Spooky Stories: Halloween Vault 2020 -2021

Bottled Light (Magic)

Profile: Magic

Profile Prompt: Potions, Inc.

Prompt: Every year at Hallows Eve (sic), a shop appears on that very corner you pass by everyday (sic). There is a small sign that reads POTIONS INC. It's the same spooky, dark and rather deserted shop every year. And every year, you and most likely the entire village ignore it completely. But this year is different....this year your curiosity wins and you do that one thing your parents begged you not to do and you check it out.

My word count: 487

Bottled Light

The world was in shambles. One crisis followed on the heels of the next, choking us all with apocalyptic fingers, turning even the most sunny day into a dismal, acid-rain soaked night.  

And nobody in my village seemed to care. They were so roaringly pleased with their little patch of front garden, their smug privet hedges. How could anybody grin so idiotically and whistle pop tunes as they lobbed sacks full of non-recyclable rubbish into dust bins? Did they even think to buy their coffee fair trade? 

Idiots. I was off to the station to catch the London night train. There was a protest the next day and I was addicted to protests. Things had to change!

On the corner before the station, I spotted some people queuing in front of a derelict-looking shop. At night? Maybe a new 2nd hand shop was opening? Organic tea? I stepped closer.

A wooden board over the door read Potions, Inc.  Ah, I'd heard about the quacks that showed up for one night each year peddling magic gargling water.  

I was about to be on my way when the door opened and a wizened old lady peeped out. Her eyes darted from my protest sign to my army boots and back again.

"You next." She pointed at me, even though I wasn't in the queue. 

Well, mildly curious, wasn't I?

Inside, the shop reeked of dust and damp cat hair. Some glass bottles lined the otherwise empty shelves, and two lanterns provided light. Kinda witchy, in an abandoned warehouse fashion. 

The lady cocked her head and pulled the thick shawl she was wearing around her knobby shoulders. "Hm. The world is a depressing place and you want no part of it. Insurmountable problems everywhere you look." 

"No points for guessing that one." I gave my sign a wobble.  

"But unlike others, you feel you can't change a thing. Nobody can. Humanity is doomed and protests are its funeral march. YOUR funeral march." A smile blossomed on her face. "I've got just the thing." 

The walls began to shrink oddly. My funeral? What was she talking about? Obviously nuts, the woman. Simple charlatan tricks. Why was it so hot in here suddenly?

The old woman tapped a finger against a bottle containing a golden orange liquid and took it down from the shelf.

"Once a day," she said, holding it out to me.

I eyed it suspiciously.  "I'm not going to drink that." 

She snorted. "You don't drink it, you rub your hands with it. Go on. Well, go on. Take it!" 

So, I did. Was just bloody hand soap, wasn't it?

Only today, I lob my recyclables into the bin with an idiotic grin on my face and whistle cheery pop tunes at protests. 

My friends think I'm barmy.  

Nah.

I'm just enjoying the sunny day. 

Like everybody else in this village.