Weird Midnights (Steel)

The clock hits twelve, as it does every evening and the chilling metal 'cling' it lets out echoes through the narrow walls and the short ceiling of this forsaken little shop. Bricks don't do well for echoes, but only the tiny sliver beneath the door allows any sort of air through, and, well, sound needs somewhere to travel. If not, it just bounces around the merchandise, teasing me with its freedom of movement.

I'd curse it, had I not already done that many years ago. An irrelevant story, I assure you, but the moral of it remains the same. Never trust those dancing forms, whatever might they be that night you happen upon them. Some say it was shadows and others, well others like me see the sounds of their clock dance at the rhythm of twilight. Mischievous creatures, always trying to get a reaction out of people, yet too cautious to come out and face us.

We ain't like those folk down south, with their fancy magics and glass, no. We're simple people here and there's not enough patience among the millions of us to wait around for these forms to play around. See 'em, shoot 'em, most say.

But… Hey

What do you do when one of them decides to come out indeed? I never thought of it, and the honesty of that realization makes my jaw clench. What do I do now that one stands, leaning against the frame of my door, in nudity so pure that I may be looking at the soul of a woman gone before her time.

"How may I help?" I greet her, or it, for lack of a better term. It… she… whatever, remains still with locks of hair so deeply silver that ever pawnshop owner would sell their souls for and eyes like the earth and the imperfect bark of an ancient tree. No, that is definitely not human.

Help?

The form's eyes travel behind me, where I dare not look. It moves, but there is no ethereal motion as folk tend to say, no. The world cracks asunder and she passes thorough like a stag inside a storm. Frantic, rapid and with no mistake in her footing as she touches reality again, leaning over my counter just an inch away from what I can only imagine is shock on my face.

This time I find little to say, other than a few nonsensical words as I observe what I can without losing the little mind I have left. Beautiful does not cut when it comes to describing what I have in front of me, not in the slightest, no, no, no, this… this is feral, it is real and it is right there, unhindered by whatever the fuck we sorry lot have going around and… "What do you want?".

Shhhhh

A psychic finger is placed gently on my heart and silence overcomes my heart. With that silence, she smiles and a thousand sharp stones of a mountain I cannot name appear behind her lips.

Her hand glosses over my shoulder and takes a hold of something heavy, unhinging it from its place.

Good

Her voice shatters the silence and my heart starts to beat like a war drum at the rhythm of a thousand tanks before I can even bring myself to look at what she holds in front of me. A rifle, one particular order from one of my best clients, for which he requested the most absurd and unnecessary modifications… "Wh…" I stammered, and the words I had in mind started to drift away into a mist of blissful forgetfulness.

I doubt a form like her would bother with the concept of me losing an order, or the idea of finances and rent… where was I?

Oh yes, the clock had just rang.... Twelve thirty, weird, I must have dozed off.