Nobody really enjoyed Westbrook Mall on Saturday afternoons, but they came anyway.
It wasn’t the fanciest mall around, just another shopping center in the middle of suburban America, with enough stores to meet people’s needs for the weekdays ahead. A skylight above brought in sunlight filtered by grey clouds, shining over wandering shoppers like a dull spotlight. Parents dragged their children around from shop to shop, teenagers huddled in self-conscious groups by benches and walkways, and elderly mall-walkers did slow, shuffling circuits.
There weren’t many high-end shops, aside from one shop selling luxury handbags, a jewelry shop and an Apple Store. The food court, which smelt of burnt grease and pretzels, was still mostly deserted, with lunch hour still some time away. The fountain, at the heart of the mall, trickled water lazily as old corroded pennies still sat at the bottom of the basin.
In the mall’s west wing, near what used to be a phone repair kiosk, there was a storefront. Usually it was empty, though at times, it housed a seasonal Halloween shop, a cut-rate luggage outlet, and most recently, a place selling pillows and mattresses. Nothing too strange, as small shops often came and went in Westbrook.
Today, however, there was something else.
Nobody knew when it was set up. The windows were bare of any clothes or merchandise, unlike the cluttered displays of its neighbors. In fact, the glass was tinted, as if to shroud whatever lies within the shop. No music leaked from the door, though there was a whiff of a mysterious, perfumed scent. No employees ever seemed to enter and exit, even during closing hours. Yet there it was, with an ornate wooden door carved with Victorian designs, and a a sign hanging in its tinted window, flipped to ‘OPEN’.
Above the door was a large sign, with the shop’s name in fancy, yet ominous letters: “The Experience.”
Nobody acted like the shop was there. The security guards never mentioned it in their reports. The cleaning crew vacuumed up to its threshold each night without comment. The mall directory still showed the old pillow store in its place, and almost no passerbys gave the shop more than a glance. For everyone, it’s as if the shop doesn’t even exist.
But for one or more lucky, or unlucky souls, the shop would be suddenly, startlingly visible. And for that person, their ordinary day would crack open like an egg, spilling out possibilities never before imagined.
Who would it be today? Who would reach for that unremarkable door, and step inside?