Chapter 3

Dwayne ended up not being in third period or at lunch or even at school after school. Trent waited for about a half hour for his friend to show before throwing in the towel. Dwayne has always been the unpredictable sort. If he said he was going to be somewhere then there was a good chance he wouldn’t. Of course the same goes if he said wouldn’t be somewhere, he could be counted on to show up. Even though Dwayne didn’t show up, Trent has nothing else to do so he decides to check out that new antique shop.

He slides his back pack onto his shoulders and then pulls his bike off the rack. His ride doesn’t take long, no more than twenty minutes. He parks his bike on the side of the building, a little out of sight. There is the possibility of it being stolen, but ultimately there is nothing he can do about it. Trent’s bike lock broke a couple months ago and he just hasn’t bothered to replace it. Of course he rarely used it when it wasn’t broken, so he never really had the motivation in the first place.

The antique store isn’t much to look at from the outside. It seems that whoever the owner is didn’t bother to fix the outside up at all. In fact there isn’t even a sign outside to notify anyone of it being there. The only reason Trent knows it is there is because the building has been empty for years and suddenly there is merchandise inside.

He pushes through the door and is surprised how dark it is. It is one thing to go from bright sunshine outside to a slightly dimmed inside, but there is just enough light in the place to keep people from tripping over the antiques. Trent doesn’t know what he looking for. Probably nothing. Maybe something. Most likely he can’t afford anything in the place especially since most antique stores are highly overpriced.

He wonders through the aisles, stepping around, over and occasionally under boxes, chests, glassware and spears. The place seems to have a little of something and a lot of everything. He begins to think about how the place would be more organized if he were running the place and how it would look exactly like it does if it were his own personal collection. And then he finds it. Trent finds what he is looking for.

What he finds isn’t exactly what he is looking for. He wasn’t looking for anything really, but this is one of those items that he was looking for without actually looking for it. He reaches out for it, running his fingers lightly across it. Thinking it is going to feel like one of those Halloween masks sold at all the chain stores, he is surprised to find that it doesn’t. It feels warm and a lot like skin. A shiver rushes through him and he quickly yanks his hand back.

“Fucking weird...” he whispers.

“Can I help you, young man?” an accented voice asks from behind, causing Trent to practically jump out of his skin.

“I ... um ... was just looking around,” Trent replies, totally caught off guard. “You have a ... um ... interesting shop.”

“Yes, I did work hard to collect all these things,” the man says. “It took many years.”

Trent looks the man up and down. He can tell that it took many years—the man looks ancient! “Have you been in business long?” he asks, feeling a little backed into a corner. He doesn’t know why, but the situation just feels ... strange.

“Not in business, no,” the man answers. “I have collecting for a very long time though. This is a culmination of my life.”

“Then you have certainly seen a lot of stuff,” Trent remarks. “Speaking of which,” he pauses to turn back to the item he eyed and pick it up. “How much is this?”

“What is your name, young man?” the old man asks.

“T-Trent, sir,” the young man replies. “Yours?”

“Volmor, if you must know,” the old man answers. “As far as the costume goes,” he says, snatching the item from Trent’s hands, “it’s not for sale.”

“But you had it on the shelf,” Trent argues.

“So I had it on a shelf,” Volmor counters, straight faced. “This is my shop. I decide what I sell or don’t. Do I go to your house, invited for dinner, and request food not on the menu?”

The first thing to run through Trent’s mind is just how he wouldn’t be inviting this guy to dinner in the first place. But instead of expressing this thought, he just smiles and asks, “What is so special about it?”

Still expressionless, the old man counters with, “Why are you so interested in it?”

The question stops Trent altogether. Why is he so interested? He gives Volmor a shrug. “I just find it interesting.”

Volmor holds the item up and lets it fall open. “It is just a costume,” he says blandly.

It is a full length costume and Trent is intrigued. His eyes begin at the top and work down over it. The skin is a desire red with black hair, adorning horns and it is clearly meant to look female. But what captivates his attention the most is the black stockings and fingerless net gloves.

“Like I said, it is not for sale,” Volmor repeats, folding the costume back up. “Now, you are free to buy anything else on my shelves.”

Trent frowns. “I’m not interested in anything else.”

“Then you have no business here,” Volmor growls. “I’ve got a shop to run. Either you find something to buy or go somewhere else. My time is precious.” With that, the old man turns and walks off back toward the counter.

“I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long,” Trent mutters under his breath as he watches the old man slip back behind the counter, stuffing the costume beneath it.

Volmor stares Trent down until he ducks behind the shelves. The young man browses over them, again. And again nothing captures his attention like the costume did. And thinking of the costume, he suddenly feels something tugging at the back of his mind. It’s a voice, sweat and smooth. He can’t make out any words; it’s more like a feeling.

Trent gives into the feeling, the voice. He wanders aimlessly between aisles, not really looking at anything—he has already looked at it once. Even so, he feels a summoning. Is it the costume? Is it really calling me? Even if it is, he wonders how he is going to obtain it. The old man seemed adamant in not selling it. Plus he is standing guard over it, his gaze steady over Trent.