TO MARKET, TO MARKET

You know the saying, ‘Do as I say, not as I do’? Well, what’s left of my pitiful excuse of a life should be used as a case study of its inherent truth. Don’t believe me? Pfft —I’ll change your tune.

In these parts, everyone that didn’t go to church on Sunday morning went to the Flea Market. Don’t get me wrong, the church folk all ended up there eventually too; they just needed their weekly dose of organized religion first. I never really fit into either group. I went to the Flea with my Granddad ‘cuz I was his live-in caretaker and I loved that weird old man, but I definitely wasn’t as gung-ho about it as he was, and I sure as hell wasn’t the God-fearing man my bible-thumping’ folks had hoped for in a firstborn either.

I was almost the poster-boy for family black sheep, except in one key area: Granddad. Despite my (numerous) other failings, the rest of the Galbraith clan actually thought I did a decent job caring for the old man. At least until Granddad started spending too much of their inheritance on stupid crap at the Flea Market, and then all bets were off. Clearly it was all my fault. I think my favorite conspiracy theory though, was from one of the relative’s I just “tolerated" for Granddad’s sake, who had the balls to say to my face that he was sure I was letting him spend all his money just so there would be less for the rest of them when he finally croaked.

Yes, those were his exact words. Yes, I did wind up and deck him.

No, I have no regrets. No, I have not nor will I ever apologize to the ass for hitting him.

Anyway, this particular Sunday morning, I decided to haul myself down there to have some words with the vendors Granddad bought from most often. Anybody who’d take advantage of a half-blind old man who rambled about folklore and was too kind for his own good, clearly needed a good talking to. Eccentric or not, family was family, and as far as I was concerned, you screwed with Granddad, you screwed with me.

Halfway to where the local unorganized religion was held, it started to pour. In my Sunfire held together by rust, JB Weld, and prayers, that rain sounded like someone dumping buckets of water straight on the roof. Even with the wipers on I couldn’t see a damn thing.

“Oh, for shit’s sake!” I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. Grey clouds had followed my car since I left Granddad’s but apparently, it was too much to expect the weather to hold off until I made it to Market. The fairgrounds were run-down and in desperate need of funding – who wasn’t in this forgotten corner of the county? – but at least I could’ve been dry in the Ag Hall if the damn rain would’ve held off!

I nearly put the brake pedal through the floor when the traffic light changed on a dime in front of me. Damn thing’s getting more busted by the day.

I flicked the dial for the radio and the local station started singing to me. “Grandpa… Tell me ‘bout the good old days…”

I flicked the dial again; I didn’t need The Judds and their nostalgia today.

“Stand on the bar, stomp your feet, start clappin’... Got a real good feeling somethin’ bad about to happen…”

The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood straight on up and I scrambled with the dial again as the traffic light finally changed. I turned onto the road that would take me around the church traffic and, predictably, the radio went static for a couple miles as I drove through the backwoods. I could just see the rusty chain link fence that marked the edge of the fairgrounds when the radio station picked back up and I damn near hit the roof.

“I know it ain’t all that late… But you should probably leave…”

“Jesus!” My heart skipped six beats and I cut the radio as I caught my breath. “I’m going to the damn Flea Market, knock it off!”

I don’t know who I was yellin’ at; it’s just something we do ‘round here when stuff gets too weird. It’s like when you keep losing stuff in the house and you know it’s not you moving it, so you tell the house to chill. A supernatural vibe check, Granddad calls it. Maybe it’s just my family.

I finally pulled through the rusted chain link gate and parked, relieved to get out even if it was raining. As I wandered into the Market, I scanned the booths I could see, looking for the places I knew Granddad bought his “antiques.” I had only gone down the first row of booths when I smelled something so tempting I couldn’t help but go looking for it.

Tucked in the back corner of the hall was a canvas-and-gold booth, all rustic elegance. Tall bouquets of flowers I couldn’t name flanked two neat pyramids of jars holding the most perfectly clear, golden honey. The person behind the display didn’t ruin the vibe either. Stunning, ethereal – that’s the best I got and it still doesn’t do them justice. You ever seen someone so perfectly gorgeous you can’t tell what gender they are?

“Looking for some honey?” Their voice was smooth and warm, like a good bourbon. “I have samples.”

I tripped over myself. “Yeah sure! I mean, that’d be lovely, thank you.” I cleared my throat and felt my cheeks heat up.

They held out a spoon with a honeyed smile.

I took the sample. Jesus! It was like taking a shot; it was so warm and smooth, and just made me feel so good.

“Good, yes?” They giggled, watching me intently.

“Incredible!” I hadn’t noticed how vividly green their eyes were before.

“For the sake of fair trade, may I have your name, friend?”

My manners got the better of me. “Of course,” I agreed, holding out my hand to introduce myself. “Ethan Galbraith, at your service.”

Their grip was suddenly a steel trap. “You are now, Ethan Victor Galbraith.”

I couldn’t look away from those uncanny green eyes, any more than I could get free of their grip. Everything faded away except for that voice. “At your service” just kept ringing in my head like Hell’s bells until I knew I was losing my grip on reality. I wanted to – no, I needed to - scream, cry, RUN! Everything was chaos: ringing bells in every musical tone I had ever heard in my wisp of a life, green swirls of color, and sinful, alluring smells in my senses until I was positive I was drowning in them…

And then I was in the driveway, at home. Staring at the house I shared with Granddad.

I couldn’t remember how I got there or why I had this overwhelming urge to check on Granddad, but it didn’t seem to matter. My head and body felt like two separate people and I was standing in the yard just watching this confused … thing… desperately figure out how to function.

Eventually I stumbled up the stoop to the side door and turned the knob. Huh? Locked? It wasn’t supposed to be locked…right?

Or had I locked it when I left? Had I even left from here before I went… wherever I just came back from?

From the depths of the brain that still didn’t feel quite like my own, there was a quick thought: keys! Oh, right. I should have keys to my house. Pockets. That’s where you keep keys.

I watched the hands attached to the body below where my eyes could see scrabble into the pockets at the hips, the left hand drawing out a set of several keys on a ring. The single trinket on the chain amongst the keys was a resin knot in the Celtic style. Strange; I couldn’t remember that being on my keyring before now.

I pounded on the door until it opened.

“Hello there, friend.”

Cold chills shot down my spine at that single greeting. Suddenly, every story Granddad had ever rambled at me came flooding back to my brain in a wave that threatened to bring me to my knees through the sheer weight of what unwitting trap I had walked into.

“Look, Ethan! Amanita muscaria – fairy mushrooms!”

“That’s silly, Granddad. All those mushrooms do are send you on a bad trip. I’ll mow over them when I do the lawn tomorrow.”

“Always thank the house Brownies with a dish of milk and a thimble of honey. Never tell a fey ‘thank you’ directly; it’s very rude and the fey are very serious about their protocols, especially when dealing with humans, my boy!”

“Granddad, I’m too old for fairytales. Besides, fairies aren’t real. Why would I waste milk and honey like that?”

Fairy Protocol, Granddad had called it. I had scoffed and told him the fey had died out with our ancestral lands. Oh, Jesus, help me!

“Oh, I don’t think Jesus is going to interfere in our contract, Ethan,” the sultry voice purred again.

Every hair on my body stood on end and I felt the color drain from my face as I finally looked up. One last memory flittered through my mind as my eyes took in the sight before me.

“Fetches mean death is comin’. Might be for you, might be for somebody close to you. Don’t trust anything they give ya, boy! Food, treasure, nothin’! It’s how they trick ya into deals, and then you belong to them forever! Listen to me, boy!”

I remembered being scared. I was only around ten. I had pictured a monstrous creature offering me gold, jewels, and more food than a poor boy like me could dream of, but then Granddad said no. He said something that scared me even worse as a little boy.

“If a Fetch asks for your name and you’re dumb enough to give it to ‘em… hoo-boy. You signed your own death bill, boy! That Fetch’ll show up wearing your face and kick you right outta your own life… and you gave ‘em the means to do it. Ain’t got nobody to blame but yourself!”

The realization sunk in before my gaze reached the speaker’s face, but I knew what I would see now. Jesus, Granddad, not even my asshole relatives could help me.

A perfect copy of my own face stared back at me with uncanny green eyes and everything went dark.

Evie Heimbach is a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University and has been writing fiction since they were 8 years old. Currently they are a Narrative Game Designer for Alliance LARP, LLC, and also enjoy writing for TTRPGs like Dungeons & Dragons.