Store Story

It was an odd shop, a run-down general store in a run-down town. All fading clapboard and worn signs, peeling paint and cracked windows. Once you step inside, however...well, you've never seen anything quite like this before. Every square inch of wall is covered in wrinkled posters and notes in broken English advising those brave enough to enter that all purchases must be made in cash, ranting about how tabs were never paid. At the front, things seem reasonable enough. A cooler of beer, a pound of bacon, but as you go deeper, the wares begin getting...stranger. Chainsaw parts, loose bottlecaps, batteries that haven't been made for years. All coated in a layer of dust suggesting they've been there longer than they should be. Eventually, you find yourself at the counter, standing in front of the owner.

Something about him seems off just as much as his store. He's got the "Innsmouth look", jowls hanging below dull eyes...but you sense a razor-sharp intellect lurking somewhere in there as well. With a nod, he motions you to the back room. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stand so closely a man can barely walk between them, lined with things you can't quite identify.