It was an unremarkable day. Just like the many thousands that had preceded it and the hundreds that would follow. I was walking down a busy street, mid-morning traffic lazily buzzing by. Grey concrete pavement stretched ahead, the breeze kicking litter this way and that. The rows of identical brick townhouses broken up only by the usual assortment of convenience stores, mobile phone dealers, car mechanics, fast-food joints, the odd gas station. But there, in between this parade of humanity’s finest, something caught my eye.

Dr. Quirkey’s Emporium.

Perhaps it was the copious violet neon, luring me like a siren song. Maybe it was the faux-gothic decor, the grotesque gargoyles with their tongues sticking out, the spired roof stabbing at the sky, or the wrought-iron fence, like someone was on an Addams Family bender. I don’t quite remember the moment between veering off my path and my hand settling on the doorknob, pushing into this place outside of time.

But there I was.

The inside wasn’t quite what I expected, given the façade. If one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, I suppose I was Ali Baba, stumbling into Dr. Quirkey’s cavern of wondrous odds and ends.

Who was he, and what was this place? I still can’t quite put my finger to it.

Dr. Quirkey might have been a taxidermist.  Or an avid collector of teapots. A carpenter, perhaps. A fan of ship models in bottles. In fact, there were many bottles and containers of all kinds filling the space. You’d scratch your head just like I did, not knowing where to look first, your senses overloaded by the sheer density of stuff.

“Come, come, don’t be shy!” a thin, lilting voice greeted me.

I picked a way through the dim-lit space, as there seemed multiple entrances to this maze, nearly knocking over what looked like a very old and very precious vase. Many of the things lining the shelves and narrowing the path onward appeared to be of the eminently breakable sort.

“Back here, in the Mesopotamia corner,” the piping voice called, tugging me deeper inside, never mind I had no inkling where that corner might be or what it would look like. I thought any room must have four at most, so I followed… in a direction.

I squeezed sideways past two shelves lined with sheafs of rolled-up parchment, brittle and ready to crumble to dust. Then edged past a dresser atop which several chess sets stood, some carved from wood, others cast from metal, fantastically ornate or plain as can be, all in various stages of play. It was unclear who had been playing or if the games had ever ended. Some of the dresser’s drawers were half-pulled out. I spied what looked like a stonemason’s toolkit. I recognized a file, a chisel, a drill, the tools nestled in tight-fitting velvet-lined compartments.

And always, throughout the space, the multitude of vases, bottles, jars, and vessels.

“Turn right past the statue of Anubis. You can’t miss that one,” came a different voice now, deeper, suave.

Two shop owners?

The Anubis statue was definitely not hard to miss. One moment I was squeezing past a rack of funny-smelling books, the next I found myself in a clutter-free enclosure, or as cleared out as the standards of this overstuffed place would allow. The statue towered above me, taller than any man. A ladder leaned against it. I craned my neck to look, but the jackal god’s head was lost in the gloom of the rafters, only the contours of its jaw faintly visible. My neck ached, and I felt my skin crawl. I made to touch it, but felt the coolness radiating from the black stone, and backed off.

“Turn right, turn right,” came that first, thin voice again.

“Oh shush, he heard you the first time!” the second, deeper voice retorted.

Picking the right path, I turned the corner around a cluster of more miniature-scale and certainly less ominous-looking versions of the Anubis statue, most of them hip-high. The practice ones, presumably. Not far beyond, past a stack of oil paintings leaning against the wall, and an amethyst geode the size of which I’d never seen before, I found the Mesopotamia corner.

The second time that day, I saw what I was not expecting. A broad-shouldered barrel of a man, the kind who must twist sideways to fit through the doorframe stood in front of a woven tapestry hanging on the wall, his wide back turned to me. He was wearing a snugly-fitting black suit with thin white vertical stripes and lacquered black shoes narrowing to a point. On his shoulder there sat a grey parrot. Unlike the mountain of a man presently transfixed by the tapestry and not minding me a bit, the parrot’s eyes were fixed on me.

“Uhm, Dr. Quirkey, I presume?”

“Dr. Immanuel Quirkey,” the parrot corrected me, speaking in a fluid, and melodic voice. I must’ve looked a sight, picking up my jaw from the floor.

“The one and the only,” agreed the man. His was the suave voice, like honey trickling down a teaspoon. Very listenable. “Come, join me in admiring this fine exemplar of Babylonian tapestry. It’s straight from the source.”

I drew level with Dr. Quirkey, dwarfed by both his persona and his tapestry from… wait, where?

“This is Lugubert,” Dr. Quirkey waved a hand at the bird sitting on his shoulder. “He’s an African grey parrot.”

“You’ve come right on time,” Lugubert announced. I kid you not, the parrot was smiling at me.

“Uh, on time for what?” I asked.

Dr. Quirkey tore his attention from the ancient blue-gold tapestry, half-turning to regard me. It was as if a mountain suddenly took interest in you. You, small and insignificant. The mountain, tall and inscrutable. Square, chiseled jaw, deep-set brown eyes framed by a singular unibrow, his hair and moustache neatly oiled. But his face was gentle, too. Reminded me of people you’d see on old sepia-toned photographs from the turn of the previous century. He had the distinct air of someone out of time.

“Why, you’ve arrived just in time for your new soul,” he said.

“Beg your pardon?”

Lugubert the parrot, this time. “Yes, come. Turn left, turn left, go past the door. We have right what you need.”

I turned left but saw only a white wall. No. My eyes adjusted and there was an outline of a white doorframe. A white doorframe painted on the white wall. Dr. Quirkey stood behind me, nudging me on with a finger. I got moving, despite the cold dread starting to grip me.

“Don’t you worry,” he said. “We have a return policy.”

“Of sorts,” Lugubert added.

I approached the not-door in the wall, my brains utterly scrambled, reduced to a throbbing signal wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Yet a part of me whispered this was all going according to plan, that I had just to open the door.

Except there was no door handle.

Lugubert alighted on my shoulder, and I almost jumped. He just sat there, talons digging into my shirt, a calming presence. I waited for a split second in front of the wall and the painted door, unsure what to do, then I reached out a hand, fully expecting to grasp air, and found the doorknob. The door didn’t need much pushing. It swung inward soundlessly.

Lugubert didn’t wait up for me and darted inside in a silvery flash. I followed in, despite myself. There was no escaping now anyway, what with Dr. Quirkey’s massive frame right behind me.  He followed me in, ducking under the lintel, and closed the door behind him. The only sound was my heart stuck in my throat.

I watched as Lugubert flew to the center of the square space and sat on a table illuminated by a single cone of yellow light from a lamp hanging above. The three walls on the side and opposite me had rows and rows of more of the same jars I had seen in the store.

“It’ll be only a minute, lad,” said Dr. Quirkey more jovially, possibly in an attempt to put me at ease that had the exact opposite effect. “We’ve done this a million times.”

“You’re customer number million and one,” Lugubert chirped excitedly, somersaulting in the air.

Dr. Quirkey walked past me and behind the table, and drew forward a massive chair, upon which he sat down. He then lifted a heavy binder from the floor and dropped it on the desk with a thud and a puff of dust. I looked longingly over my shoulder at the door we came through, but my eyes widened as I only saw the same rows upon rows of containers, no door to speak of. I was starting to feel queasy.

“Come now, we don’t bite,” Lugubert piped, and heaved the cover of the binder open with his beak.

“I most certainly agree. We do not,” nodded Dr. Quirkey, now flicking through the folios. When he noticed I wasn’t moving, he paused and regarded me from under his imposing unibrow.

“We really do not bite, lad. Come, have a seat,” he said with authority, and my muscles moved on their own, as if tugged forward by invisible thread. There was a chair now in front of the table and opposite the pair of them. I sat down, expectant. Whatever was going to happen, would happen.

Satisfied now, Dr. Quirkey resumed leafing through the pages. Lugubert danced closer, closely eyeing them, too. Both made grunts of “aah” and varied versions of “hmm,” nodding or shaking their heads, not quite finding what they wanted, it seemed. I tried to peer at what they were looking at so intently, but my vision was swimming, the characters all blending together. I rubbed my eyes, but nope, I was still sequestered away with a talking parrot and a… whatever he was.  I’d clearly lost it, I tell you.

Lugubert darted into the air and settled on the man’s shoulder, peering down at the binder. “Should we just give him the ol’ special?”

Dr. Quirkey appeared unconvinced. “I guess so. Not the most pleasant experience, that. But I fear we might not have much of a choice. I mean, he doesn’t have much of a choice,” he jabbed a finger at me.

I wasn’t liking where this was headed. “Excuse me? What choice?”

Dr. Quirkey pursed his lips, flipped through the pages, stopped, and then turned around the binder so that I could see, tapping a finger on a page. I frowned but leaned closer. To my surprise, the text on the page now settled into focus.

In bold lettering atop the page:

Dr. Quirkey’s No-opt-out-anytime Special.

And beneath it a handwritten note in a flowing script:

Note to self: Only for the lost causes.

“I’m sorry, what is this?” I asked.

“Read on, read on, especially the fine print,” Lugubert encouraged me. “Skipping it is a frequent mistake.”

I read it aloud. I needed to hear my own voice to ensure I wasn’t going insane. Do insane people know they’re insane? The text on the page read:

Dr. Quirkey, and Associates Lugubert, Luguentz, and Nostromo proudly offer the oft-requested and popular value pack, the yearly soul replacement for the rest of a person’s natural lifetime, for a one-time payment of £9,999.

(Price subject to change based on inflation, the dilation of the intra-dimensional highway, and current energy tariffs).

Lugubert felt the need to butt in: “Now, you should know the lifetime offer comes with a few perks. Like choosing the soul yourself. À la carte.”

“We have the best selection of souls in town, as you have surely seen,” added Dr. Quirkey with no small amount of pride in his voice, contentedly tapping his chest, nodding at the filled shelves.

“Yes, yes, that’s what the jars are for,” Lugubert winked at me.

“Now, now. Let’s spare him the technicalities, Lugubert, we don’t want to burden him with too many details,” Dr. Quirkey interjected, flashing me a grin with far too many teeth.

“I’m unclear on why would I need a new soul every year?”

It’s as if the two of them were waiting precisely for this question. Dr. Quirkey leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. He steepled his fingers. Lugubert straightened and flapped his wings.

“We understand, lad. We get that one a lot,” Dr. Quirkey said sympathetically. “You see, every person gets outfitted with just the one soul when you enter this world.”

“One. Une. Én. Eine.” Lugubert was making a point. I wasn’t really having it.

“Okay. That’s debatable.”

Dr. Quirkey waved my skepticism away. “Thing is, sometimes glitches occur. Don’t ask me where and why, or who’s responsible. That’s beyond our pay-grade. So yes, sometimes a mistake is made, and a person enters without a soul. Or the wrong one. As in a soul that was supposed to go to someone else.”

“Neither are very great, very great.” Lugubert was nodding gravely.

Dr. Quirkey continued. “Sometimes, well actually quite often now that I think of it, people come to us of their own volition and want to replace the soul they have. You know. Reasons,” he shrugged.

“Like what?”

“For example, some think they can buy Elvis’ soul, or Marilyn’s. Or the Pope’s.” He shook his head. “Not quite how it works, but people shoot their shot anyway.”

“Celebrity souls is a popular category,” Lugubert added.

I hadn’t really had an opinion on whether I have a soul up until then, but hearing them tell it, I was suddenly finding the varied possibilities of things that could wrong with it disconcerting.

“Ugh, okay. So, which one am I?”

Dr. Quirkey and Lugubert gave each other a look.

“What?”

“Here’s the thing, lad,” Dr. Quirkey started. “You’ve what we in our business call, a lost soul. A soul that was supposed to undergo standard maintenance after its previous host expired, but, again, mistakes were made.”

“It’s not good form to disparage the work of colleagues,” Lugubert warned Dr. Quirkey. “You always tell me so yourself.”

“I know. TMI, right?” he asked me. When I wasn’t giving him back much more than a blank stare, he continued. “A lost soul is exactly that, lost. Unaccounted for in the ledger. Unrested. Untethered. Gone rogue. Bad stuff happens. Can happen,” he corrected, “if it already hasn’t.” He looked pained sharing the news, did Dr. Quirkey.

I looked at the page with their yearly replacement offer. “So how exactly is this supposed to help me?”

“You should continue reading the offer,” Dr. Quirkey suggested. “Lugubert won’t interrupt you this time.” The parrot turned his back to his associate in mute protest.

The text on the page continued like so:

Here’s how it works, in case you’re wondering.

Every year, at the designated date, but preferably either on the day of the summer or winter solstices if optimal effect is to be achieved, the customer should present themselves at Dr. Quirkey’s Emporium. It is recommended not to ingest foods or fluids at least three hours prior to the visit. It can slightly complicate Dr. Quirkey’s work.

Dr. Quirkey proceeds to separate the current soul in possession of the customer through the delicate act of siphoning (technical terms are unimportant in the cadre of the present offer) and then replaces it with the customer’s selection from the curated catalogue. This procedure is done while the customer is lucid (no anesthetics of any kind are administered) as this has to be a wholly consensual arrangement in the full presence of mind and body of the customer.

“I’m sorry. This doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think this offer is for me,” I said, pushing the binder away.

Dr. Quirkey sighed, like he had seen this play out a million times. “It’s as I feared, Lugubert. He’s in denial,” he said. “I should have seen it the first time he entered.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, man, mistakes are only human,” Lugubert retorted. And then, “And we haven’t even reached the fine print yet,” he squawked, sounding disappointed. His eyes flashed a deep ruby red as he thrashed his wings. The devil-in-a-parrot-suit moment was altogether brief, but effective. The hairs on my neck stood upright. Dr. Quirkey leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I understand if this is too much to take in in one go. Soul replacement is not something you should be taking lightly. That said, think about the upsides. New soul, new you. And if it doesn’t quite work out, well, you’ll always be back next year to try out a new one.”

“I’m sorry, it’s a no,” I said, feeling emboldened in my resolve.

Lugubert snorted. “That’s what he said last year, too.”

I blinked at that. My soul shuddered.

….