The Vanishing Shop

“I don’t choose to move. The shop does. Blame Agnetta Nettlecowl and her cursed tea biscuits.”

— Fenwick, current proprietor

“Framed above the door in a chipped brass ring is a porcelain plate, cream-glazed and hairline-cracked. The script is hand-painted in wobbly gold. The letters shimmer faintly—sometimes shift.

—Laid by Agnetta Nettlecowl, Witch of Sallowbend, with due cause and great satisfaction.”

Journal of Fenwick Mournstone

First Entry — Spring, 17th Day The shop moved again today. Mid-pickle count, as usual. Lost a lid and a small child’s attention span. Current location: ridge above the Stonewhim River. Moderate traffic. Too many goats.   Tried sleeping inside. Hex stayed quiet. Shop stayed put. Mira, on the other hand, tried to nap by the hearth and was flung ten feet into nettles. She claims it was “like being sneezed out of a pocket.” Marriage tense. Ankles bruised. Stew ruined.

Third Entry — Early Summer Tested location language. Said aloud, “This is a nice little spot.” Immediate relocation. Sand in my ears. We were mid-sale. Customer and coin gone. Mira swore so loud it cracked a window (not enchanted). Conclusion: the shop is allergic to contentment.

Fifth Entry — Midsummer Tried mapping the shop’s travels. Tracked 14 landings. No duplicates. Made a beautiful wall chart. Color-coded. That night, I heard laughter. Not Mira’s. The chart was gone by morning. The wall smelled of ink and spite. Burned my notes. Mira looked satisfied. We now track verbally, using symbols only we understand: “Moss-pot,” “Goat-wind,” “Teeth-hill.” Progress unclear.

Seventh Entry — Autumn, Maybe? (Desert Again) Woke with a sunburn. Shop now has three shelves of glass beetles and desert sage. Mira left a bowl of stew on the sill. Shop ignored it. We ate in silence. She left again after dusk, said she’s “tired of being unwanted by a building.” The stew went cold. It never disappears. Shop never touches it. Not once.

Tenth Entry — Late Autumn Child entered today, barefoot and bold. Said the shop was in her backyard this morning. Bought a jar of fire beetles with lint and a question: “Do the walls always hum when someone lies?” …I didn’t know they did. Later, I told Mira I was fine. The walls sang.

Twelfth Entry — Winter, Before the Sallowbend Return Mira came back for the kettle. Left the knives. Said she’d wait for me at the Year’s Return. The shop didn’t move for three days. Not a flicker. I left doors open, windows wide. Nothing. It moved again when I stopped speaking. Petty. Like the witch who cursed it. Maybe it mourns. Maybe it’s just bored.

Thirteenth Entry — Early Spring, Year Unknown Woke up to frost on the doorknob and tulips in the chimney. The shop’s moved north. I can smell pine pitch and politics—maybe Adrea’s edge. Shelves now carry prophetic salt and mood candles. I didn’t stock them. Customer asked for “whispers in a jar.” I handed her loose thyme and a wink. She paid full price. Later, caught the mirror watching me shave. Not reflecting—watching. Mira would’ve laughed. I think. Maybe.

Fifteenth Entry — Late Spring A goat walked in today like it owned the place. Ate two twine bundles and left a hairball on the hearth. When I tried to shoo it, the door vanished behind me. Reappeared after I apologized. To the goat. I’m starting to think the shop likes animals more than people. New stock: soap that makes you forget your last meal. Accidentally used one. Remembered nothing until dinner. Shop seemed smug.

Sixteenth Entry — Summer Solstice A bard stayed the whole day. Played something sad on a stringless lyre. The shop didn’t vanish at dusk. It lingered. I think it liked the song. When the bard left, the floorboards sighed. Actual, audible sigh. New theory: the shop wants to be entertained. Mira was a singer. Maybe that’s why it hates her. Too much talent. Too loud a heart.

Seventeenth Entry — Mid-Summer The shop tried to flirt with a traveling apothecary. I swear, the doors opened wider when she walked by, and the jars reorganized to show off the shiniest labels. She left with a free charm and a very confused grin. I left with suspicion and a sore back. Later, it rained frogs. That part might’ve been unrelated. Might’ve.

Eighteenth Entry — Autumn Leaves Turning Accidentally fell asleep outside the shop, on the porch swing. Woke up hanging from a trellis in a vineyard. Shop had moved. Swing included. I was still in it. My elbow still clicks. Mira once said I’d die in this place, eaten by shelves. Not far off.

Nineteenth Entry — Winter, Early Snow came quick. Shop now smells like nutmeg and regret. Someone left stew again. Not me. Door opened on its own when I approached. Floor warm. No wind. I think the shop misses her. Or wants me to think it does. Either way, I sat inside and drank tea with something watching me from the rafters. Didn’t move all night. That was almost kind.

A Letter from Mira Mournstone

Dear Fenwick,

I took the kettle. You never remembered to descale it and the shop always scorched my tea. I left the knives because I didn’t trust the floorboards not to take them from me. Or you.

I don’t blame you for the shop. I blame your grandmother. I blame her for the hex, the stew curse, and the walls that hum like judgment. I blame the way you look at it like a wounded animal instead of a clever predator.

I loved you before you began talking to the wallpaper. I loved you when we slept in the cellar, when we sold pine jam and moth candles. I even loved you when you started naming the jars. But I will not compete with a haunted house that flirts, sulks, and teleports out of spite.

If you ever leave the shop, find me in Sallowbend. I’ll be in the garden. The dirt stays put there. The tools don’t whisper. And the stew gets eaten.

Yours (in fewer and fewer ways), Mira