Haunted Chaos: Side Stories

The bell above the door of Witches - Lost & Found jingled its final, mournful chime as the last curious tourist wandered out, clutching a slightly unsettling porcelain doll. “And that,” sighed Letta, dropping the antique velvet rope across the entryway, “is why we need to charge double for anything with palpable residual energy. That doll is going to trip the customer's home alarm at least twice before sunrise.” Alastor, already wiping down the glass counter that housed a collection of suspiciously shiny pocket watches, chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that smelled faintly of old leather and sage. “Relax, baby. The residual energy is precisely what keeps the lights on. It’s the active stuff we earn the real money for.” Behind the counter, Lexie (Letta’s sixteen-year-old, all black eyeliner and calculated apathy) was meticulously stacking a pile of grimoires that were definitely not for sale. Her best friend, Nicole (Alastair’s daughter, bright, practical, and carrying a heavy copy of The Occult Field Guide to the American Northeast), tapped a small, tarnished brass locket on the worn wooden floor with her foot. The locket wasn't supposed to be there. Alastor and Letta exchanged a look—the silent, practiced communication of two people who had faced down an angry poltergeist using only a vacuum cleaner and a bad pun. “New arrival?” Letta asked, her voice softening just a fraction for the girls. “No, Mom. It just rolled off the shelf of ‘Unsold Junk’,” Lexie replied, but her eyes were sharp. Letta knelt and picked up the locket. It was vibrating. Not buzzing, but humming with a cold, insistent urgency. “It’s a beacon,” she murmured, recognizing the tell-tale hum of a displaced Relic of Binding, as she had a vision flash before her eyes. “Looks like someone tried to use the real inventory, and now a Specter of Manifestation is loose in the old Lincoln Library.” The casual chatter of the antique shop instantly evaporated, replaced by the crisp, cool air of routine preparation. Letta zipped up a heavy canvas bag containing their specialized gear—silver-coated iron stakes, salt rounds, and her basic witchcraft supplies. Alastair, now fully engaged, headed toward the back room where their work clothing and custom-made weapons were stored. “Lincoln Library,” Alastor confirmed, pulling his favorite, scuffed trench coat off a hanger. “I’ll deal with containment and distraction. Letta will you handle the retrieval and re-binding?” She nodded as she continued to prepare. Outside, the neighborhood lights were coming on, painting the sleepy street in a picture of mundane peace. The citizens, totally unaware that the dusty, charming little shop they walked past every day was the only thing standing between them and certain spectral chaos, settled in for a peaceful evening. But for the two owners of Witches - Lost & Found, the night shift had just begun.