18 Feb Hinton’s Shop

Part I

Claire Dorsey wasn’t expecting to stumble onto a mystery that evening. She had just been scrolling through old newspaper archives, looking for a simple human-interest piece—a nostalgia article, maybe, about the oldest stores in town. That’s when she found it.

The photo was black and white, grainy, and taken in 1956. It showed a tidy storefront with bold block lettering above the entrance: HINTON’S SHOP. Standing in front of it, hands folded neatly over his stomach, was a tall man in a pressed suit, his expression calm, almost inviting.

The only problem was—Claire had seen that man before.

She had passed by Hinton’s Shop just last week while grabbing coffee. It was on the corner of Wexler and Main, its green-painted door gleaming in the afternoon sun. She hadn’t given it much thought, aside from wondering what exactly it sold—it had a strange collection of items in the window, from antique pocket watches to old typewriters and faded books.

But now, staring at the photo, her skin prickled.

The man in the picture was Mr. Hinton. The same Mr. Hinton who stood behind the counter just days ago. The same high cheekbones, the same neatly combed dark hair. Even the slight smirk at the corners of his mouth.

Claire leaned in closer, checking for any small difference, any indication that maybe this was an ancestor. Maybe a coincidence.

There wasn’t one.

And it wasn’t the only photo.

She flipped through more archived images, feeling an odd weight settle in her stomach. 1973, 1989, 2004. In every one, Hinton’s Shop was identical. And in every one, Mr. Hinton himself stood in the same pose, the same clothes, looking exactly the same.

Her rational brain tried to piece together explanations. A family business? Maybe the current owner was his son, or grandson, and the resemblance was just uncanny. But that didn’t make sense—none of the articles ever mentioned a change in ownership. In fact, they all referred to the proprietor the same way: Mr. Hinton, the shop’s longtime owner.

Claire sat back in her chair, staring at the screen.

Something about this felt wrong.

* * * * * *

The next afternoon, Claire made a point to pass by Hinton’s Shop again.

It was a quaint little place, the kind of store people barely noticed, despite it sitting in a prime location downtown. The window display was cluttered with odd trinkets—delicate china figurines, old brass instruments, and strange, faded photographs. The OPEN sign in the door swayed slightly as she stepped inside.

A bell above the door chimed softly.

Inside, the air carried the scent of old paper and polished wood. The shop was larger than it looked from the outside, the walls lined with tall shelves packed with an assortment of secondhand goods. It was the kind of place where you might stumble upon a rare book or a vintage jacket if you dug deep enough.

And behind the counter stood him.

Mr. Hinton looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable.

“Good afternoon,” he said smoothly, his voice even and pleasant. “Let me know if you need help finding something.”

Claire hesitated.

Up close, he was even stranger. There was nothing off about him exactly—no eerie stillness, no unnatural features. But he was… perfect. Not a single wrinkle, not a single blemish. His skin was smooth in a way that wasn’t youthful but… unchanged.

Like a photograph come to life.

“I—yeah, I’m just looking around,” she said, forcing her voice to stay casual. She wandered to the shelves, pretending to browse, all the while keeping an eye on him.

He moved efficiently, his hands precise as he sorted through a stack of old books, his motions fluid but almost… rehearsed. His suit was crisp, his tie perfectly in place, as if he had just stepped out of time itself.

Finally, she couldn’t hold back any longer.

“This store’s been around for a long time, hasn’t it?” she asked, picking up an antique pocket watch, running her thumb over the glass.

Mr. Hinton glanced up.

“Oh yes,” he said pleasantly. “Quite some time.”

She watched him carefully. “Since 1956?”

For the briefest moment—so quick she almost missed it—his fingers hesitated over the book in his hands.

Then, that smooth smile returned. “Yes, something like that.”

“Have you always run it?”

“I have.”

Claire felt her pulse quicken. No hesitation. No joke about being old or a nostalgic comment about ‘time flying by.’ He said it like a fact.

“How long exactly?” she pressed.

His eyes met hers, and for the first time, something flickered in them—something unreadable.

“Long enough,” he said simply.

Claire forced herself to smile. “Well, that’s impressive. Businesses don’t usually last that long.”

“We endure,” he replied, still watching her.

The shop felt colder somehow.

Claire placed the pocket watch back on the shelf. “Well, I’ll be back,” she said, heading for the door.

“I’ll be here.”

Something about the way he said it sent a chill through her.

* * * * * *

That night, Claire sat at her desk, scrolling through the archives again.

Her fingers tapped impatiently against her keyboard as she searched for more articles, something—anything—that would confirm what she was starting to suspect.

Then, she found it.

A fire.

The address was different, but it was the same shop, down to the smallest detail. It had burned down in 1927, and the owner—listed as Mr. Hinton—had disappeared.

Not died. Not been found in the wreckage. Disappeared.

And a decade later, the shop had reopened elsewhere, with a brand-new lease… under the exact same name.

Claire stared at the screen, her mind racing.

Mr. Hinton wasn’t a man with a family business.

He wasn’t even a man.

He was something else entirely.

And tomorrow, she was going to find out what.

Part II

Claire barely slept that night.

Hinton’s Shop had burned down in 1927, yet it had appeared again a decade later in a different location, looking exactly the same. The business hadn’t changed. Neither had its owner. The records listed Mr. Hinton before the fire, and now, nearly a century later, he still stood behind the counter.

Claire had to find out why.

* * * * * *

The next morning, she met Greg at a coffee shop downtown.

Greg had always loved mysteries—as long as there was a rational answer at the end of them. He was a history buff, a self-proclaimed skeptic, and someone who always played devil’s advocate, which was exactly why she needed him now.

“So let me get this straight,” Greg said, stirring his coffee. “You think Mr. Hinton is what—immortal? A ghost?”

Claire sighed. “I don’t know. But this isn’t normal. The shop has been in business for generations without a single documented owner change.”

Greg smirked. “Maybe it’s just a name thing. Every generation, a new ‘Mr. Hinton’ takes over.”

She pulled up a photo on her phone—a newspaper clipping from 1956. She zoomed in on Hinton’s face and held it next to a recent image of him from an online review.

Same features. Same expression.

Greg’s smirk faded.

“…Okay,” he admitted. “That’s creepy.”

* * * * * *

Claire needed more than old records. She needed someone who had lived through it.

Her first stop was Edna Carver, one of the oldest residents in town. She lived in a small bungalow on the outskirts, and when Claire arrived, she was already waiting on the porch, wrapped in a knitted shawl.

“Hinton’s Shop?” the old woman said, her cloudy eyes sharp despite her age. “Oh yes. Been there since I was a little girl.”

Claire’s grip tightened on her notebook. “Do you remember Mr. Hinton?”

Edna chuckled. “Of course I do.”

“And… did he ever change? Did someone else take over after him?”

Edna gave her a puzzled look. “Take over? What do you mean?”

“I mean—did he ever look different?”

The old woman’s smile faded. She blinked, as if the thought had never even occurred to her.

“Well… no,” she said after a long pause. “Now that you mention it, I suppose he always looked the same.”

Claire’s stomach tightened.

“Did that ever strike you as odd?” she asked carefully.

Edna was silent for a long moment. Then, she shivered, pulling her shawl closer.

“When I was a girl,” she said softly, “my mother told me to stay away from that shop. She said there was something unnatural about it. I didn’t understand what she meant back then, but… I think she saw something. Something wrong.”

Claire swallowed. “Like what?”

Edna hesitated. “Sometimes… people went in, and I never saw them come out.”

* * * * * *

That night, Claire and Greg pored over town records.

Greg focused on old business listings while Claire combed through missing persons reports. The pattern was impossible to ignore—every ten to fifteen years, a local resident vanished without explanation. Their last known location?

Hinton’s Shop.

Greg ran a hand down his face. “Claire, I mean it. We should stop.”

Claire shook her head. “We’re close. There’s something we’re missing.”

She pulled up a short video she had taken inside Hinton’s Shop the day before. It wasn’t much—just a casual clip of the store layout.

She pressed play.

Shelves. Counters. The neat rows of antique trinkets. And then—

Claire’s stomach twisted. Hinton was standing at the counter. His lips were moving, but the audio was silent.

She rewound the footage and played it again. She got the same result.

Greg leaned over, frowning. “What the hell?”

“He didn’t move,” Claire whispered. “I know I saw him talking. But the video… it’s like he’s just standing there.”

Greg rubbed his face, exhaling sharply. “Claire, I’m serious. We need to stop.”

But Claire wasn’t listening anymore. Her mind raced back to Edna’s words. People entered Hinton’s Shop and were never seen again. If she wanted real answers, she had to go back.

Not as a customer.

As an intruder.

* * * * * *

The street was quiet when Claire returned to the shop that night.

The CLOSED sign hung in the window, and the lights were off. The store looked abandoned, like an empty stage waiting for its actor to return.

Greg had refused to come.

“This is a bad idea,” he had said. “I mean it, Claire. What if he knows? What if—”

She hadn’t let him finish.

Now, standing in the alley beside the shop, she worked at the lock on the back door. It clicked open too easily.

As she stepped inside, the air changed. The shop should have been silent, but instead… there was a faint sound, something just beneath the threshold of hearing. A soft hum.

Claire swallowed and moved forward. She passed the register, the shelves, the carefully arranged trinkets. And then she saw it—a door.

It was slightly ajar, leading to the backroom Hinton had never let her see.

She pushed it open. Inside was a narrow staircase leading down.

The hum grew louder. Claire hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to turn back, to leave before it was too late.

Instead, she stepped forward, down into the dark—and the door swung shut behind her.

Part III

The staircase was longer than it should have been. Claire counted at least twenty steps, the wooden boards creaking under her weight as she descended. The hum that had been so faint in the shop above was louder down here, vibrating against her skull. The stale air carried the scent of old wood and something metallic, almost like rust.

At the bottom of the stairs, a narrow hallway stretched ahead, lined with wooden doors. The walls were unfinished, beams exposed as if the space had been left half-built or deliberately hidden. Claire hesitated for a moment, but the thought of turning back now was impossible. She needed to know what Hinton was hiding.

The first door she opened revealed nothing but storage—stacks of boxes covered in dust, some filled with old books, others packed with broken trinkets and mismatched antiques. The second door was locked, but the third creaked as it swung open, revealing something that sent a chill down her spine.

Six figures sat propped against the far wall, their skin dried and paper-thin, their bodies withered to the point of emaciation. The clothing they wore had once been fine—button-up shirts, slacks, dresses from another era—but time had rotted the fabric at the seams. Their faces, sunken and hollow, should have been devoid of life. And yet, their chests rose and fell. Their breathing was shallow and slow, as if something had drained them but refused to let them die.

Claire stepped closer, covering her nose against the stench of decay. The nearest figure had hollowed-out eyes, his mouth parted slightly as though he had tried to speak and never finished. Then, just as she turned to leave, his lips moved.

“…help… us…”

The effort seemed to drain what little strength remained in him. Claire stumbled backward, her shoulder slamming into the doorframe. A weak hand twitched, fingers curling as though reaching for her. Feet scraped against the concrete floor, and one of the figures stirred, shifting as if trying to rise. Every withered body in the room was struggling to move, their eyes filled with silent pleading.

A surge of panic shot through Claire as she turned and bolted back toward the hallway. The corridor felt longer than before, stretching ahead in a way that defied logic. The staircase should have been right there, but the path had shifted, bending at an angle that hadn’t existed before.

Then, a voice. Calm. Smooth. Amused.

“You weren’t supposed to see that, Claire.”

Her stomach twisted. She spun around, expecting him to be behind her, but the hallway remained empty.

Then, a flicker of movement caught her attention, and Mr. Hinton stepped forward from the shadows ahead. His suit was still crisp, his posture relaxed, as if they were merely acquaintances running into each other by chance.

“What are they?” Claire demanded, forcing her voice to remain steady.

Mr. Hinton smiled, the expression polite yet eerily detached. “They were… necessary.”

Her fingers clenched into fists. “You fed on them.”

“Fed?” He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the choice of words. “I prefer to think of it as… sustaining.”

She took a step back. His expression didn’t change, but there was something behind it, something carefully restrained, as though he found the situation mildly entertaining.

“You should leave now,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll pretend this never happened.”

Claire’s skin prickled. “Why do you look the same?” she asked.

His smile never faltered. “I told you. I’ve been here a long time.”

The hum had deepened into something almost rhythmic, pulsing through the floor and vibrating in her ribs. She felt it in her teeth, in the space behind her eyes, a presence more than a sound. Every instinct screamed at her to move.

She bolted.

The hallway stretched before her, but this time, the staircase was there. Her feet pounded against the steps as she climbed, lungs burning with the effort. She expected the door at the top to be locked, but as she reached for the handle, it swung open effortlessly.

She stumbled into the shop, gasping for breath. Everything was exactly as she had left it—shelves lined with neatly arranged antiques, the glass counter polished and gleaming. The hum was gone. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

A sharp click echoed behind her.

She turned as Mr. Hinton stepped into the room. His expression remained composed, his gaze unreadable.

“I do hope you won’t do anything… reckless, Claire.” His tone was light, almost conversational, but there was no mistaking the warning beneath it. “It would be such a shame.”

Her hand tightened around the door handle, half-expecting it to vanish under her fingers. But it was real, solid. Without another word, she pushed through it and ran.

* * * * * *

That night, Claire sat at her desk, staring at her laptop screen. The security footage was useless. The recording showed nothing but the front of the shop, as if she had never gone inside. The video from the basement—the drained bodies, their hollow faces—was corrupted beyond recognition, filled with nothing but static. The files should have been there, but it was as if the evidence had erased itself.

Greg sat across from her, arms crossed. “We should stop.”

Claire shook her head, her grip tightening on the laptop. “I need to find proof.”

Greg exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Claire, there is no proof. The shop’s still standing. Hinton’s still standing. And whatever happened to those people… it’s already done.”

A knock at the door cut through the silence.

Claire hesitated before crossing the room, unease creeping up her spine. When she opened the door, there was no one there. Just a small package sitting on her welcome mat. No return address.

Inside, she found an antique pocket watch from Hinton’s Shop. Its hands weren’t tracking time normally—they were moving backward. Tucked beside it was a folded note, the writing neat and precise.

You should have left it alone.

Claire sat frozen, the weight of the message sinking in.

The next morning, she walked past Hinton’s Shop on her way to work, unable to resist the urge to look. The windows gleamed, the OPEN sign bright and welcoming. Inside, behind the glass counter, stood Mr. Hinton, exactly as he always had.

He met her gaze through the window, holding it just long enough to make her stomach turn. Then, ever so slightly, he smiled.

He hadn’t aged. He never would. And now, she knew why.

Part IV

Claire didn’t go back to Hinton’s Shop after that night.

She didn’t talk about what she had seen, didn’t mention the pocket watch, didn’t tell Greg about the way Hinton had looked at her through the window that morning, his smile too still, too perfect. She tried to force herself to believe that leaving it alone would make it go away. That if she ignored it long enough, the feeling would fade, the memories would dull, and she could convince herself that it had been a trick of the mind.

But the feeling never faded. Instead, it grew worse.

She caught herself glancing over her shoulder more often than usual. The street outside her apartment seemed quieter at night. Every time she passed a reflective surface—a window, a mirror, even the dark screen of her laptop—she half-expected to see something standing behind her.

And no matter how much she tried to forget, the pocket watch wouldn’t let her.

She had shoved it in the back of a drawer the night she received it, buried under piles of receipts and old paperwork. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, she swore she could hear it ticking, steady and slow, a faint metronome beneath the sounds of the city. When she finally pulled it out days later, she saw that the hands had barely moved. They continued their slow crawl backward, measuring time in a way that made no sense.

Greg stopped asking questions after a while. He could see the way it haunted her, how her shoulders stayed tense and her eyes lingered too long on shadows that weren’t supposed to be there.

One night, after another failed attempt to scrub through corrupted footage, he leaned against the counter and said, “Claire, maybe it’s time to let this go.”

She wanted to argue, but she couldn’t. Because deep down, she already knew the truth.

She could never expose what she had seen. There would be no breaking news story. No police investigation. No sudden revelation that led to justice. The shop would remain exactly where it was, as it always had been, as it always would be.

And Hinton would still be behind the counter, waiting.

* * * * * *

A month passed before she saw him again.

She had taken to avoiding Hinton’s Shop, choosing longer routes, crossing the street whenever necessary. But that afternoon, distracted by a phone call, she turned a corner and found herself face-to-face with the storefront.

The sight of it sent a shiver through her. It looked the same as it always did. The glass was spotless, the display carefully arranged with antique trinkets. The OPEN sign still hung in the door, the lettering bold and inviting. For a moment, she considered walking away, but something held her in place.

Then, she glimpsed movement inside. Mr. Hinton stood behind the counter, speaking to a customer. His posture was as relaxed as ever, his gestures fluid, practiced. From this distance, it was impossible to hear his voice, but Claire didn’t need to. She had heard it enough to remember the way it smoothed over words like polished stone.

But something else caught her attention. The customer—an older man, maybe in his sixties—was handing something over. A watch. Not unlike the one Claire had received. Hinton took it with a slight nod, inspecting it with a careful touch. The man didn’t seem to notice the way the color was already draining from his face, how his hands trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.

Claire knew, though. She knew exactly what was happening. The transaction wasn’t about money. It was never about money.

The older man left a few moments later, stepping onto the sidewalk with a dazed look in his eyes. He barely acknowledged Claire as he passed. Inside the shop, Hinton placed the watch on a velvet tray beside the register, its glass surface gleaming under the soft lighting.

Then, as if sensing her presence, he lifted his head and met her gaze through the window.

His expression didn’t change. He didn’t blink.

And then, ever so slightly, he smiled.

Claire turned and walked away, her pulse pounding.

* * * * * *

She stopped researching the shop after that.

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she had already accepted that there was nothing she could do. Even if she gathered enough evidence to convince someone, what would it change? The shop had existed long before her, and it would exist long after.

Mr. Hinton would never age. Never disappear.

But now, she knew how he stayed that way.

She thought about the customer she had seen—the way his shoulders slumped as he left, as if something had been taken from him. She thought about the people who had disappeared, their drained husks discarded beneath the floorboards, kept in a state that wasn’t quite death. And she thought about herself, about the pocket watch ticking away in her apartment, counting down to something she still didn’t understand.

One day, she would look in the mirror and realize she had changed.

Just a little at first. A slight fatigue. A slowness in her movements that hadn’t been there before. Something missing behind her own eyes.

And by then, it would already be too late.

Because Hinton’s Shop didn’t just take. It marked you, and it waited.

And sooner or later, the price would be collected.