The Warehouse of Forgotten Things
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,096
Margaret didn’t like doing business online, or over the phone. Especially not with strangers. But after the last moving company had left her in the lurch, she was desperate.
“Mrs. Thompson, I understand your concerns,” the man’s voice purred through the line. He sounded warm, confident—like someone who had everything under control. “But you’re in good hands with EverSafe Moving. No brokers, no middlemen. My team handles everything directly. We’ll take care of you.”
Margaret leaned against the kitchen counter, her gaze drifting to the boxes stacked neatly by the door. “And you’ll be here at nine? No games, no surprises?”
“Sharp as a tack, ma’am,” he said with a smooth chuckle. “We pride ourselves on being punctual. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
By the time the call ended, Margaret’s knuckles had gone white around the phone. She set it down with a soft click and stared at the rows of taped boxes, feeling a knot of unease that refused to loosen.
***
The truck arrived at 2:07 PM, rumbling up her driveway like a coughing beast. Margaret stood at the screen door, her brow furrowing as she watched. The truck was old—its paint faded to a dull gray, its logo scratched beyond recognition.
Two men climbed out. The first, a wiry man in a dirty cap, spat onto her lawn before yanking a dolly out of the truck. The second—a stocky man in a torn tank top—walked behind him, scratching at his neck as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
“EverSafe Moving?” Margaret called, her voice tight with apprehension.
The wiry man grunted. “Yeah.”
“You’re late,” she said, crossing her arms. “You were supposed to be here at nine.”
The stocky man shrugged. “Traffic.”
Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t say anything. What good would it do?
By the time they started—2:30—the shadows on the lawn stretched long and thin. Margaret hovered in the doorway, watching them toss her belongings onto the truck like garbage. Her late husband’s desk scraped against the metal floor, leaving a jagged scar along its edge. A vase her daughter had made in middle school shattered when it tipped off a poorly stacked box.
“Hey!” Margaret’s voice cracked. “Be careful with that!”
The wiry man barely looked up. “It’s fine.”
When they finally shut the truck doors, nearly half her belongings were still sitting on the curb.
“What about the rest?” Margaret demanded, stepping forward. “You said the whole truck was mine!”
“Truck’s full,” the wiry man said, scratching at his neck.
“No, it’s not! I can see space in there!”
He smirked, holding out a clipboard. “Boss’ll call you about the rest. Sign here.”
Margaret stared at the paper, her fingers trembling. She wanted to scream, to argue, to grab her things and shove them back inside the house. But the movers were already climbing into the cab. By the time she found her voice, the truck was nothing but dust on the horizon.
***
She called the man who’d made all those promises. “Theo Grant,” he’d said, with a voice as smooth as honey.
For days, he didn’t answer. Then, finally, on the fifth call, he picked up.
“EverSafe Moving,” Theo said, his tone dripping with fake cheer.
“You have my things,” Margaret said, her voice tight with anger. “Where are they?”
“Mrs. Thompson,” Theo replied, his tone oozing false concern. “I believe there’s an outstanding balance.”
“I paid you in full,” she snapped.
“Yes, but there were additional costs. Didn’t the movers explain?”
“No! And I’m not paying a dime more until I see my things!”
There was a long pause, and when Theo spoke again, his voice was cold. “If you want your belongings back, you’ll need to wire the money. No exceptions.”
Margaret gripped the phone so hard her fingers ached. “You’re a thief.”
“Call it what you want,” he said smoothly. “But you’re not getting anything back without payment.”
***
Margaret found the warehouse at the edge of town, sitting alone on a stretch of cracked asphalt surrounded by weeds. It looked more like a tomb than a building.
The sign above the rusted door read Storage Facility 23, but the letters were peeling, almost illegible. She hesitated at the threshold, her heart pounding. But then she thought of her daughter’s school projects, her husband’s desk, the boxes of family photos she hadn’t had time to scan.
Inside, the air was bitter cold. The vast space stretched into darkness, filled with piles of forgotten things. A wedding dress hung limp over the edge of a broken piano. A child’s tricycle, rusted and bent, sat alone in a puddle of shadows.
At the far end, Theo Grant stood by a stack of mismatched boxes, clipboard in hand. But something about him was wrong. His face looked stretched, his features blurry and sunken, as though someone had started carving him from wax and never finished.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Theo said, his voice hollow and distant.
From the shadows behind him, something moved. At first, Margaret thought it was smoke, curling and coiling along the floor. Then she saw it—them. Long fingers slid over boxes, brushing their edges like a lover’s caress. Each touch seemed to pull something from the air—a whisper, a memory, a heartbeat.
“What is this place?” Margaret whispered, her breath fogging in the icy air.
Theo’s lips twisted into a grotesque smile. “It’s where things go when you trust the wrong hands.”
The creature surged forward, its fingers stretching toward her, black and endless. Margaret’s instincts screamed for her to run, but her eyes landed on a battered lamp—the one her husband had picked out on their honeymoon. She grabbed it without thinking, its weight grounding her in reality.
The shadows recoiled with a deafening shriek.
She ran.
***
By morning, the warehouse was gone, leaving only cracked asphalt and a field of brittle weeds.
Back home, Margaret sat in her half-empty living room, clutching a stack of photo albums. The brass lamp glowed softly beside her, its light warm and steady.
She’d gotten some things back, but not everything. And somehow, she knew that warehouse still existed, waiting for the next person who trusted the wrong hands.
But Margaret would tell her story. And maybe next time, someone would listen.
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