The Vendor of Forgotten Things
The marketplace sprawled before you like a living organism, a chaotic expanse of humanity and ruin nestled against the shadow of endless landfills. The air carried a miasma of decay and desperation, thick with the acrid tang of burning refuse and something else—something metallic and sharp that seemed to cling to your senses.
The stalls here were makeshift structures of scavenged wood and corrugated metal, their wares a patchwork of reclaimed relics and curious oddities. Beneath tattered awnings, vendors hawked their findings with fervent urgency, their voices rising above the din of scavenging machines churning in the distance. You moved carefully through the maze of people, feeling the weight of the coins in your pocket—tarnished tokens etched with symbols you didn’t recognize but knew were essential here.
Ahead, a particular stall caught your eye. The vendor stood still, unlike the others who clamored for attention. He was a gaunt figure, his face obscured by the deep hood of a patchwork cloak. His table bore items that seemed to pulse faintly under the dim, yellow light of an old lantern: fragments of machinery, shards of glass that refracted strange colors, and a small, dark jar sealed with wax. The jar drew you closer; it was as though it whispered faintly, just on the edge of hearing.
“I see you’ve found something that speaks to you,” the vendor said, his voice a rasping croak that sent shivers down your spine. His hands, pale and skeletal, gestured toward the jar. “Payment is exact. Always.”
Your fingers trembled as you reached into your pocket, retrieving the coins. Their weight felt heavier now, as though they resisted your grasp. You placed them carefully on the table, and the vendor swept them into his hand with inhuman precision. His hood shifted slightly, and you caught the faintest glint of eyes that shimmered unnaturally, like oil on water.
As your hand closed around the jar, the marketplace seemed to tilt. The vibrant clamor of the crowd dimmed to a low hum, and the air grew colder. You tried to turn, but the ground beneath your feet felt slick, as though the earth itself had turned to sludge. The jar in your hand grew warm, then hot, its surface pulsating as though alive. A faint, rhythmic tapping began from within.
“The payment binds you,” the vendor intoned, his voice echoing now as if from far away. “And what you’ve purchased… was never meant to be reclaimed.”
You stumbled back, your heart pounding as the jar began to glow faintly, cracks forming along its surface. The rhythmic tapping turned to a frantic pounding, and the air filled with a soundless scream that vibrated in your skull. Around you, the market began to dissolve, the colors bleeding into a dark, endless void.
The last thing you saw was the vendor, his hood drawn back to reveal a face that was not a face, but a shifting mass of eyes and mouths, each speaking words you couldn’t comprehend. The jar shattered in your hand, and from its depths, something long buried clawed its way into the world.
You had paid the exact price, but the cost was far more than you had imagined.