Estimated reading time — 13 minutes

Read Part One here

Read Part Two here

* * *

HELLO AND WELCOME to our pre-Halloween sale at Cinderella’s Curios and Pawn! I’m Katrina Overman, and I’m so glad to meet you. You might recognize this place as having been owned by a woman named Sophie Tafus. My late aunt, curator of countless collectibles and antiques, left me this humble shop in her will. I’ll do my best to carry on her legacy.

What is it you’re looking for? Something elegant but understated? Perhaps this carnival glass lamp is just the ticket. How about an armoire or a gramophone? Yes, that’s a real Victrola. $850.

“I don’t need it, but I want it?” How many times did I say that when I came to visit Aunt Sophie? Ha! She went out of her way to acquire things that folks would go gaga over. Enough to spend half their paycheck on, or even all of it. Look at that glass slipper on the shelf nearby. It’s priced at $450, pretty hefty for such a tiny piece of crystal, but it is one of our namesakes. I’ll sell it to you at a discount if you – No? Are you sure? All right, then.

What’s that? You’ll have to excuse me. I’m hard of hearing, just like Sophie. You like my locket and mood ring? Thank you, but they’re not for sale. I got them through arrangements with two of my customers. They have quite the interesting stories. Would you like to hear them?

Just the short versions? If you hear me out in full, I’ll give you what you need. Not what you want – people are forever confused about that – but what you require deep down in your bones. I have far more than my aunt’s bric-a-brac to offer. There are objects within this store with which each visitor has an affinity. I believe you call it a vibe. I already know which one suits you.

Ah-ah-ah! Take a seat in that overstuffed chair over there, and I’ll regale you with the two tales.

* * *

Esme Bonham came to me early in March, on a cold and windy day just like this one. She seemed an unlikely prospect, looking no more than twenty-five. Stringy hair, dark circles under her eyes, a ratty pink tank top and shredded jeans that hung off her rail-thin frame. Nails bitten down to the quick. She reeked of drug-induced sweat and perfume that had been rendered useless.

She got right to the point. “This is a pawnshop as well as an antique shop, right? I want a loan.”

“I don’t deal with addicts.”

“Please.” Her eyes were wide and moist. “I don’t inject yet, but I’ll have to soon.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry, but you don’t look like you have anything to pawn.”

She reached around her neck to reveal a shiny gold locket, which she took off and handed to me. I blinked in surprise: the outside depicted several minuscule constellations. I’d never seen such a remarkable design before. “Where did you get this?”

“Mom gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday last year. It shows the sky on the night I was born. October 31. Halloween, and I’m a Scorpio.” She grinned. The desperation momentarily left her.

“Oh? That’s my daughter’s birthday, too.”

“Great! How old will she be?”

“Eight. Quite a handful, she is, but there’s no stopping Olivia. She does bicycle tricks in traffic.”

“So dangerous.”

“Yes, but I think her daredevil streak makes her strong. Who knows where she’ll end up?”

A fleeting glance from my client: Hopefully not like me.

Before I could be further taken in by this girl, I remembered I was a businesswoman first and foremost. I inspected the locket more closely, frowned, then took a monocle out of my pocket.

“Hmm. The gold is most likely vermeil. Real gold is heavy, and this is light. If I used a hard metal object to scrape the surface, which I won’t, I would uncover sterling silver underneath. Valuable, but not as much as you think. Not as much as you’re almost begging for.”

“How much, then?”

I scrutinized her with my monocle. “Who are you?”

“Esme. Esme Bonham. My name is all I have left besides that locket.” She let out a breathy laugh.

“You want a loan. That’s not what you need. You need rehabilitation. How long is a typical stay?”

“Ten weeks. Seventy days, like in the Amy Winehouse song, but like her, I won’t go-go-go.”

If that last line was a joke, I didn’t get it. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll give you $350 for this piece of jewelry, which is far more than it’s worth, but it will keep you fed long enough to find residential treatment. Don’t think about double-crossing me. I sell valuables, and I have my own methods for discovering where, when, and how my clients use them. Darkness surrounds you like your odor, Esme. Find your way into the light. In time, you’ll be able to afford your keepsake back.”

“Thanks a lot! Uh – can I please have cash?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Do I look like I do online transactions or payment via your cell phone?”

“I don’t know. I had to pawn my phone at a different shop.”

I almost laughed, but stopped myself just in time. “I’d like to ask something else of you. A little favor. Don’t worry; this isn’t illegal or sexual. I’m always on the lookout for new wares for my shop, but like your locket, this one’s personal. I need a watch that runs on blood.” I leaned in close and told her more about it. “It won’t be easy to locate. Many deem it impossible, but if you ask the right person under the right circumstances, you’ll find it.”

“Let me get this straight. Who wears this weird watch you’re talking about?”

“A woman called Tenet. She only comes to the people who need her most.”

Esme stared. “Whatever that means. What if I don’t find her? How much time do I have?”

“Ninety days: your rehab stint plus twenty. A change of seasons. Then, if you fail to uphold your end of the deal, your locket’s mine. And there will be other consequences, especially if you don’t enter a facility as soon as possible. I’m as serious as the grave. Will you accept my bargain?”

“I don’t want to give up my necklace. It’s like a part of me. I feel naked without it, and this deal is totally sus, but I need all the help and money I can get.”

“Indeed.” I went over to the cash register, Esme following like a found puppy. “Three hundred and fifty dollars. Not a penny more. I wish you well and hope to see you in June – with the watch.”

“Right.” Even then, I could tell she was doubting one or both of these prospects. Who could blame her? Ten weeks in a place she didn’t want to go? Finding a macabre watch? In Esme’s case, these outcomes seemed equally unlikely. Yet I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I shouldn’t have.

When we made our exchange, I took the locket and opened it. Esme’s picture lay inside.

“I believe you’ll want this,” I said, removing it. She grabbed it with a clammy hand.

“Thank you!” Esme tried to slip the photo into her pocket, but realizing that wouldn’t work because of the state of her jeans, she stuffed it and the cash into her purse instead. “Thank you so much!”

She departed my store and promptly turned left instead of right. A bad move.

She used my money – mine – to buy her latest fix.

How do I know this, you ask? The answer requires me to reveal a secret. You see, every object you touch or hold contains a tiny piece of your soul. Not so you’d notice, but it’s there. The more you treasure one of your possessions, the stronger this connection becomes. I was able to track Esme through her obsessive love of the locket, even though I now had it. I saw seedy back alleys and crack houses before my eyes, and a certain customer frequenting them. Consequences would soon follow, and not of the usual sort.

They started as a slight circular impression upon Esme’s chest, as if the pendant were still there and weighing heavily upon it. As the etching deepened, an itchy, burning rash developed within its borders. The tiny dots resembled measles, but they also formed familiar patterns. Ones that Esme recognized at once, though she couldn’t prove it until several weeks later, when they were fully fleshed out. The more recognizable they were, the more they tormented Esme, who couldn’t stop scratching. Not even the heroin she craved could stop the pain and oozing from the wounds.

“You said the locket was a part of you,” I murmured once the process was complete. “Now it is.”

Esme never entered rehab. Nor did she try to find Tenet. She went her own way, with not even good intentions to show on her road to hell. As for me? I learned that no good deed goes unpunished. I’d forsake altruism from then on. The common good? The golden rule? Compassion? Nonsense, all of them. One’s bottom line is all that matters in the end.

What? You think I’m cruel and selfish, having taken advantage of a junkie over a “stupid little necklace?” I assure you that the junkie made her choice of her own free will, and the necklace isn’t stupid. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece. I placed a lock of Olivia’s white-blonde baby hair inside it.

You want to get up, but you’re glued to your seat? I’ve heard that several times before.

The second client entered my shop in June, exactly when Esme’s time was up. Strange how we meet the people we need to, exactly when we need to, isn’t it? The man was dressed to the nines in a gray business suit, with slick-backed hair and fashionable eyeglasses. He exuded an aura of perennial competence. Anything that he put his mind to, he achieved, except for one thing – overcoming his sole superstition. A mood ring adorned his left pinky. He twisted it as he cleared his throat. He didn’t even pay that much attention to his wedding ring.

“Hi,” he began. “I’m looking for something for my wife.”

“For your anniversary?”

“Yeah. She’s a big collector of this kind of stuff. You wouldn’t believe how many dolls she’s stuffed into our guest room. Creeps me out. Do you have a really unique and expensive one?”

“Of course. That’s what you want, sir, but can I interest you in what you need?”

“Huh?”

“You seek a present for your wife, but you need a gift for your colleague. She earned a promotion at your mutual workplace. The same promotion you tried so hard for.” Astonished, the man nodded. “You probably didn’t give her a word of congratulations. Never mind. What I’m about to offer is the perfect remedy. I’ll be right back.” I went to the rear of the shop and returned.

“This is a ‘maneki neko,’ or a brass fortune cat. It’s said to bring luck to its owner.”

“Hmph. Why would my coworker need more luck than she already has?”

“I didn’t say what KIND.” I winked, and he swallowed. It was almost too easy.

“This cat’s arm jerks up and down, up and down, kind of like how gamblers’ arms jerked up and down at old slot machines. The ones with the pull handles. I daresay your nemesis is in love with the one-armed bandit, now updated for faster play.” The man’s mouth fell open. “Yes, she has a gambling addiction. It’s about to catch up with her, if you wish it so.”

“Wait a minute. How do you know all this? You don’t even know my name.”

“Let me guess: Wendell Smith?” His bug-eyed silence told me all I needed to know. “I’m a bona fide psychic, though I try not to advertise the fact. What do you say? Whatever comes up must come down eventually, and that’s what the ‘maneki neko’ truly symbolizes. Are you ready to give a well-deserved comeuppance to someone who didn’t deserve the promotion after all?”

“What about my wife?”

“Does she really need another doll?” We both chuckled.

“How much for the fortune cat?”

“Thirty dollars plus the ring on your pinky finger. Let me inspect it, would you, please?”

“My mood ring?” Wendell looked perplexed. “Why? Don’t you have lots of those here?”

“Yes, but they’re cheap and turn my fingers green. I don’t think yours will.” He handed it over, and I peered at it through my monocle. “Even better than I thought. It’s platinum-plated. I need a present for my daughter’s eighth birthday. Your ring is perfect. Can you bear to part with it?”

“Sure. I can always get another one, but this is special. I’ve had it since I was a teen. It helps with my anxiety issues. I guess it all comes down to how much I want to see that bitch Katelynn fail.” Wendell pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Which is a lot. You’ve got a deal.”

“Two more things. If you find the results of our trade are too much to bear, come and see me again, and we’ll call it off. I also require a favor of you.” I explained it matter-of-factly.

Wendell snorted. “You’re kidding me, right? A watch that runs on blood instead of batteries?”

“Yes. I’ve offered you what you need. I need that object in return.”

“You’re crazy, but what the hell? You’ve given me more than one afternoon’s entertainment.” He winked and handed over thirty dollars. I gave him the fortune cat and specified the timeframe for Wendell to achieve both of his desired results. Ninety days. A change of seasons.

“See you in September, then,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure. It really has.”

Through my monocle, I saw Wendell looking me straight in the eye. He wasn’t lying, unlike so many times before. Once he left, I was able to track him through his mood ring. He went back to work as usual, a beaming smile on his face as he presented the sinister gift to Katelynn. She thought it was adorable – a lucky brass cat! – but her good fortune took a turn for the worse.

Unable to resist the siren song of local betting parlors, she spent more and more time in front of different screens than the ones she should’ve been looking at. Katelynn not only spent paychecks, but took out hefty cash advances to feed the machines. Her work suffered as a result. As for my client? He embodied the principle of schadenfreude: taking delight in another’s suffering. With each botched presentation and discrepancy in company accounts, Katelynn dug her own grave, and Wendell laughed in secret.

The last straw came when Katelynn was on the verge of being fired. She turned to Wendell for moral support. “I can’t believe it,” she cried. “I’m 10K in debt already, and it’s only getting worse. I keep on waiting for the luck that cat is supposed to bring, but it’s not happening. My husband doesn’t know that I gamble. He thinks I’m always working late. I can’t tell him about this. He’s still struggling with student loans. When I hit a big jackpot, I’ll pay everything off. I swear.”

“Sure you will.” Wendell gave her an oily grin. “Don’t give up. You’ll strike it rich soon.”

“Soon” came. No jackpot was forthcoming for Katelynn. Not only was she dismissed from her new job, but the bookkeepers were breathing down her neck. How long before she was discovered and arrested for embezzlement? The only solution she could see involved her car and a tree.

Wendell should have helped. He should have pointed her toward resources like 988 and Gamblers Anonymous. Instead, he let events unfold as they did. A grand opportunity lay ahead. While Katelynn Terence ended up in the obituaries, the newly promoted Mr. Smith earned a headline in a local business journal article. No one connected these two events for what they were, whether at work or on the outside.

All was well, except for Wendell’s nighttime misery. He couldn’t sleep without his mood ring. He tried different ones, bought online and at discount stores, but they didn’t work. They didn’t have the right weight, the right stone colors, the right pressure on his skin at the right moments. To compensate for this, he started chewing his lower lip until he drew blood. It tasted good to him, the tang of iron and the sticky texture. They seemed fitting. After all, wasn’t he nearly a killer?

His insomnia continued all through the three months, off and on. When September arrived, the formerly dapper headhunter was a shadow of his former self. In a way, he was just as bad off as Esme, though he had no substance abuse problems. You might be tempted to write him off as a man-child yearning for his security blanket. However, unlike other man-children, Wendell had a keen and guilty conscience found too late. He couldn’t bring Katelynn back. What he could do was go forward and fulfill the other part of his contract with me: finding Tenet and the watch.

He knew he’d wasted too much time already, trying to keep himself together at work and at home, instead of contacting his contacts and investigating. It wouldn’t have done much good anyway. Tenet is a common yet elusive sort of woman. As I said before, she only comes to those who need her most. It wasn’t long before Wendell returned to me, proverbial hat in hand, defeated.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Overman,” he moaned. “I tried and tried. I couldn’t find that watch or the lady who owned it. Tenet? No one I know knows anyone by that name. I failed.” He sighed. “The only thing I know how to do right now is beg. Beg for my mood ring back so I can sleep.” His eyes widened. “You didn’t give it to your daughter for her birthday already, did you? Did you?”

“You have a good memory, and the answer’s no. Olivia’s birthday is on Halloween. I took one look at your most prized possession and knew I had to have it early. It wouldn’t come around again.”

“Yeah, but can I at least look at it?”

“I don’t see why not.” I went to the cash register and retrieved a small velvet gift box from inside the middle drawer. When I opened it, Wendell made a desperate grab. I yanked the box away.

“Don’t you dare! No matter how hard you tried, Mr. Smith, you failed, just like you said. That means you have no right to reclaim your ring. You should have returned to me sooner, before your time was up, and I would gladly have made an exchange. Now you’d have better luck at a casino, like poor Katelynn Terence, than you would with me. Get out of my sight. You’re done.”

“But I can’t fucking sleep!”

“Then take some. . .fucking. . .pills.” I spat in Wendell’s face. Esme may have been a heroin user, but his addiction to other people’s misery was far worse and far more dangerous. Who knew if he would have stopped feeding on it after his coworker died? Misanthropes like him were never satisfied. I noticed his trembling hands fumble with the push-bar as he left my shop for good.

I ruined him? Don’t give me that. He had several chances to do good and took none of them.

Which brings us back to you, oddly enough. An innocent for a change.

You came here looking for something you want, but I have what you need. I’m perfectly willing to show it to you, but if you “pull a Mr. Smith,” I’ll kick you out just like I did to him. Want to see it? It’s the most expensive item in the store. That’s no coincidence. No harm in looking, is there?

Yes, it’s a thick book. Thick and old. Be careful with the pages – they’re yellow and brittle.

“Ultra Mortem.” It’s Latin for “Beyond Death.” Adjacent to the Necronomicon but far more readable, it explains what lies beyond this earthly plane. So many people, from con artists to theologians to occultists such as myself, have tried to understand its deeper meanings and come up short. You have no training in the esoteric arts, but something tells me you’re a natural. The real reason Esme and Wendell failed to find Tenet is that they didn’t have or read this tome. It contains the precise method to contact her – or should I say, La Mort? Death herself?

I set both Esme and Wendell up to fail on purpose. They were horrible, pathetic souls. I didn’t trust them with this. I trust you. As I said, you’re innocent. You might have told some white lies and hurt people on your journey through life, but who hasn’t? I’ve said and done far too much for the formula to be revealed to me. What prevents this? Let’s just say my inheritance from Aunt Sophie came early.

Will you do it? Will you come face-to-face with your greatest fear and come out ahead?

No? But, my dear, isn’t that what all of us need to do?

I may be guilty as all of men’s sins, but I promise you this: If you find Tenet, you’ll also find the secrets to the universe. You can do everything, literally, bending every so-called natural law.

What’s my angle in all this? What do I need more than anything?

I have a locket displaying the night sky on my daughter’s birthday, and a lock of her infant hair.

I have a mood ring to contain her spirit, lithe and fleeting, once it’s released from her tomb.

I need the watch that Tenet wears, to reverse time and bring my Olivia back from the dead.

You refuse? I knew you would, so I’ll have to do this the hard way. You’ve touched the book. From now on, your soul will be trapped in the book until I release you. IF I decide to release you.

Come to me, O Death. I have a hostage – a drooling customer in an overstuffed easy chair.

You have until Halloween night. . .

Credit: Tenet