Secret Society for Supernatural Ass-Kicking, Folkestone Division, or, F-SSSACK, for short (working title)

Martin has been running this place for the last fifty years; insists that the abandoned shopfront off the beaten track of the high street is the ideal locale – less snooping civilians. Or at least, that was the rationale. And well you could believe it.

The filthy windows, crumbling windowsills and downright disturbing collection of knickknacks adorning the dusty storefront should be enough to throw anyone off. Hell, I took one look at that discount French Sonic sticker in the corner of the window and nearly turned my ass right back around.

                “This can’t be right,” I muttered under my breath, desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the demonic cartoon hedgehog that gazed up at me. I looked around, again, blinking away stray hairs that caught in my eyes. People were walking by unperturbed by the whole thing, as though this blatant hodgepodge of merchandise squatting in the otherwise picturesque street were a perfectly fitting part of the scenery. Or perhaps the facemasks merely disguised the unease any rational person would feel in passing such a building.

                “What’s that lass? Are you the buyer?” A bespectacled stumpy looking man with a beer belly and a ruby red nose had appeared at the white washed door. I near jumped out of my skin, stepping backwards into a discarded container of rain washed donner meat and chips. My new leather boots cracked through the polystyrene. I shook this off, dislodging the sludge with a kick that sent it flying into a nearby tree with a wet thump.

                The rain was coming down again in tentative pitterpatters against this man’s thick glasses. He didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps care. The rain was beginning to seep into his already stained white tank top. His obscure tattoos flexed as he scratched his chin. “Hey? I said, are you buying?”

                “Excuse me?”

                “Did our Canterbury buyer send you or not? Look, if you’re just nosing then you can bugger off, we’re closed. Pandemic and all that.”

                The shop looked as though it had been closed long since the early days of the Covid scare. Nor could I entirely tell what exactly it had been disposed to sell – there was a tattered sign that announced this to be a children’s shoe shop, but the dimly lit interior hosted everything from framed amateur sketches to frightening figurines, bibles and books on gardening; a frayed leather armchair and a rocking horse were partly hid in the far shadows.

                “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I asked again, realising that he had been speaking this entire time.

                “Look if you’re browsing then window shop elsewhere. The antiques place across the way are doing delivery and that. We’re closed.” He was beginning to disappear behind the door again.

                “Canterbury sent me,” I said, panicked.

Martin, still wearing that same dirty tank top was perched on the counter of the communal kitchen, tattooed arms crossed over his now significantly larger belly in defiance. “For the last time,” he said, swallowing the last of his bacon butty, “We are not revamping the cloak. It works just fine.”

                “It’s putting off new recruits,” I complained. And it was. Last week HQ sent us an expert in the field of poltergeists and he was so appalled by the exterior that he had apparently texted Canterbury directly to hand in his notice.

                “Nonsense. That twat wasn’t up for the job.”

                “We needed him. Christ on a bike Martin, it’s mental out there. We waited weeks for a poltergeist hunter. I can’t do it on my own anymore.”

                “And like I told HQ, when they send us a decent one, we will get right back on the job.” He licked the fat from his fingers and wiped them down his shirt for good measure.

                “Pete, for god’s sake, say something!”

                Pete, as always, was not listening. His extra bass, noise cancelling headphones were plugged securely into his ears, his hood was artfully draped over his eyes, and he appeared to be gazing deep into the abyss of the ASDA Smart Price Instant Coffee he clutched in both ghostly hands.

                I lurched over the back of my chair and tugged the wires, causing one to plop into the murky greyish ‘coffee’.

                He looked up at me, and I had to suppress a shudder. I could feel it coming, another one of his, ‘I came from Oxford for this’ rants. I held my breath. But he simply pinched the wire between his fingers and dredged out the earbud. He shook it off, splattering my burning face with lukewarm coffee-substance, and took another deep draught from the mug.

                Martin tutted and jumped down from the counter, hiking up his loose jeans.

                “She’s right. We need more people. Folkestone is going to shit.”

                “Thankyou!” I cried.

                “You can buy me a new set of earphones now.”

                “Right. Sorry.”

                “This establishment has been in my care for sixty years. We aren’t changing it and that’s final. Stop your whining and get back to work. We had a call come in about a house down at the harbour that won’t stop leaking. Go investigate.”