Bean There, Done That: The Shop of Shadows
The SUV rumbled down the winding road, its headlights slicing through the early evening mist. The woman at the wheel kept one hand steady while the other reached for her GPS, glancing down at the glowing screen. "Turn left in 500 feet," the robotic voice instructed. She sighed, brushing a loose strand of teal-dyed hair behind her ear as she followed the directions into town.
The road narrowed, giving way to cobblestone streets lined with buildings that looked as though they had been pulled from another time. Old-fashioned street lamps cast warm pools of golden light, illuminating the quiet charm of the small town. Storefronts, some with hand-painted signs and ivy-covered facades, stood in neat rows, their windows dark but inviting. There was a stillness here, a sense of slowness, as if the town itself existed just a step out of sync with the modern world.
The SUV's tires crunched against the stones as she eased into a parking space in front of a quaint but weathered shop. She cut the engine, and the low hum of K-pop that had filled the car fell into silence. For a moment, she sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, letting the weight of the moment settle over her. She had arrived.
Stepping out, her envious curves were accentuated by fitted jeans and a flowing top. At 5’6”, with piercing blue eyes and long, teal-dyed hair cascading over her shoulders, she exuded an effortless confidence. She stretched before moving to the back hatch, opening it to retrieve the first of many boxes. With a deep breath, she turned to face the storefront. The aged wooden sign above the door read Bean There, Done That. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt perfect.
She was now the proud owner of the shop, ready to transform it into her very own tea and apothecary. This was her new beginning, and as she stood there, she knew—this place had been waiting for her.
The town was small, unassuming, the kind of place where time seemed to slow. The shop stood at the edge of the cobblestone streets, its presence both welcoming and foreboding. The building hummed with an energy she couldn’t quite place—a silent pulse beneath the surface, as though the walls themselves whispered secrets.
"You made good time." Startled out of your thoughts, you look to the figure walking toward you from across the street.
"Oh, Claire, it's you." You smile at her as she joins you.
Claire, the realtor, was a woman in her early fifties with sharp, intelligent eyes and a warm but no-nonsense demeanor. Her tailored coat and perfectly styled silver-streaked hair gave her an air of sophistication that set her apart from the town’s otherwise quaint charm.
"It's a gorgeous place for a shop," Claire said, adjusting the leather folder in her hands. "I knew the moment I saw it on the market that it had to be yours. Ready to go inside?"
You cannot contain your excitement and bob up and down on your feet. "Let's do it."
Claire chuckled, stepping forward to unlock the door with an old brass key. The mechanism clicked smoothly, as if the door was eager to be opened. As the door is pushed open, a gust of air rushes past you, carrying the scent of aged wood and something else—something herbal, rich, and oddly familiar.
Inside, the scent of dried herbs and aged wood filled the air. Dust motes danced in the dim light filtering through the front windows, illuminating shelves lined with peculiar relics. Some were ordinary—ceramic teapots, hand-labeled jars of spices—but others were… strange. A tarnished silver locket lay atop a stack of brittle books, its chain twisted like gnarled roots. A dark wooden box, carved with symbols you didn’t recognize, seemed to vibrate slightly when you brushed past it.
Claire, ever the one to enjoy a good tale, leans against the counter with a knowing smile, her eyes glinting as she watches you absorb the strange energy of the place. “I see it’s already calling to you,” she says, her voice low, but filled with that mischievous tone that always accompanies her stories.
You nod absently, eyes lingering on the strange, carved box. “It’s almost like the shop’s been waiting for me,” you murmur, putting the boxes down on the counter you begin running your fingers along the edge of a shelf as if tracing an invisible thread through time.
Claire’s gaze softens, as though she’s been expecting that response. She pushes herself off the counter and moves toward the far corner of the shop, where an old portrait hangs. The canvas is cracked, but the image—a woman dressed in flowing robes, standing beside a cauldron surrounded by plants—still captures an unsettling, almost regal beauty. “This place has a history, you know,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. Claire isn’t the type to indulge in superstition, but you know she’d never pass up a chance to spin a good story. You turn towards her with a raised eyebrow, your voice bathed in skeptecism, “Oh really?”
“It’s been passed down through generations. People in the town like to say it was once a herbalist’s haven,” she begins, her finger tracing a path along the frame of the portrait. “The original owner, an eccentric woman by the name of Elowen, was known for her rare teas, tinctures, and—well—other things.” Her eyes twinkle, daring you to ask.
You wait, intrigued.
“She dabbled in more than just herbs, if you catch my drift. This shop,” she gestures around the room, “is said to hold more than just potions and brews. They say the walls have seen things—spirits, rituals, the sort of things that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.”
You chuckle, shaking your head, but a shiver runs down your spine. "Of course it’s haunted,” you say, half-amused. “What’s a good shop without a ghost story or two?”
Claire’s lips twitch into a smile, but there’s something far more serious in her eyes now. “No, it’s not just that. The place is… tethered. To something ancient, perhaps. Some say it’s the land itself—others claim it’s the herbs Elowen used. Whatever it is, people here have always felt it. Even those who don’t believe in much.”
You turn to her, locking eyes. “Do you believe it?”
For a moment, Claire doesn’t speak. Then, with a wry smile, she shrugs. “Let’s just say I’ve learned not to discount the strange. Especially in a town like this.”
A gust of wind blows through the open door, sending a flurry of dried leaves across the floor. You look toward the door, half-expecting to see a shadow shift at the corner of your vision. But there’s nothing.
Claire is already shifting boxes, unbothered by the sudden chill. “Anyway,” she continues, “there’s a bit of a community around here—some locals still come by looking for… well, you’ll find out soon enough. Tea isn’t the only thing they come for. So, when you’re ready for more stories, just let me know. This town’s full of them. And I’ve got the best ones.”
You grin, heart racing with anticipation. “I’m counting on it.” The strange, vibrating box in the corner pulls at you again. A chill runs down your spine like the air just got 10 degrees colder. You shake the sensation off and start heading out to the car for the remaining boxes, Claire following behind you to help. It was probably just nerves. After all, moving to a new town, starting over—who wouldn’t feel a little overwhelmed?
You step outside, the warm air greeting you with a familiar hug, but it doesn’t quite chase away the unsettling feeling lingering at the back of your mind. The box on the top shelf, the one with the engravings on it. It tugs at you, as if it’s alive in some strange, quiet way. You tell yourself it’s nothing—a relic, an oddity, that’s all—but something in your gut whispers otherwise.
Claire, ever the pragmatic one, doesn’t seem to notice your unease. She grabs the box from your hands with an easy smile, her silver-streaked hair catching the light in the late afternoon glow and starts heading back into the shop. “You’ve got a good eye, I’ll give you that,” she says, nodding toward the door. “The energy in this place… well, it’s not like anything else in this town.”
You laugh, albeit a little too loudly, trying to shake off the tension. “Maybe for once I’ll be that crazy witch on the hill we’ve always talked about. Become a cat sanctuary while I’m at it.”
Claire glances over at you, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. “Don’t let it fool you. This town loves its secrets. And that shop? It’s part of the fabric. Whatever’s going on in there, it’s not just about herbs and tea.”
You blink, still trying to focus on the mundane task of loading boxes from the car. Claire’s words linger like a half-remembered dream, both unsettling and strangely alluring. She has always known how to make things sound a little too mysterious, a little too magical.
By the time you’re back inside, the sun is low, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The shop looks even more intriguing under the dim light—an old soul in a quiet town, hiding its stories beneath layers of dust and forgotten time. As you place the last box down with a sigh of relief, you find yourself once again drawn to the corner where the box sits. It almost hums now, just faintly, like a heartbeat.
"What's in there?" you murmur to yourself, barely realizing you’ve spoken out loud until Claire’s voice breaks through.
“Something that’s been waiting a long time, probably,” Claire replies, her voice quieter now, almost reverent, as her eyes drift to the corner where the box sits, a quiet pulse radiating from it. Her words hang in the air like a warning, thick and unnerving. “Elowen kept all kinds of things locked away. If I were you, I’d be careful what I opened.”
The weight of her words lingers, curling around your thoughts like smoke. You feel a sharp tug at your curiosity, an almost magnetic pull toward the box, but you resist. Not yet, you think. There’s time for that later—time to unravel this place, this shop, piece by piece.
Your fingers twitch at the idea of it, at the mysteries that might be locked inside, but you force your gaze away, taking in a slow breath to steady yourself. You can’t let it consume you, not when there’s still so much to do.
“Well, I’m so glad you’re back in my neck of the woods,” Claire says, her voice a little too bright, as though she’s trying to steer the conversation away from the box in the corner. “I’ve got some things to take care of at my own shop. You know, the one across the street from you. We’re still on for lunch tomorrow, right?”
You nod, still transfixed by the box in the corner, its subtle hum practically pulling you toward it. You can feel its presence now, like it’s waiting for something—waiting for you to figure it out. But Claire’s voice pulls you back into the present, grounding you with its warmth and teasing edge.
Claire might be your best friend, but she’s always had a knack for making light of the strange things you dive into. She doesn’t believe in all the magic, the old tales, or the whispered stories about this place—but she knows you do. And that’s enough for her. Teasing you about it is just her way of showing affection.
Claire notices the faraway look in your eyes and raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she teases, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. “But seriously, don’t get too lost in there, alright? I’m heading back to the ‘real world’—you know, the one that doesn’t have boxes that vibrate when you walk past them.” She says it lightly, her tone playful, but you catch the hint of affection underneath. She knows you’re in your element here.
You give her a soft laugh, shaking your head as if to brush off the lingering unease. “I won’t,” you promise, though your voice is quieter than you intend, betraying the way your mind still lingers on the hum of that box. “Just... getting settled. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s Claire’s laugh that snaps you back to the moment. “Alright, alright. You’re a tough one to pull away from this place, huh?” Her eyes twinkle with that knowing look of hers. “Hey, before I go—let’s get to cleansing the place? You always say two are better than one.”
You blink, momentarily distracted by the thought of what she just asked. A cleansing. Of the shop. The idea doesn’t exactly surprise you—Claire’s always been one for practicality—but you hadn’t expected her to be the one to suggest it.
You tilt your head slightly, considering. “Are you sure you’re up for it? I mean, you’ve never been one to get involved in this kind of thing.” You raise an eyebrow, half-teasing her right back.
Claire shrugs, but there’s a softness in her eyes now. “I know, I know,” she says, her usual teasing tone softened by something else, something more serious. “But... you’re here now, and I know how much you believe in this stuff. If it makes you feel more at home in this place, I’m in. Besides, I’ve always had your back.”
You smile, warmth spreading through you. This is Claire—always making sure you’re grounded in reality, but also supporting you in ways that go beyond logic. She may not believe in the magic of it all, but she believes in you.
“Okay,” you say, your voice stronger now. “You’re on. It should be in that box on the counter.”
Claire gives you a small nod of approval as she moves towards and opens the box, pulling out the smudging and cleansing items—sage, salt, a few candles. As you move about the shop together, there’s a shift in the air, a subtle sense of anticipation that you can’t shake. You have a feeling that this cleansing isn’t just for the space. It’s for you, too.
And as you work alongside Claire, the weight of the box in the corner still tugs at you, but for the first time, you’re not afraid of it. You're ready. Ready for whatever the shop wants to show you next.
When it’s all done the space feels at peace. No more heavy weight and no more humming.
Claire steps forward, pulling you into a quick, familiar hug. It’s the kind of hug you’ve shared for years—a comfort, a grounding. When she pulls away, her eyes glint with that playful mischief that’s always been part of her charm. “Alright, shopkeeper,” she says, her voice light. “I’ll let you get to it. Don’t be too smitten with the place, okay?”
You laugh, but it’s more from instinct than humor. You’re already smitten, though you don’t quite know what to make of it yet. “No promises,” you reply, your voice a little too soft.
Claire chuckles, shaking her head, and heads toward the door. She pauses, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing look. “I’ll be across the street if you need me,” she says, giving you a wink before she steps out into the cool air, crossing the street with ease.
You stand there, watching her for a moment, then close the door gently behind her. The sound of the lock clicking feels final, like the world outside is staying where it belongs for now. You lean against the door for a moment, the weight of the silence settling in. The shop feels aliveI but also calm—the air thick with stories waiting to be told, with energies that you can almost feel buzzing in the walls.
As you move through the shop, unpacking boxes and carefully placing things on shelves, you can’t shake the sensation that something is watching you. It’s subtle at first—just a feeling in the back of your mind, a flicker of awareness at the edge of your vision. But as you move from one corner to another, that sensation intensifies. It’s like the walls themselves are leaning in, curious, observing. Not malicious—never that. Just... present.
There’s a comfort in it, though—a strange kind of familiarity, as if the shop has been waiting for you to notice. The more you work, the more you settle in, the stronger it becomes. It’s almost like the place is breathing with you, exhaling in rhythm with your movements, a pulse that matches your own.
And then there’s the box. The vibrating hum is quieter now, but it’s still there—an almost imperceptible thrum under the surface. It beckons you, gently pulling at your attention, as though it's asking you to take a closer look, to uncover its secrets. You try to ignore it, focusing on your task, but each time you pass it, the hum grows a little louder. A little more insistent.
You step back, taking in the room once more, and that’s when your gaze lands on the tall ladder in the far corner. It’s impossible to ignore. A grand wooden thing, towering like a forgotten treasure, its steps sweeping upward in a graceful arc. It reminds you of something out of an old library, the kind of place where the books themselves have a thousand secrets to share. It feels out of place here, almost too elegant for this cozy little shop—but then again, maybe that’s why it drew you in.
The ladder is well-loved, its wood worn smooth from years of use, the edges polished by countless hands. You can imagine it reaching up to the highest shelves, its rollers gliding effortlessly across the worn tracks. It’s a piece of something much older than this place, a relic from a time when shops like this were full of mystery and wonder. And yet, somehow, it belongs here.
It belongs to you.
From the moment you first laid eyes on it, you knew. This was the moment the shop had truly won you over. The shelves stacked high, the endless possibilities for what could fill them, and this ladder that felt like the final touch to make it all come alive. It felt as though you were stepping into something with history, something that had been waiting for you to find it. The ladder was the key. This was where you were meant to be.
Pleased with your progress for the day, you make your way to the door, the last of the boxes in your arms. You can’t help but feel the quiet weight of the day settling in around you. It’s been a long one—unpacking, organizing, getting used to the rhythm of this new space—and your thoughts are already drifting to what’s next. The street outside is still, peaceful, waiting for you to step out into it. You reach for the door, the cool handle familiar in your palm.
That’s when you hear it.
A soft, distinct clicking sound. At first, you think it might be the wind, or maybe the creak of the old building settling. But then it comes again—closer this time. A mixture of something delicate, like the tap of a fingernail against glass, and the steady tick-tick-tick of an old grandfather clock winding down in a forgotten corner.
You freeze. Your fingers hover over the door handle, your breath catching in your chest. It’s not like anything you’ve heard before. Not a sound of the wind. Not the shifting of old wood. It’s almost... intentional. Like a quiet rhythm, deliberate, as if something or someone is marking time.
The air feels charged now, heavy, thick with the sensation of waiting. The hair on your neck stands up as the sound continues—soft, unhurried, but unmistakable. It comes from somewhere deeper within the shop, from the direction of the far corner where the box is. You glance toward it, instinctively, and there’s that pull again—the subtle hum beneath it all, calling to you. That strange, magnetic energy that’s been with you since you first stepped inside this place.
You hesitate, your fingers still on the door, your mind racing. Was it just the house settling? Or is something trying to get your attention? The clicking grows slightly louder, just enough to make your pulse quicken, but it doesn’t feel threatening. Just... present. A gentle reminder that you are not alone in here.
Do you turn back, curiosity driving you toward the strange relics scattered throughout the shop, eager to uncover their secrets? Or do you trust your instincts and leave, sensing something is amiss, a lingering feeling that not all is as it seems? You’ll be back in the morning.
You have a choice to make. Let’s hope it’s the right one.
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