There’s a small antique shop in the middle of town, tucked between a laundromat that smells faintly of detergent and damp carpet and a café no one ever seems to visit. It doesn’t have a name, just a hand-painted sign above the door that says, “Come In, Come Out.” Most people assume it’s a thrift store or some old woman’s junk shop. Hardly anyone notices it unless they’re lost or curious or desperate.
Ellie wasn’t desperate. Not yet, anyway. She was on her way home from her shift at the diner, her apron still smelling of grease and syrup, when she noticed the shop. She couldn’t recall seeing it before, though she’d walked that street a hundred times. The lights inside were dim, casting the interior in a warm, golden glow. Against her better judgment, she pushed open the heavy oak door. A bell tinkled softly above her, the kind of sound that felt too delicate to belong in a place that smelled like old wood and mildew.
Inside, it was cluttered but not dirty, the air thick with dust motes and the faint scent of something sweet and metallic. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of books, porcelain dolls, mismatched tea sets, and strange little knick-knacks that didn’t seem to belong anywhere else.
“Looking for something?” The voice startled her. Ellie turned and saw a man standing behind a counter she hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t old, but his face had the kind of stillness that made it hard to tell his age. His smile was thin, almost apologetic.
“Just browsing,” Ellie said, though she didn’t know why she stayed. She should have left right then, but her feet felt heavy, like the floor was tilting ever so slightly forward, urging her to step deeper into the shop.
“Take your time,” the man said, and then he disappeared into the back, leaving her alone. Ellie wandered the aisles, her fingers brushing over cracked leather spines and tarnished silver. Something about the shop felt wrong, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. The objects seemed… watchful, like they were waiting for her to do something.
Then she saw it.
It was a small box, no bigger than her palm, sitting on a shelf between a chipped ashtray and a stack of faded postcards. The box was plain, unadorned, except for a tiny inscription on the lid: A Blessing, for You.
She picked it up. It was lighter than she expected, and when she opened it, she found a single slip of paper inside. In looping handwriting, it read:
One wish granted. Use wisely.
Ellie laughed under her breath. It was some kind of gimmick, a joke. But the moment she held the box, a strange warmth spread through her chest. Her exhaustion melted away, her headache from the lunch rush faded, and for the first time in weeks, she felt… good. She set the box down and backed away.
“Do you like it?” The man’s voice made her jump. He was behind her again, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
“It’s, uh, interesting,” Ellie said.
“It’s a blessing,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “A little something to help with life’s burdens.”
“How much?” Ellie didn’t know why she asked. She didn’t want the box, didn’t want the strange, creeping feeling that came with it, but the question slipped out of her mouth like it wasn’t hers.
“For you? Nothing,” the man said. “A gift.”
Ellie hesitated but took the box. She stuffed it into her bag and hurried out of the shop, the bell’s soft chime following her into the street.
That night, as Ellie lay in bed, the box sat on her nightstand, its plain surface catching the faint light from her lamp. She told herself it was stupid, childish even, to believe in something as ridiculous as a wish. But as the minutes ticked by, her curiosity gnawed at her. She opened the box. The slip of paper was still there, the ink shimmering faintly.
One wish granted. Use wisely.
Ellie thought about her bills, her overdue rent, her crappy car that barely started in the mornings. She thought about her boss, who snapped his fingers at her like she was a dog.
“I wish for a better life,” she whispered.
The paper dissolved in her hand.
The next morning, Ellie woke to silence. No creaking pipes, no distant hum of traffic. She rolled over and saw that her room was… different. The peeling wallpaper was gone, replaced by fresh paint. Her thrift store dresser had been replaced by something sleek and expensive-looking.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table.
“Ellie!” It was her boss’s voice. Except he didn’t sound angry or impatient. “We’re so excited to see you at the meeting today. Don’t forget, you’re leading the presentation!”
“What?” she croaked, but he had already hung up.
The rest of the day was a blur. Her diner uniform was gone, replaced by crisp business attire. Her car was no longer the rusted clunker she’d been driving for years. People treated her differently, smiling and nodding, calling her “Ms. Harper” with a strange deference.
At first, she thought it was a dream. But as the hours passed, the truth sank in: her wish had come true.
But the box hadn’t warned her about the cost.
That night, Ellie found the box back on her nightstand, though she didn’t remember bringing it home. It looked… different. Darker, heavier. When she opened it, the slip of paper was there again, but the handwriting was different this time, shakier.
Every blessing has its price.
The whispers started soon after.
Soft at first, like wind through the trees. But they grew louder, more insistent. Ellie heard them in the shower, in the hum of her car’s engine, in the dead silence of her apartment.
It’s not yours. None of it is yours.
The whispers were right. The life wasn’t hers. It was someone’s, though she didn’t know whose. At work, people would sometimes stare at her, their faces blank and unfocused, like they were trying to remember something.
And then, one by one, they began to disappear.
Her boss didn’t show up for the Monday meeting. Her neighbor’s apartment was suddenly vacant, though Ellie could have sworn she’d seen the woman just the day before. Each time someone vanished, Ellie found another slip of paper in the box.
Debt collected.
She tried to return it, to take the box back to the shop, but the shop was gone. The space between the laundromat and the café was nothing but a narrow alley now, choked with weeds and broken glass.
Ellie smashed the box with a hammer, burned it in her kitchen sink, even tried to bury it in the woods. But every morning, it was back on her nightstand, waiting for her. And the whispers never stopped.
One night, as the shadows in her apartment grew long and the air grew thick with the smell of sweet, metallic decay, Ellie heard a new voice among the whispers.
“Make another wish,” it said, low and honeyed.
Ellie stared at the box, her hands trembling.
Because she knew, deep down, that the only way out was through.