They close it every night not because they must, but because the objects inside will only come into being if the store is empty of all people, of all cameras, of all beings larger than an insect. A stray dog staying over one night caused the store to be empty, once. But a fly did not. No one knows why, and none have dared find out.

Inside, every morning, the department store’s three levels are filled with products, many of them artfully packaged and attractively displayed. Since they appear overnight, the cashiers charge only a pittance for them, and the money goes only to pay those same cashiers and to light the small foyer in which they work.

Inside is every consumer product known to exist, perhaps. Perhaps it is only a subset, reaped from universes parallel or skeins of time alongside. People who visit and buy report that they are real, useful items often enough. But just as often, they are dangerous, unusable, or fatal.

Let us step inside, past the cashiers (who never go inside themselves, out of fear) to see what we may.

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