Author: Christine Skirbunt

Welcome, dear reader, to a most singular entry in the chronicles of Recollection’s diary. I beg you to open your mind to an unearthly October visitation for this is a journey into those curiosities that ought never to have been. Tonight, you step beyond the veil of time and place, into a chamber where every beauty secret ever conjured lies temptingly at your fingertips…though not all should be touched. Follow, if you dare, the enigmatic Shopkeeper as she ushers you through shadowed aisles and behold a collection of wares that will linger in your memory, and perhaps upon your very skin, long after you depart. I promise you, it’s to die for…

As you walk along the pavement on a cloudy Halloween afternoon, you pull your collar high against the autumn chill. The breeze lashes at you, stirring red and gold leaves across the sidewalk. They skitter in restless circles, settle for a heartbeat, and are whisked away again by another cold gust. You press on, scarcely glancing at the familiar row of shops you’ve passed a hundred times before. But then, just ahead, you pause. There, in a place you could swear has always stood abandoned, a storefront waits as though it has been expecting you. Its big window glows dimly, its air of secrecy drawing you closer. Before you are even aware of how you got there, you are directly in front of the shop. You lift your eyes to the painted sign above the door, letters shimmering with the faintest greenish hue: The Timeless Apothecary.

You glance at your watch. Five o’clock is not far off, and you mean to be home in time to prepare the candy for the trick-or-treaters. The dial reads 4:05. Your eyes lift once more to the glowing sign, then to the window. Bottles of every shape and size crowd the display: some filled, some empty, all strange in their variety. Boxes and odd bits of ephemera lie among them, curious and unsettling, as though meant for hands long stilled. This is not the sort of shop that belongs here. Out of place, and yet…it feels as if it has always stood here, waiting. You glance at your watch again. Then a sudden gust of icy wind lashes at your back, compelling you toward the door to warm yourself inside and to see what mysteries wait within. One quick look inside couldn’t hurt.The door resists for a moment, wood swollen with age, before yielding with a groan. A bell overhead chimes, too bright and crisp for such a forgotten place. At once the air shifts: warmer than the street, yet heavy with a mingling of dust, herbs, and something sweeter, almost metallic. Shadows stretch long across the shelves, where jars and bottles gleam like watchful eyes. The door closes with a light click behind you, surprising you slightly as it had been difficult to open.

Suddenly, from behind the aged wooden counter, a figure glides forward, silent as a shadow until her voice greets you, warm and bright. The Shopkeeper is beautiful, breathtaking, even. She may, in fact, be the most beautiful woman you have ever seen but the moment your gaze slips away from her, you cannot recall a single feature of her face. Nor the color of her hair. The memory of her evaporates like mist, leaving you only with the certainty that she is clad in black. Black silk, black lace, black as midnight itself, catching the dim light of the shop as she moves. She smiles and claps her gloved hands together as though delighted at your arrival.

“Welcome, dear customer,” she says, her voice lilting like a songbird. “Do come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?” you ask her with a hint of confusion. Perhaps she’s just happy to have any customer as you appear to be the only one in the shop besides her.

“You have found your way at last,” the Shopkeeper continues, seemingly not hearing your question. But her tone is bright with delight. She gestures lightly to the shelves that loom in the shadows. “Here within these walls lie secrets of beauty gathered from every age. Elixirs and powders, tonics and creams. Each is a treasure; each is a promise. Some grant radiance, others allure, a few…eternity itself. All are waiting, timeless as the shop that holds them. We offer health and beauty products from all times.”

Her gloved hand drifts across the counter, pausing over a box tied neatly in twine. She looks back at you, eyes gleaming with a warmth that borders on hunger. “But you must see for yourself. I know exactly what you are looking for!”

“You do?” you manage to ask, and suddenly you find yourself holding a small metal basket with a well-worn wooden handle, yet you can’t recall picking it up.

In silence, the Shopkeeper walks to a shelf lined with pale jars, her gloved hand stroking one fondly. You stand next to her and stare at the product she is admiring.

“Ah, for the face: the canvas upon which all else is painted. Here we keep Spirits of Saturn, a treasure from noble courts and candlelit chambers. Popular from the Renaissance to the 18^th century. Venetian Ceruse it is also called. Queen Elizabeth I used it herself. Some say a bit too much. But pale skin was often a status symbol, you do know,” she sighs, as if she had been in Queen Elizabeth’s court and was thinking back on it fondly. But then her attention quickly returns to you. “To have smooth as alabaster and flawless as marble skin was a sure sign of wealth. It showed you distanced yourself far from outdoor manual labor. This will conceal every blemish, every flaw. Pale, perfect…divine. Of course, lead is hungry, and it will take more than blemishes in time. But what is beauty, if not worth the sacrifice?”

You’re caught off guard by the question and look up into the Shopkeeper’s eyes to ask what exactly she meant but a weight in your basket makes you look down. She has place a jar of Spirits of Saturn in your basket and you feel unable to protest.

“Venetian Ceruse is seen as the Spirit of Saturn because, as sound science from those wonderful olden days will tell you, each planet rules an element, and Saturn rules the metal lead. This is considered the whitest and most skin-friendly form. Created by corroding lead with vinegar, you know. I promise you it will give you a divine pallor, but some may contend it comes with Saturn’s leaden weight.”

She turns and walks up the aisle. You blink. Again, you cannot remember her face and something is telling you that lead is highly toxic and bad for both your skin and overall health but as soon as that thought appears it vanishes, as if pushed away and replaced by the need to follow the Shopkeeper.

She stops at a slender bottle that gleams darkly on the counter.

“The eyes, dear, must captivate,” she tells you as she examines the bottle against the dim overhead lighting and now that you are gazing upon her face you can remember it clearly again. “A single drop of Belladonna will widen them, darken them, make them as irresistible as a midnight gaze. Extracted from the deadly Nightshade plant – only the purest forms are sold here. I promise admirers will swoon, for your beauty will be blinding, though, in truth, so may you,” she gives a little laugh, like the tinkling of silver bells, and then, as she adds the bottle to your basket, adds, “The vision dims but what are a few shadows when admirers are lost in your eyes?” She winks at you before walking on.

“Popular from the Renaissance until the 18th century, then Belladonna had the resurgence she deserved in the Victorian era. You’re bound to make it popular again in this century!”

On a nearby shelf sit stout jars, each labeled with ornate lettering. She sweeps a hand over them proudly.

“For the body, one must banish every imperfection. Our Mercury Creams work wonders! Freckles fade, spots vanish, blemishes practically dissolve beneath the silken touch. Smooth skin, gleaming, unmarked. Some say Mercury may make the mind falter, the hands may tremble…but your beauty shall not. And really, what is memory compared to radiance?”

“I thought—” you begin but the Shopkeeper cuts you off, seemingly unable to hear you.

“It can burn as we mix only the purest Mercuric Chloride powder into our creams, so do be warned. But Mercury was considered medicinal in its zenith, so put your trust in it. People have been for centuries!”

Your basket suddenly sags for a moment as the Shopkeeper puts in two jars of the Mercury Cream.

“Use it nightly after you’ve removed your Venetian Ceruse!” she adds chipperly and then, with a swish of her black gown that you would almost swear appears to change style depending on what product you’re looking it, she leads you to another section of the apothecary.

Reaching at shoulder-height, the Shopkeeper quickly pulls down a gleaming silver tin. She turns to you and holds the tin in both hands for you to examine.

“Arsenic Wafers?” you question aloud as your mind tries to comprehend such a product.

“Oh, but of course, my dear! Beauty must be maintained from both inside and out! The Victorians swore by these little treats!” Her hand dips into the delicate tin, plucks out a dainty wafer, and holds it up between gloved fingers.

“Just one Arsenic Wafer each day, and your complexion shall grow pale as porcelain, untouched by sun. Eat prettily, die prettily, as I always say. Guaranteed to contain Arsenic Trioxide in small doses! No cheap fillers are used here!”

You open your mouth, ready to question the safety of consuming a cumulative poison such as Arsenic but suddenly the Shopkeeper’s fingers are at your mouth and the wafer is on your tongue.

“And unlike creams, these wafers are so very convenient, don’t you think?” the Shopkeeper continues. “Those clever Victorians – no mess, no fuss. Take one wafer a day and watch your color fade away.”

You want to spit the wafer out but in the tidiness of the crowded shop and the presence of such an angelic-looking woman in black, it would be unthinkable. You close your mouth and the wafer melts quickly. The Shopkeeper watches you with satisfaction and grins.

“Now, come this way, I’ve a couple more products I know you’re just dying to have!” she adds bubbly. Then an arm intertwines with yours and you look down to see the Shopkeeper has a gentle, but firm hold on you as she pulls you away. She laughs a laugh that is charming but also puts you at unease. Letting go of your arm, she gestures toward a silver tube resting near a display at the end of the counter.

“And of course, your smile must never be neglected. Our Doramad Radium Toothpaste ensures a grin that truly…glows,” the way she puts emphasis on the last word seemed almost menacing, but she continues cheerily, “Brush twice daily, as recommended by most dentists, and your teeth will gleam with brilliance!” she smiles and, just for a moment, her perfectly white teeth seem to glow faintly. “And yes, it’s backed by science! Radium has so many uses! In its purest form it glows in laboratories, so that surely gives any product it’s in scientific credibility! This paste seeps deeper than enamel, right down to the marrow. A small price for a smile that lights up every room.”

Two metal Doramad Toothpaste tubes are casually tossed in your basket as the Shopkeeper swiftly moves back to the front of the shop. She leads you to a display by the door with a poster for the product hanging proudly above it on the wall. Stopping at the display, she picks a box and opens its lid. Inside amber bottles and packets are arranged with care.

“And at last, the crowning glory: the hair. Here we offer Harlow’s Platinum Blonde Kit, the very secret of the Silver Screen. A touch of peroxide, a splash of ammonia, a hint of soap…some say occasionally Clorox Bleach was in the mix, who’s to say for sure? Use this and your locks will become bright as starlight. True, the scalp burns, the strands weaken, the hair may fall away entirely…but while it lasts, my dear, you will be unforgettable.”

“But I don’t know—” you begin, but the voice of the Shopkeeper takes over and yours falls silent again.

“—know who Jean Harlow was? Oh, my gracious,” she continues as she adds a box of Harlow’s Platinum Blonde Kit to your basket. “Harlow was the original, how do you say? Ah, yes, ‘Blonde Bombshell’ from the 1930’s talkies! Her wonderful, almost white-blonde hair made her famous, yes. Oh, some say the contents helped bring about her demise at the tender age of 26, but who is to say what happened with certainty? Her kidney failure and hair loss could have been brought on by anything, dear, anything.” The Shopkeeper pats your hand and then walks behind the counter.

Your head is spinning with all this information and not being able to ask a single question is unnerving you into further confusion. Without much thought, you place the wire basket on the counter, and the beautiful Shopkeeper begins to press the loud, clicking buttons on the Victorian cash register.

“Now remember your regimen,” she says as she quickly takes the items from your basket and begins to wrap them in brown paper and tie them tightly with twine. “No slacking! Consistency is key! You’ll want to reapply the Venetian Ceruse when the sores develop so that you can hide them better. The life-giving rays of Radium with loose teeth are nothing to be concerned about! While the Ceruse and Belladonna draw on centuries of solid alchemy, Radium is modern medicine of the Atomic Age! You simply cannot go wrong with anything you’ve chosen.”

She tucks the last bundle neatly into a stout box and slides it across the counter until she presses it gently into your waiting hands.

“There we are, my dear,” she says, her tone light and bright as though she had given you no more than a parcel of sweets. “Beauty eternal, boxed and bound, yours to keep. Follow your routine, and your radiance will last you a lifetime…however brief that may be.”

Suddenly, the bell above the door chimes, and a cold gust urges you forward. You blink – and find yourself standing once more on the empty sidewalk outside. In your arms, the box remains heavy and real. You glance at your watch: 4:05. No time has passed? You feel dizzy, confused. Shaking your head to try to clear it, you resume your walk home, the box tucked firmly under your arm.

A couple of days later, as curiosity pricks at you, the box sits on your table. You’ve opened each wrapped parcel and examined them all more than once. Did you pay for these items? Were they a gift? You can’t seem to recall. It’s all a haze.

Finally, on All Soul’s Day, you retrace your steps to the street where the apothecary is. November fog is dispersing lightly in the early morning hours as you approach the shop with your goods in hand…and yet something is wrong. You stand with mouth agape. Where the glowing sign once shimmered faintly green, there is only a husk of a building: windows boarded, door barred, walls sagging with years of neglect. Dust and rot cling to every stone, as though the place has been abandoned for decades.

But still, when you look down, the box remains in your hands. As you clutch the box tighter, the street silent around you, a faint voice brushes your ear: bright, lilting, unmistakable:

“Consistency is key, my dear…”

When you whirl, there is nothing but the wind stirring the dead leaves at your feet.