Betrayals Reckoning

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Chapter 1: The Dusty Secrets of the Antique Shop

In the depths of his soul, Herschel Schultz, the proprietor of Schultz Antiques, always endeavored to perceive the enchantment within his shop—his livelihood. Each day, he inhaled the scent of aged paper, a fragrance that had matured over the years. He also observed the settling dust, akin to the remnants of forgotten aspirations. The sun's rays filtered through the shop's heavily draped windows. Each ray illuminated the dance of dust motes in the air, transforming them into ethereal airborne performers. Yet beneath this seemingly ordinary surface lay a world of mysteries waiting to be unraveled.

These were the original windows of the shop, seemingly untouched by human hands. They opened to a world outside, a living museum of bygone eras that could never be revisited. Billy Levi is a pale, slender figure of five-foot-six and a half. He had a mop of unruly curls, and he was entrusted with the perpetual task of dusting these relics while preserving their barely remembered stories.

As the assistant, Billy's role was to assist Herschel in preserving the shop's treasures. He let out a sigh as he lifted a silver tea set, its surface adorned with intricate, swirling engravings. The thought of its potential value at a pawn shop flickered in his mind, only to be extinguished by the imagined disappointment on Herschel's face. Yet, the seed of temptation had been planted, its roots beginning to take hold. Billy was torn between his loyalty to Herschel and the allure of the shop's valuable artifacts.

But his job today was to keep busy meticulously cataloging a collection of tarnished silver spoons.

His brow furrowed as he caught a glimpse of his boss and mentor, Herschel… a hunched figure of an old man who mostly hung out in his small, cluttered office in the back of the shop.

Herschel was busy buffing a silver, tarnished pocket watch with hands that had aged beyond its owner's years. The watch, a precious instrument marked only by an intricate call sign ? an image of a bird over stylized wings?glared at the mystery man.

It looked burdened, even to Hershel, with a weight of some thousand years, as if it carried the secrets of a grand civilization or the forgotten memories of a coat of arms. He did not recognize the symbol, but Billy felt a flicker of curiosity rouse in his belly, curiosity that was now taking shape as a dread fascination.

This morning, Herschel had a faded photograph peeking out from a dirty shirt pocket. The edges were well-worn, and the image blurred over time. The faint outline of a young woman with laughing eyes and a military uniform always sent Billy a slight shiver.

For Herschel, he was more than just an enigma. Many would say he was a living mystery, just a specter of a man who had emigrated from Germany shortly after the war had ended. His past was a shadowy maze of whispered rumors haunted by the specter of war's atrocities.

Billy often caught Herschel lost in reverie. His eyes were distant as if haunted by unspoken memories too painful to ever voice, which perhaps added to his character's intrigue. The other shopkeepers on Antiques Row were always sharing tales of strange noises that would echo from Herschel's shop at night.

They were like - guttural chants, muffled thumps, and sometimes a bloodcurdling scream. All these eerie sounds were like a war from a forgotten past, only deepened by the mystique surrounding Herschel.

At first, Billy dismissed the rumors as the product of overactive imaginations among antique dealers. But as time went on… a seed of doubt began to sprout in the fertile soil of his young mind that was fed and watered by Herschel's cryptic silence at times as his curiosity grew.

If truth be known, the real source of Billy's unease was a single artifact displayed in a locked glass case in the corner: a Luger Parabellum Artillery Model pistol with its blued steel gleaming and an almost unnatural sheen even in the dim light. He knew that old man Herschel wouldn't allow anyone to touch it, let alone buy it. Whenever Billy would venture near the case, there would be a flicker of something dark and primal crossing the old man's face. A skeletal look that sent shivers down Billy's spine.

Billy once caught a glimpse of a faded inscription on a hidden compartment within the case. Straining his eyes, he could barely make out the words: "A guardian of the past, a key to a door best left unopened."

One humid afternoon, young Billy, using great care, arranged a display of ornately carved chess pieces when a faint clicking sound suddenly echoed from the direction of the attic.

Billy knew from past experiences that the attic was strictly off-limits.

“No Matter,” Billy thought, for its dusty access hatch was secured by a heavy padlock. ”Nothing to Fear?” However, for him, it was an extreme curiosity, a persistent, deep itch that he could never quite scratch. It would continuously gnaw at him as he wondered about it.

He was very curious about the sound, so he inched closer and closer… His heart hammered a frantic tattoo against his rib cage…The clicking grew louder and louder, accompanied by a low guttural moan that seemed to reverberate through the floorboards of that ceiling.

Billy stood fearfully as his breath caught in his throat.

He was about to flee when a startling, booming voice echoed… from behind him.

"Billy!

What the hell are you doing?"

Herschel stood there with hands on hips and a mask of fury on his face. His weathered hands clenched into tightening fists.

Chapter 2: A Bargain Proposed

“Just…just getting things in a…um, M-Mr. Schultz -" Billy mumbled, his smile forced and stiff against his own teeth.

Herschel glanced at him a long moment, a line of grey staring down into Billy's soul. “You can't go in the attic, Billy. You have nothing to do there.” Tension drained from the old man's crooked posture, and his voice softened. "Those sounds," Herschel rasped, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "they're a warning, Billy. The Luger…it holds a restless spirit, one that yearns to be free. But the freedom it brings is a terrible one. Now, please get back to work."

Billy was not so sure, his rather vivid imagination convinced that something far more sinister was going on, but Billy did not feel comfortable voicing his concerns in case the old man returned to his usual belligerence. The attic moaned and groaned softly with disuse as the sun crossed to the west and afternoon spread itself out before him.

As closing time approached, a well-dressed man with an air of quiet authority entered the shop through the stained, rickety wooden entrance door. The little bells jingled to let them know there was a potential customer.

He came forward and introduced himself as Franz Gruber, for his voice was smooth as polished marble, and his eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity. His gaze snagged on the Luger in the glass case like a predator spotting its prey, ready to pounce. A faint scar, almost invisible beneath his carefully groomed hairline, pulsed faintly in the afternoon light. Billy couldn't quite place it, but it sent a shiver down his spine.

In his German accent, he said, "Ah, the Artillery Luger," as he purred, his voice caressing.

“It's a most magnificent piece, wouldn't you say? Is it for sale?"

Herschel slowly tightened his hand on the polishing cloth he was holding.

"Not for any price," he said curtly, his voice laced with a barely suppressed tremor.

Gruber's grin even momentarily faltered paused, and then resumed again. Here, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur. “Oh, Herr Schultz, maybe we can discuss a little ? shall we say ? more generous offer in private?”

Billy's eyes flicked between them, his stomach filling with icy dread. Herschel sounded even more turned off by it, and his tone of voice was underneath... well, it was cracked with a dark spider webbing of fear that Billy recognized - but couldn't quite wrap his head around.

Gruber was getting irritated, and he left in a way that was equal parts menace and the faint odor of an unpleasant dream.

Chapter 3: What Lurks in the Attic?

Herschel had taken in a homeless Billy a few years back, a skinny kid who had been kicked out of his own home for reasons unknown. What he offered Billy was a job, a roof over his head, food on his plate, a warm bed, and a… gruff but genuine lovingkindness.

The thought of ever betraying the old man, who'd become a caring father figure, twisted a knot of guilt in Billy's churning gut.

Later that evening, as Billy locked up the front door of the shop as he always does, Herschel placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"My son, my Billy, my boy," Herschel said, his voice grave: "that evil man…Gruber… there's something about him I simply don't trust?especially his overt interest in the Luger.

"My Son," Herschel pleaded, his voice cracking with a tremor that sent shivers down Billy's spine. The color was draining from his face, and his hands gripped the polishing cloth with a white-knuckled intensity.

"Please, you don't understand.” “That wicked gun... it carries a secret, a darkness.”

“A darkness that I can't risk ever unleashing again.”

“Promise me, Billy… you'll never touch it… never try to sell it."

His dark brown eyes held a haunted glint of a flicker of a terror that Billy couldn't quite decipher.

"Listen to me because It carries a sickness, a darkness... Billy. It is cursed and because of it I barely survived with my life during the war."

Billy was slightly shaken by the encounter with Gruber and kept listening and hearing the unsettling weight of the old man's words. He shook his head and agreed.

Billy left the shop that day and was haunted by the warnings about Gruber and those sounds from the attic….

Eventually, the days went by and turned into weeks. A once forbidden curiosity to him, the image of the Luger morphed into something more like a shimmering mirage. Perhaps a promise of escape… from the drudgery of his mundane and boring life.

Each day, Billy found himself strangely drawn to that gun?the gun with its polished and shiny surface?he constantly thought of the exorbitant sum Franz Gruber was willing to pay. “A half-million dollars in gold…”

Every day was mostly quiet and other days the sounds from the attic intensified and blended with the growing desperation that kept gnawing at Billy's weakened conscience.

His growing obsessions became a plan. A plan that was fueled by reckless ambition. A gnawing sense of hopelessness began to take seed and root in his greedy mind…..

Then one day, as Billy sighed at the repetitive tasks of daily routines, there came that dull ache in his lusting mind.

He glanced out the window, daydreaming of a life well beyond these ancient, dusty shelves.

For college was a distant dream and a wanting fantasy, never in the cards, for he could never afford it.

He knew that working at the antique shop paid in benefits, but it offered no escape, no fun, no life... from the stifling, boring monotony.

He kept thinking and playing in his mind that the exorbitant sum Franz Gruber offered for the Luger was a chance, a ticket out, perhaps a plan for a future he could only imagine. After all, what he could do for a half-million dollars in gold…

One dark and stormy night, as the wind howled like a banshee and rattled all the shop's windows like skeletal fingers… Billy was a knot of nervous energy twisting and burning in his gut as he donned a black ski mask and gloves.

He waited until the storm reached its peak, masking the sounds of his frantic, planned movement.

Picking the lock on the back door was easier than he anticipated. The adrenaline coursing through his veins momentarily silenced the doubts deep inside that clawed at the edges of his lost mind.

He crept towards the glass case as shadows twisted into grotesque caricatures in the flickering streetlight filtering through the shop's front window.

As his hand slowly reached for the case… suddenly, a raw voice filled with ancient sorrow echoed through the shop's walls and ceiling.

It wasn't German, but a haunting melody from a language Billy couldn't place.

The room was plunged into a suffocating cold, and an invisible miasma filled every square inch of the air.

The room was quickly shrouded in darkness as a figure materialized from the gloom Billy look and saw an unlocked attic where its skeletal form draped in tattered clothing floated down the steps.

Extreme terror locked Billy's limbs in place as if he were glued to the floor…

"Who… dares… disturb…the dead," the voice bellowed, then cut off abruptly.

The figure lunged towards Billy as a boney hand reached out with unnatural blinding speed and just as it was grasping his shoulder, a guttural roar erupted from behind him.

Billy whipped around to see Herschel's face contorted in fury… wielding a heavy candlestick like a club.

The figure behind Billy recoiled with a hiss as it dissolved into the dark shadows almost as quickly as it appeared.

The old man was murmuring and breathing heavily as he lowered the candlestick.

His hand trembled slightly, and for one fleeting moment, a flicker of pain crossed his weathered face.

Billy, shaken to the core and confused, blurted out, "What was that thing?" He realized he had given himself away.

Suddenly, consumed by sheer panic and the desperate need to escape, he saw only accusation in Herschel's aging eyes. “Billy, my Son?”

That image…that greed?the desires?the knowledge of the half-million dollars flashed brightly in his mind.

For it was quite a seductive vision that eclipsed the tremors of fear and the prickling of guilt.

In one desperate lunge, fueled by fear and avarice, Billy knocked over the glass case as the gun went off, hitting the old man in the heart of his chest… Herschel… his adoptive father… his savior...

A sickening thud hit the ground!

Herschel crumpled to the floor with a strangled gasp escaping his lips.

Billy stood there in sheer panic with his chest heaving, realizing the enormity of what he had done as it came crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

In panic, he raced to the glass case, adrenaline momentarily overriding his horror.

Shards of glass littered the floor as he snatched the Luger.

Herschel fought for his last breath, whispering: “Why Billy, Why my…..son…why…”

As Billy left the antique shop, there was a sudden shift in temperature and scene.

The air crackled with strange energy…

The familiar shop suddenly vanished into the mist and was replaced by a scene from a hellish nightmare.

His town no longer existed, and he was no longer on Antique Row….

What he saw was lined with dilapidated buildings and cobblestone streets stretched endlessly in the grey light….

Chapter 4: Echoes of a Forgotten Past

A fire, something hot, a brand, as yellow Star of David burned slowly onto Billy's chest, replacing his tattoo.

He looked about for help, and there across the darkened street stood...

Franz… Gruber… and not in his collector's suit but in a black Gestapo uniform, as a cruel smile twisted his lips.

"Herr Billy, Welcome to the Warsaw Ghetto," he said, his voice dripping with chilling satisfaction.

"Finally. Now, hand it over."

He held out his hand with his eyes gleaming with a terrifying hunger that sent shivers down Billy's spine.

As Billy hesitated momentarily, a flicker of movement in the distance caught his eye. Gaunt figures, skeletal and hollow-eyed, were being herded down the street by armed guards.

Their gaunt faces were etched with a despair that exactly mirrored Billy's own.

He finally was beginning to understand what the old man was trying to say. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him as the whispers from the attic, Herschel's haunted dying eyes, and the weight of the Luger all clicked into place.

Shame and guilt burned in his chest with a searing heat as he choked back his response.

He looked around the crowded streets as his eyes met the vacant bodies' with vacant stares.

The Luger, a cursed weapon imbued with a dark energy that slowly, as if waking up, pulsed in his hand, now a constant reminder of his transgression of what he had done.

Franz lunged forward and snatched the Luger with a triumphant, deep guttural laugh.

"Danke Billy," he said in his deep German Accent.

"With this history, it will now rewrite itself as it should have. For Victory will be ours!!" Gruber continued to laugh with excitement and started to walk away.

Two burly Gestapo officers suddenly materialized beside Franz as they forcefully grabbed Billy, roughing him up.

"Let me go!" Billy screamed, but his voice was lost in the chaos.

He heard a lone train whistle as it blew a mournful cry in the stench of dead air.

As the two guards shoved him into a cattle car, Billy saw the familiar faces of the… Warsaw ghetto stared back at him with horrifying clarity.

He understood now?the whispers, the fear, the weight of the Luger, for it wasn't a weapon; it was a key...

It was a key to a past Billy had helped unleash and a future he was condemned to suffer, whatever the consequences.

As the stench of fear and despair hung heavy in the air; there was a suffocating miasma mirroring his guilt's crushing weight.

The train jerked and lurched forward as it carried Billy towards possibly a fate that would be far worse than anything he could ever have imagined.

Oh, the weight of his actions kept pressing down on him, just like a suffocating, weighted blanket that always threatened to crush him.

Tears streamed down his ragged face with a torrent of regret and despair....

He looked around the crowded cattle car as his eyes were met with the vacant death stares of his fellow passengers. For they were no longer faceless figures but real individuals…

- a young boy clutching a tattered teddy bear... while an old woman murmured a prayer... and a man whose eyes held a chilling blank emptiness.

Billy saw the reflection of his own betrayal in their despair, for he knew it was his greed that caused all this.

The gripping terror gnawed at him not just for his own fate but for the unimaginable suffering he had helped unleash as the old man's words echoed over and over in his head: "Why, my Son, Why."

Conclusion

The train journey seemed to stretch on for what felt like an eternity to Billy.

Now, each day blurred into every single night.

Billy felt and smelled the constant stench of sweat, urine, feces, terror, and fear, for they were a constant companion of regrets of something greater. Oh,' something greater!

The hunger in his belly gnawed at his intestines time and time again, for they were like a constant belly ache and a pounding headache that sapped his energy from his every dream.

Billy felt the train begin to slow down. It stopped with a screeching noise, and the heavy doors groaned and grunted against the metal as they were being opened.

It was like he had been dragged from a dark nightmare, and as his eyes unfocused, they slowly unveiled a horror show straight from his dreams.

He saw smoke billowing from a distant horizon... painting the grey sky an ominous black.

As barbed wire fences stretched as far as the eye could see... encasing a sprawling network of wooden barracks.

The stench of burning death filled the forever-dank air.

Armed guards stepped forward and monstrously barked orders in German as their voices echoed across the desolate landscape.

But Billy heard one more scream ? "AUSCHWITZ!" Then all at once a tumult broke out at the outskirts of a camp. The guards snapped orders, stretching words into urgent threads. Billy risked looking up at the noise. His sight line just passed the barbed wire fence. There, beneath the setting sun, surrounded by the warm ambers of a pristine vista.

Wildflowers - tall and proud - blossomed an entire spectrum of looks and hues, slicing through the monotony in the scene like a shock of electricity. One bird flew high with the sun spotlighting its wings against an azure background. A tear, singular, cut a thin path into the dirt on his cheek, a measure of how much he longs it actually hurt.

The moment was fleeting. A guard's harsh voice shattered the illusion. The prisoners were herded back into the suffocating darkness of the barracks, the memory of the sunset fading as quickly as it appeared. Billy slumped onto his bunk, his calloused hands cradled in his lap.

The weight of his actions crushed him, the chilling certainty of his eternal imprisonment a suffocating shroud around his soul. He stared at his hands, the fading memory of freedom a cruel taunt against the reality of his new forever.

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