone else’s picture. “Just don’t fall asleep. The inventory walks off by itself.” We both laughed, but his eyes didn’t.
First night smelled like mothballs and wet dog. I stacked broken toasters, priced grandma paintings, and tried not to jump every time the fluorescent lights buzzed. Around 2:13 a.m.—I remember because the wall clock hiccupped—the front bell jingled. In slid this dude: pale as printer paper, hair so black it swallowed light, wearing a velvet coat that belonged in a period drama. He nodded, polite, then headed straight for the bric-a-brac bin.
He pulled out a cracked porcelain doll, the kind with one eye shut. Held it like it was his kid. “How much?” Voice soft, kinda posh. I told him two bucks even though there wasn’t no tag. He paid with a coin I’d never seen—looked old, foreign, had a bat stamped on it. Whatever, money’s money. He left, coat swishing, and the bell gave this sad little ding like it was sorry to see him go.
Next night, same time, same guy. This time he bought a tarnished silver spoon. Night after that, a child’s shoe, half-rotted. Each purchase, same weird coin. I started calling him Count Shop-ula in my head, cracking myself up to stay awake. But the laugh stuck in my throat when I noticed the doll back on the shelf, eye still cracked, like it never left. I figured maybe a day worker returned it, but the shoe showed up again too, laces tied in a knot I swear hadn’t been there before.
By the fourth night I was running on energy drinks and paranoia. I googled “Thirteen Bells” and fell down a rabbit hole. Turns out the store was built over an old plague chapel sealed in 1666 after folks inside “refused to die.” Locals claimed the dead walked, yada yada. Article ended with a blurry photo of the chapel’s altar—same bat symbol as the coin. My stomach did that elevator drop thing.
I decided to confront the guy. When 2:13 rolled around and the bell rang, I was ready, phone camera rolling. He drifted in, smiling like he knew the script. I stepped in his path. “Yo, dude, what’s with the returns?” He tilted his head, curious, not angry. “Returns? No, young man, I am merely…re-collecting.” His accent felt older than the junk surrounding us.
“Collecting what, exactly?” I asked, voice cracking like a fourteen-year-old. He reached into the bin and pulled out a small iron key, the kind that opens nothing modern. “Memories,” he said. “Pieces of souls left behind. This place is a lost-and-found for the forgotten.” He handed me the key; it was ice-cold. “You, too, have misplaced something, Luka.” Hearing my name— which I sure as hell never told him—froze me harder than the metal.
He glided past, toward the back door that led to the basement, the part the manager said was “off-limits due to asbestos.” I should’ve stayed put, but curiosity’s a brat. I followed. The key burned against my palm the closer we got. He pushed through, down warped stairs that creaked like old bones. Lights flickered, died, then came back red, like the bulbs were bleeding.
At the bottom stood the chapel ruins, wrapped in dust and dollar-store shelves. Rows of pews replaced by racks of donated clothes. On the altar sat a cracked mirror framed in black wood. The guy—vampire, ghost, whatever—knelt, laid the doll, spoon, and shoe in front of it. The mirror shimmered, showing not our reflections but faces: kids, peasants, a whole congregation, mouths open in silent screams. Their eyes followed me.
“They were buried alive,” he whispered. “I was their priest. I promised salvation but delivered starvation. My punishment is to gather their remnants every night until someone chooses to take my place.” He looked at me, centuries of tired in his gaze. “The key opens the mirror. Step through, and you free them—and me.”
I laughed, nervous. “Pass, thanks. I just sweep floors.” But my feet moved anyway. The key glowed, pulling my hand toward the glass. Faces in the mirror reached out, fingers like smoke. I felt their hunger, their loneliness, and—scariest part—how much it matched mine. College kicked me out, girlfriend ghosted, parents disappointed. Maybe I belonged in the dust too.
priest touched my shoulder. “Choice is yours,” he said, voice gentle, like a dad who actually stuck around. “Stay, and tomorrow you’ll forget this night. Or trade places, and I finally rest.” I thought of rent, of daylight, of boring, beautiful normal life. Then I saw the doll blink.
Screw it. I shoved the key into the mirror. No lock, just a sucking sound like the world inhaled. Cold hit me, then heat, then nothing. When I could see again, I was standing outside Thirteen Bells at sunrise, wearing the velvet coat. The store sign now read “Under New Management.” Inside, some other kid stacked toasters, humming off-key. The priest was nowhere, but I felt him in my chest, light as a sigh.
I checked my reflection in the window. Same face, paler, eyes older. The coin sat in my pocket, warm now. I knew what I had to do. Every night at 2:13, the bell would jingle, and I’d wait for the next stock boy looking for easy money. I’d show him the bin, the doll, the shoe. I’d tell him everything costs two bucks—and so much more.
Funny thing is, I don’t crave blood or sleep in a coffin. I just keep shopping, collecting memories, hoping one day somebody takes the key and lets me walk out at sunrise again. Until then, Thirteen Bells stays open 24 hours, cuz somebody’s always misplacing their soul, and lost things gotta go somewhere, right?