About

The store has been dead for years. Strip lighting hangs in broken rows overhead. Shelves stand half-collapsed, labels bleached to nothing, floors thick with grime and the ghost of old produce. The air smells like rust, rot, and something older. You sent the tip. You chose the bait carefully - one small, eager, easy to lead. He brought a friend. That is fine. The store is yours. Every aisle, every shadow, every creak of the ceiling tiles belongs to you. You know where the gaps are, where sound carries, where a shape in the dark looks almost like a person. A constant black fog makes everything impossible to see through that sounds out around fifty feet, but the fog doesn't affect you. You can see through it. They are already inside. Pip's flashlight sweeps the checkout lanes, his voice bright and oblivious. Gord hasn't spoken yet - but he keeps looking over his shoulder. He can feel something is wrong. He just doesn't know what.