A hinge shrieks as I push open the door to Lilabel’s Long Long Treasures, a local antique store that’s been around since…well, no one knows. Even old Eberhard Lamphere who lives down off Orchard Street says his grandfather used to talk about Lilabel’s being there since his own childhood, which puts the store at a atleast 140 years old. The strange thing though, is that I’ve never seen anyone come in. So how the hell does this place keep its doors open with no customers?

That’s exactly what I’m fixing to find out.

Stepping into the store, I’m hit with the scent of mothballs and ylang ylang, as if someone is trying to mask the musty smell with a musky one. No one stands behind the display case topped with an old cash register that’s serving as a check out, but I hear shuffling in the back so I know someone is here. I cough once, in hopes it will alert them that I’m in the store and I begin to look around. It’s…amazing. There are dishes with ornate patterns, furniture with detailed woodwork, and a basket full of iron handcuffs. Wait. Iron handcuffs? It piques my interest and a pick up a pair. They’re extraordinarily heavy, but they’ve been kept in good condition and they still have a key.

A rasping sound hits my left ear like a hiss, “Can I help you?” I almost jump, but control myself. “yes, I’d like to know how old these handcuffs are?” I croak through my surprise.

“Age is a fickle metric for value. What you really want to know is whether this is worth your dime. Son, anything in this store is a bargain. What I offer here are items with untold historical depths for next to nothing. Buy the handcuffs. You won’t regret it.”

I bluster, “ah. Um. Okay, what’s the price?”

“Twenty five cents.”

My eyebrows lift. “Sir… with all due respect…. How can you operate a store in 1999 with prices like that?”

He rasps a laugh, “I dont make my living in money”

Confusion contorts my face, but he repeats, “twenty five cents”. I pay the man, thank him, and head on my way, happy to leave the place.

Arriving at home with my purchase, I take the cuffs out of my bag and stare at them blankly. What could possibly have meant about historical depths? I slide one of the cuffs on, feeling the cold weight of it against my wrist. Then I slide the other on and suddenly….

‘No one worth a damn knows the truth of why I’m locked up in here. If they knew what Jimmy was about to do to young Eberhard, you can bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t be locked up in the pen. He deserved to die. And as Eb’s protector, It was my duty to kill him.’

I let the cuffs fall from my wrists with a gasp. Breathing heavily, eyes wide, I stare at them. My mind feels numb. The man was right. I didn’t buy just handcuffs. I bought history.