This Cursed Collection

The Mrrn Situation

"There's never tax on antiques in this county," said Vera, not looking up from the binder.

"There was today."

Vera finally looked up. The binder ~ black, five inches thick, tabbed with colored dividers in a system so elaborate that David had once suggested laminating a legend ~ sat open to Section 7. Ceramic and Porcelain, Animated. She studied the paper bag.

The figurine was perhaps six inches tall, glaze the color of a winter sky. Seated with its tail curled around its feet. “Its eyes were closed when we purchased it.” This was, in Vera's professional opinion, not reassuring.

"Eyes were closed," he confirmed.

She reached for a Post-it. Yellow, the pad she kept specifically on the left side of the table. She wrote ⚠️ ACQUIRED 9:47AM. EYES CLOSED. She stuck it to the bag. "Where in the shop?"

"Back corner. Near the clocks."

NEAR CLOCKS. "Did any of the clocks stop?"

"Two of them."

"Did any start?"

A pause. "...One."

Vera tore off a fresh Post-it. Pink this time. 📌 POSSIBLE CLASS 4. She did not stick it to the bag. She held it for a moment, then stuck it to her own forehead, which was her way of indicating she needed to think on it.

From the doorway of the kitchen, Gerald observed all of this. Gerald, an eleven years old, seventeen pound, and the color of old mustard, house cat. He had lived his entire life in a house containing, at present count, forty-two cursed objects, two enchanted textiles, one sentient houseplant they called Kevin, and a wardrobe in the upstairs hall that occasionally hummed. Gerald had never, in eleven years, expressed anything stronger than mild inconvenience about any of it. He looked at the paper bag on the table. He looked at Vera with the Post-it on her forehead. He walked to his food bowl and sat down next to it. Pointedly.

"In a minute Gerald," said David.

* * *

They shelved the ceramic cat in Section 7, between a Meissen figurine of a shepherdess (contained 2019, Class 2, mild weeping at 3am) and a Staffordshire dog that occasionally spoke in a language none of their consultants had yet identified. David wrote the shelf coordinates on a yellow Post-it and stuck it to the figurine's base. Vera photographed it. They went to bed.

At 6:14am, Vera came downstairs to make tea.

The ceramic cat was sitting by the kettle.

She stood very still, then she went back upstairs.

"David."

"Mm."

"Yesterday's acquisition is by the kettle."

A long silence. David sat up. "Define 'by.'"

"Approximately four inches to the left. Facing the window."

"What was it facing before?"

"David, they don't move toward things."

"I know."

"They move. There's no toward. Movement is incidental to placement, it doesn't ~ there's no agency involved in normal…."

"I know." He was already reaching for his glasses.

By 7am they had established a pink Post-it timeline on the refrigerator. By 7:30 they were arguing about methodology. By 8am the methodology argument resolved into the familiar loop ~ you had to look away to observe the movement, but if you looked away you missed the movement, and if you watched you couldn't catch the movement, and if you couldn't catch the movement you couldn't log it, and if you couldn't log it you couldn't classify it properly, and without proper classification…

"We call Hector," said David.

"We are NOT calling Hector." Vera was on her third Post-it of the morning. This one red, which she pressed to the refrigerator with more force than necessary. The red Post-it said ~ 🚩KETTLE. 6:14AM. "Hector's classification methodology is…"

"Functional."

"Imprecise." She looked at the ceramic cat. The ceramic cat sat by the kettle with its eyes closed and its tail curled perfectly.

Gerald walked into the kitchen, glanced at it, and went directly to his food bowl. "Gerald," said Vera. "Look at the cat." Gerald looked at her. He sat down.

"He's not reacting," said David.

Her eyes widened, "I can see that." She wrote on a fresh yellow Post-it: ⚠️ GERALD UNBOTHERED (DAY 1). She paused. Then added a question mark.

* * *

The knock came at half past two in the afternoon.

A tall figure appeared on the doorstep. Dressed in a coat that suggested a period of history that was difficult to pinpoint, precisely. It was holding a hat. Not wearing a hat. Holding it. In both hands. Its face was not, unpleasant. It was, however, a face that required, a moment of adjustment.

"Good afternoon," it said. Its voice was the temperature of frostbitten cacti. "I believe you have something of mine."

Vera and David looked at each other. The etiquette was established. "Won't you come in," said Vera, stepping back. "We've just put the kettle on."

They sat in the good parlor. It was separated from the bad parlor by a door they kept locked. A Post-it on the door said KNOCK FIRST.

The visitor occupied the wingback chair nearest the window. It accepted tea with a graciousness that was, somehow, not entirely comfortable to witness.

"You'll understand," said David, "that we have a process. For returns." He had the binder open on his knees. The binder had a tab for Returns. He had never needed this tab before.

"Of course," said the visitor. "I would expect nothing less from professionals of your standing." It knew their standing. Vera noted this and did not write it on a Post-it because there were no Post-its in the good parlor. A rule she was now regretting.

Gerald came in from the hallway. He located the visitor with the unhurried precision and climbed into its lap.

The visitor looked down at Gerald. Something moved across its face ~ not a smile exactly. Space where a smile would be, if the architecture permitted. It set down its teacup and began, to scratch Gerald behind the ears.

Gerald purred. The sound filled the room in a way that made the windowpanes consider vibrating.

"He doesn't do that," said David.

"He did it for me," said the visitor, mildly.

"Gerald has lived in this house for eleven years and has never, ever, for one infinitesimal…" Vera stopped. She looked at Gerald. Gerald was boneless with pleasure in the lap of something that should not exist. Radiating contentment. His purr entering a register that the shepherdess figurine in Section 7 could probably hear. "Gerald," she said. Gerald opened one eye and closed it again.

"He has always known what I am," said the visitor. "Animals generally do. They simply have different opinions about it than people." It glanced toward the kitchen, and though it did not move and did not point, Vera understood precisely what it was looking at. "Mrrn has been with me for a very long time. I miss it."

The word it used was not precisely Mrrn but that was the closest approximation available in any language currently spoken. Vera filed this under things to document later. She craved her post its!

"There's a fee," said David. "For early return. The acquisition costs…"

"Of course." The visitor reached into the coat and produced, without fumbling, an envelope. It placed it on the side table beside the tea. The envelope was sealed. With wax. David didn't touch it. Yet. "I should mention," the visitor added, "that Mrrn is not malicious. It is simply old, and accustomed to moving freely. Not fond of shelves." A pause. "It took your grocery list."

Vera thought about the grocery Post-it. The one that said Milk. Eggs. Call Hector re: the urn, which she had noticed was missing and had attributed to David. Actually, she blamed him for losing it. "That was you," she said.

"That was Mrrn," the visitor said. "It collects small written things. Hoards them like treasure. I apologize. It will not happen again." Gerald shifted in its lap, tucking his nose under its hand. The visitor accommodated this without looking down. "You run a remarkable house," it said. "I have been aware of it for… some time. Most collectors of your type either lose their nerve or their sense of humor. You appear to have retained… both." It rose, settling Gerald gently onto the chair cushion. He immediately curled into the warm space left behind. It picked up its hat. "I'll see myself to the kitchen, if I may."

"Of course," said Vera, who would never normally say of course to something like this, but who found herself saying it, anyway.

They sat in the good parlor and listened. There were no sounds from the kitchen. Not even footsteps. After a moment the front door opened and closed with a click of absolute finality.

David reached for the envelope.

Vera went to the kitchen. The ceramic cat was gone. The Post-it timeline on the refrigerator remained. Gerald's food bowl was empty. The kettle was moved back to its original position. Precisely. On the counter beside it was a small square of paper. She picked it up.

Grocery list. Old paper. The handwriting in an ink that was no color she had a word for and listed items in a script that predated most alphabets. She couldn't read it.

She reached for a Post-it. Yellow. She wrote, ⚠️ RETURNED 2:51PM. GERALD UNBOTHERED (CONFIRMED). Then she walked to Section 7 and stood in front of the empty space between the weeping shepherdess and the multilingual dog.

She took out a fresh Post-it. Pink.

📌 CALL HECTOR RE: THE URN.

From somewhere above her, the wardrobe hummed in tune with Gerald's purr.

Written for Bradley Ramsey Flash Fiction February.

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