"Coins from the Dead":
I used to stop by that old antique shop whenever I passed through north Florida. It sat right off the interstate, tucked among some trees, with a sign that read "Wayside Antiques" in faded red letters. The place always had a mix of dusty furniture, old coins, and jewelry that caught my eye. Tom and Ellen, the couple who ran it, were kind folks in their sixties, always ready with a story about where each piece came from. I'd been going there for months, picking up small items for my home.
That day in late June, I pulled into the gravel lot around closing time. The door bell jingled as I stepped inside, and the air smelled of polished wood and old paper. Ellen looked up from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hey there, you're just in time. We're about to lock up, but take a look around."
"Thanks, Ellen," I said, smiling. "I'm after some silver today. Anything new?"
She pointed to a glass case near the back. "Tom just brought in a set of coins from an estate sale. Real beauties, from the 1800s. Go on, have a peek."
I wandered over, peering at the shiny pieces under the dim lights. The shop was quiet, just the tick of a grandfather clock in the corner. Tom came out from the storage room, carrying a box. He was a sturdy man with gray hair and a mustache, always wearing suspenders. "Finding what you need?" he asked, setting the box down.
"Yeah, these coins are nice. How much for the lot?" I replied.
We haggled a bit, like usual. "I'll give you a deal, say fifty for the set," Tom said. "But don't tell Ellen I went soft."
Ellen laughed from the counter. "I heard that. Make it sixty, or we'll starve."
I chuckled and agreed on fifty-five. As I paid, the bell jingled again. A man walked in, tall and lean, with dark hair slicked back and a jacket that seemed too heavy for the heat. He had sharp eyes that scanned the room quick, like he was measuring everything. "Evening," he muttered, not looking at us directly.
"Welcome," Ellen said politely. "We're closing soon, but feel free to browse."
The man nodded and moved toward the jewelry display. Something about him felt off. He didn't ask questions like most customers. Instead, he picked up a necklace, turned it over, then put it back without a word. I caught Tom glancing at Ellen, a small frown on his face.
"You looking for something specific?" Tom asked, trying to sound casual.
The man paused, then said, "Just checking values. You got a safe for the good stuff?"
Tom shifted his weight. "We keep some in back, but nothing on display right now."
The man smiled thin, like it didn't reach his eyes. "Smart. Lots of thieves around. Ever had trouble?"
Ellen cleared her throat. "Not here. We know our regulars."
I finished paying and pocketed the coins, feeling uneasy. The man kept staring at the cases, his fingers tapping the glass. "Nice place," he said finally. "I'll come back tomorrow."
He left without buying anything, the door jingling behind him. Tom locked it right after. "Odd fellow," he said, shaking his head.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Seemed too interested in your safe."
Ellen waved it off. "Probably just curious. Drive safe now."
I got in my car and headed home, about twenty minutes away. But that night, I couldn't shake the feeling. The man's questions replayed in my mind. What if he was scouting the place?
The next morning, I turned on the radio while making coffee. A news bulletin came on: "Double homicide at Wayside Antiques in Marion County. Owners found dead in their shop. Authorities suspect robbery."
My hands went cold on the mug. I drove back there fast, heart racing the whole way. Police tape blocked the lot, and officers milled around. I parked across the road and walked up to a deputy. "What happened? I was there yesterday."
He looked me over. "Can't say much, but it's bad. You know them?"
"Regular customer," I said. "Saw a strange guy come in late."
The deputy took my statement. Later, I learned the details from a friend in town who knew one of the investigators. Tom and Ellen had been surprised after closing. The killer—or killers—had handcuffed them to the floor safe in the back room, taped their mouths shut, and shot them point-blank with a small gun. Jewelry and collectibles worth hundreds of thousands gone. No forced entry, like they knew exactly what to take.
I described the man to the police: tall, dark hair, jacket. They nodded, said it matched a lead they had on a professional thief from out of state. But weeks passed, and nothing. I started noticing things. A car parked down my street one evening, engine running, lights off. I peered out the window, but it drove away slow.
Then, a phone call late at night. No voice, just breathing, then click. I told myself it was nothing, but sleep didn't come easy. What if that man thought I recognized him? What if he saw me talking to Tom about the safe?
One afternoon, I went back to the shop—now closed, boards on the windows. I don't know why; maybe to pay respects. The gravel crunched under my feet as I walked around back, where Tom and Ellen had lived in a small house attached. The door to the shop hung slightly open, wind pushing it. Or was it wind?
I pushed it wider, stepping inside. The place was a mess from the investigation: drawers pulled out, fingerprint dust everywhere. The grandfather clock still ticked, slow and steady. I moved to the back room, where the safe sat bolted to the floor. Scratches on the metal, like from handcuffs scraping.
A noise—footsteps? I turned sharp, but the room was empty. "Hello?" I called, voice echoing.
No answer. I backed out, pulse quick in my ears. As I reached the front, the bell jingled. I spun around. No one. But the door swung shut on its own.
That night, another call. This time, a voice, low and calm: "You saw too much."
I hung up, locked every door, checked every window. Who was it? The man from the shop? Police said they had suspects, one in Texas, one on the run. But what if he was closer?
Days blurred. I avoided driving alone, kept lights on. Then, a knock at my door one evening. I looked through the peephole—a man in a uniform, badge shining. "Police," he said. "About your statement."
I opened it careful. He was young, notebook in hand. "We think the suspect's been spotted nearby. Tall guy, dark hair. You sure about the description?"
"Yes," I said, letting him in. We sat at the table, and I retold the story. He nodded, writing notes. "Good. This helps."
As he stood to leave, his jacket sleeve rode up. A tattoo on his wrist—same as one I'd glimpsed on the strange man in the shop.
"Wait," I said, standing. "Who are you really?"
He smiled that thin smile. "Just checking values."
I lunged for the phone, but he was faster, grabbing my arm. "You shouldn't have come back to the shop."
We struggled, knocking over a lamp. I yelled for help, but the neighborhood was quiet. He pushed me against the wall, hand over my mouth like tape. "Quiet now."
In that moment, I remembered the coins in my pocket from the shop. I pulled them out, swung hard, catching him in the eye. He staggered back, cursing soft. I ran for the door, screaming.
Neighbors heard, called the real police. They arrived quick, found him trying to slip away. It was him—Robert, the thief they'd been hunting. He'd come for me, thinking I had more details on the loot or could identify him clear.
He got arrested, along with his partner. Turns out, he'd visited the shop before, posing as a buyer, just like I saw. The police recovered some items in Las Vegas, fenced to a financier.
I still drive by that interstate sometimes, but I never stop. The shop's gone now, torn down. But I keep those coins on my shelf, a reminder of how close I came. And sometimes, when the phone rings late, I let it go to voicemail. Just in case.
"The Treasure":
I remember the first time I noticed something off about Angel. I had been working at The Treasure Hunter for about two years by then, helping Milton sort through old clocks, dusty vases, and silverware sets that people brought in hoping for a big payout. The shop sat on a quiet corner in Elizabeth City, with big windows that let in light on the displays of vintage jewelry and faded photographs in ornate frames. Milton was the kind of boss who treated everyone like family—he'd share stories about each item's history while we polished them, his voice steady and warm.
Angel started coming around more after they got married in 2012. She was good at arranging the shelves, making everything look inviting. But one afternoon in early 2018, I saw her talking to this guy named Isaac at the back of the store. He was tall, with a calm face, saying he was looking for an old pocket watch for his collection. Angel laughed a little too loud at his jokes, touching his arm as she showed him a brass one from the 1800s. "This one's special," she said, her voice low. "It keeps perfect time, no matter what." Isaac smiled and replied, "I like things that last." Milton was out front with a customer, so he didn't see, but it stuck with me—the way their eyes lingered.
Days turned into weeks, and Isaac kept showing up. He'd browse the antique guns or the porcelain dolls, but he always ended up chatting with Angel. Once, I overheard them near the storage room. "He's always watching," Angel whispered. "I feel trapped here." Isaac leaned in close. "You deserve better. Tell me what you need." I pretended to dust a shelf nearby, but my hands shook a bit. It felt wrong, like they were sharing secrets right under the roof of Milton's business.
Milton started changing too. He looked tired, his usual cheer gone. One evening after closing, as we locked up the glass cases filled with gold rings and old coins, he confided in me. "Something's not right with Angel," he said, his voice quiet. "I think she's seeing someone. Found messages on her phone." I didn't know what to say. "Who?" I asked. He shook his head. "Some therapist guy. Isaac something. I confronted him, told him to stay away." Milton's eyes were hard then, like he'd fight for what was his. We stood there among the shadows of the tall cabinets holding antique lamps and books, and I felt a knot in my gut.
The shop began to feel different after that. Items would go missing—small things, like a silver locket or a pair of earrings. Milton blamed forgetful customers, but I wondered. Angel acted sweeter around him, bringing him coffee in a thermos, saying, "You work too hard, honey. Let me handle the back inventory." But when he wasn't looking, she'd slip out for "errands." One day, Isaac came in again, pretending to appraise a vintage clock. Angel pulled him aside. I caught snippets: "He won't let go," she said. "We have to do something." Isaac murmured, "I'll take care of it. For us." My pulse quickened; I backed away, knocking over a stack of old plates. They shattered on the floor, and Angel glared at me. "Be careful," she snapped. "Those were worth something."
Nights at home, I couldn't sleep, replaying it all. The shop's creaks and the way the mannequins in old dresses seemed to watch from the corners—it got under my skin. I started staying late, organizing the cluttered basement where we kept overflow stock: trunks full of yellowed letters, rusted tools, and forgotten heirlooms. One evening, I found a note tucked in a drawer, in Angel's handwriting: "Meet at 8. Can't wait anymore." It was dated the day before. I shoved it in my pocket, heart racing. Should I tell Milton? What if I was wrong?
Then came August 2, 2018. I was closing the shop alone—Milton had gone home early, saying he felt off. The phone rang just as I flipped the sign to "Closed." It was Angel, her voice shaky. "Come quick. There's been a break-in at the house. Milton... he's hurt bad." I dropped everything and drove over, the streets blurring. When I arrived, the front door was ajar, lights on inside. Angel sat on the porch steps, covered in blood, her hands trembling. "A man broke in," she sobbed. "Masked, demanding money from the shop. He attacked us."
I rushed inside. The living room was a mess—furniture overturned, drawers pulled out. In the bathroom, Milton lay face down, hands bound with tape, not moving. Blood pooled around his head. I knelt, checking for a pulse, but nothing. His neck had bruises, like someone had squeezed the life out. "Call the police," I yelled to Angel. She nodded, dialing with bloody fingers. Sirens wailed soon after.
The cops arrived, taking statements. Angel repeated her story: "He screamed, 'Give me all your money!' He knew about the shop, the gold we buy." But details didn't add up—the back door unlocked, no forced entry. I mentioned Isaac to the detectives, the visits, the whispers. "She was seeing him," I said. They nodded, jotting notes.
Days blurred into investigation. I kept the shop open, but customers asked about Milton, their faces pitying. Items felt tainted now, like each antique held a dark secret. Then, the arrests came on August 21. Angel and Isaac, charged with murder. Turns out, they'd planned it—Angel left a key out, Isaac snuck in, strangled Milton in a chokehold while Angel staged her own injuries. She wanted freedom, he wanted her. A friend of Isaac's recorded him confessing: "I did it for love. She said he'd never let her go."
In court, years later, Angel sat stone-faced as evidence piled up: the affair texts, the note I found, witness accounts from the shop. She got life without parole in 2021. Isaac took a plea, twenty years. The shop closed after that; I couldn't bear the memories.
Even now, walking past empty antique stores, I wonder about the stories behind each piece. But mostly, I remember Milton's trusting smile, and how betrayal can hide in plain sight, waiting to strike.
"The Newport Hit":
I started working at that little antique shop in Newport back in the summer of 1972 because I needed extra cash for school. Mr. Eisner hired me on the spot after I walked in looking for a job. He was a gruff guy in his fifties, with a thick mustache and eyes that always seemed to scan the room like he expected trouble. The shop was crammed with old furniture, dusty clocks, porcelain figures, and glass cases full of jewelry from who knows where. I spent most days polishing items or arranging shelves, and Mr. Eisner handled the customers. He had connections, people whispered—ties to the rough crowd that ran the clubs and casinos around town. But to me, he was just the boss who paid on time and let me take breaks when it was slow.
That Tuesday morning, July 30, felt ordinary at first. I arrived around nine, unlocked the back door with the key he gave me, and started sorting a new shipment of vases in the storage room. The air smelled like old wood and polish, and the only sounds were the tick of a grandfather clock up front and the occasional car passing on the street. Mr. Eisner showed up about half an hour later, carrying a paper bag with coffee and donuts from the diner down the block.
"Morning, kid," he said, setting the bag on the counter. His voice was low, like always, but he looked tired, bags under his eyes. "Help yourself. Slow day ahead, I think."
"Thanks, Mr. Eisner," I replied, grabbing a donut. "You want me to finish those vases first or dust the front?"
"Vases can wait. Check the jewelry case—make sure nothing's out of place. Had a couple of shady types in yesterday asking about prices."
I nodded and got to work. We chatted a bit while I wiped down the glass. He told me about a rare pocket watch he'd picked up cheap at an estate sale, how it might fetch a good price from the right buyer. "You gotta know who to trust in this business," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Not everyone plays fair."
Around noon, things picked up. A few customers came in—an old lady buying a lamp, a man browsing books. Mr. Eisner haggled with them like a pro, always closing the deal with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. After they left, the shop went quiet again. I headed to the back to eat my sandwich, sitting on a crate amid stacks of crates and forgotten trinkets. The storage room was dim, lit by a single bulb, and the walls were lined with mirrors and paintings that stared back at you funny if you looked too long.
I was halfway through my lunch when I heard the front bell jingle. Footsteps followed, heavy ones, not the light shuffle of a regular shopper. Then voices—Mr. Eisner's and another man's, deep and angry.
"You owe us, Sammy," the stranger said. "The boss ain't patient anymore. That last shipment? You skimmed off the top."
"I didn't skim nothing," Mr. Eisner shot back, his tone sharp but steady. "Tell him it's all there. I got records."
"Records? We don't care about your papers. You think you're slick, fencing through this dump? Time's up."
I froze, sandwich in hand. Fencing? I'd heard rumors about Mr. Eisner dealing in stolen goods, but I never asked questions. The argument heated up, voices rising. I crept to the door that separated the back from the front, cracking it just enough to peek through. Mr. Eisner stood behind the counter, face red, while the other guy—a big man in a dark coat, hat pulled low—loomed over him. I couldn't see his face clearly from the angle, just the side, scarred cheek and all.
"Pay up now, or it's over," the man growled, pulling something from his pocket. Metal glinted—a gun.
My breath caught. I should've run out the back, but my legs wouldn't move. Mr. Eisner raised his hands. "Wait, let's talk. I can get the money by Friday. Just give me—"
The shot cracked like thunder, echoing off the walls. Mr. Eisner jerked back, clutching his chest, blood blooming on his shirt. He gasped, stumbling against a shelf, knocking over a vase that shattered on the floor.
"No!" I whispered to myself, heart racing so hard it hurt. The man fired again, then a third time, each blast making me flinch. Mr. Eisner slumped to the ground, eyes wide, not moving.
The killer stood there a moment, breathing heavy, then started rummaging through the counter drawers. He muttered something I couldn't hear, pocketing cash and a few small items from the jewelry case. My mind screamed to hide. I backed away slowly, careful not to make noise, and ducked behind a tall armoire in the corner. The wood creaked under my weight, and I held my breath, praying he wouldn't come back here.
Footsteps approached the door. It swung open with a slow creak, and light spilled in. I pressed against the wall, peeking through a tiny gap in the armoire's carving. He scanned the room, gun still in hand, his shadow stretching long across the floor. Something clattered—a box he kicked over. He paused, head tilting like he heard something. Me? My pulse thundered in my ears.
"Who's there?" he called out, voice cold. "Come out, or I'll find you."
I bit my lip to keep quiet, sweat trickling down my back. He stepped closer, shoving aside a stack of chairs. The armoire was next. I imagined him yanking it open, the gun pointing right at me. Seconds stretched forever. A clock somewhere ticked louder, mocking the silence.
Then, a car horn blared outside. He cursed under his breath—not a rough word, but angry—and turned back. "Lucky," he muttered, retreating to the front. The bell jingled again, and he was gone.
I waited what felt like hours, shaking, listening for any sound. Finally, I crept out, legs wobbly. The storage room looked the same, but the front... Blood pooled under Mr. Eisner, his face pale, eyes staring blank at the ceiling. Shards of glass sparkled in the mess. I gagged, turning away, and grabbed the phone with trembling hands to call the police.
They arrived fast, lights flashing, asking questions I could barely answer. I told them what I heard, described the man as best I could—tall, scarred, dark coat—but I hadn't seen his full face. The cops nodded, took notes, mentioned Mr. Eisner's ties to the mob. "Probably a hit," one said. "We'll look into it."
Days turned to weeks, then months. The shop closed, boarded up. I quit antiques altogether, moved away from Newport's seedy streets. But nights, I still hear those shots, see that shadow in my dreams. The case went cold—Kentucky State Police took over, but no arrests. Whoever did it is still out there, maybe watching, waiting if I say too much. Sometimes, I wonder if he knew I was there, hiding, and let me live on purpose. To carry the fear.