Dröger

Whether forced by instinct or by the siren call of IKEA’s most notable attraction, the family was pulled down the Showrooms path. There were a few other families wandering the path, but the majority of the people were made up of IKEA staff stationed at their respective spaces. Many paced through model kitchens or boredly counted ceiling tiles, but none left their invisible enclosures. They were like ants encaged in sidewalk chalk, unable to cross their imaginary barriers. 

The Weathers, captivated by bedframes, pillows, or tufted rugs, began to drift apart and lose one another in the belly of the great beast. Mr. Weathers entertained himself by imagining scenarios for each of the model rooms he entered. At a living room, he plopped himself on a beige UPPLAND sectional, and, after glancing around for any watchful eyes, propped his shoes up on the coffee table. He gazed into a flatscreen TV sitting atop a BRIMNES television stand. 

“The boys’ll be here any minute. Petunia, where is that dip?” He mumbled experimentally. Pleased with himself, he stood and wandered to the kitchen, a bright white display which caused his pupils to dilate. He ran his hand along the veneer KARLBY countertop, then at a regular volume declared to the air, “Hon, accounting isn’t as simple as just scribbling a few numbers. It requires my complete focus. When I’m at work, I just can’t be expected to answer phone calls.” Now there was an ongoing argument between him and Mrs. Weathers, after Mr. Weathers had missed a call from the kids’ school. He couldn’t remember why. 

“Now I’m sorry, but the kids are simply your responsibility.” Triumphantly, Mr. Weathers took a glass decanter prop from the counter and mimed taking a swig. At the same time, a young couple- a tall, gangly guy and a lady with long blonde hair in a ponytail- entered the room and Mr. Weathers, embarrassed, busied himself with examining the quality of the glassware in his hand. Watching from the camera in the corner of the room, a bemused security guard was glad he came to work today. 

Mr. Weathers flashed a stiff smile at the affronted couple, then made his escape into an office room. He was beginning to admire the IDANÄS beech desk— very conducive for hard, focused work— when the room went pin-drop silent. Every noise in the store— the hum of air vents, the tick of TJALLA wall clocks, the murmur of conversation— just… ceased. At the same time, the pressure in the room dropped and Mr. Weathers felt his ears pop painfully. Was this some kind of medical emergency? He had heard about this kind of thing on TV. Anxiety chilled his veins. He wondered if he should call for help. 

“Hello?” He ventured, cringing at the unnatural way his voice sounded in the isolating silence. Immediately, he heard a scuffling sound from somewhere far off, then the more distinguishable sound of fast footsteps on the main path. He thought about calling out again but he suddenly felt reluctant to draw attention to himself. Something very strange was happening here. He began working his way back through the showrooms, back through the kitchen and living room mock-ups, feeling as though at any moment someone would leap out and surprise him. The bright, lively kitchen now felt too bright, clinical; the living room frozen and uninviting. But nobody came. The silence had returned, more deafening than ever, and with it a chill that curled at Mr. Weathers’ ankles as he returned to the main path. The source of the chill was a thin white fog which had begun to spread across the Showrooms floor. It had no noticeable source or direction, and was so silent that Mr. Weathers thought that he could be imagining it if not for the condensation it left on his skin. Was it a gas leak? With some effort— it always looked easier in movies— he tore off the cuff of his shirt and held it over his mouth and nose. He searched the path for an IKEA partner or really anybody who might be able to confirm his suspicions, but he was completely alone. 

Mr. Weathers was not the superstitious type. He considered himself a man of science, and in his opinion there was nothing in the world that couldn’t be explained by logic or reason. Was he drunk? Dreaming? But dreams had never felt this real. The fear though-- that was real. 

It was like nothing he’d ever seen, even in those paranormal investigation shows on TV. Without thinking about it, he began to walk briskly back down the path toward the escalators. Every sensation in his body felt like it was on overdrive, yet his mind moved like cold honey. And so he hardly had time to react when the explosion hit. 

The blast caused the entire building to shudder, and for one heart-stopping moment the ceiling seemed as if it was about to collapse. OFTAST plates shattered in cabinets, OXBERG doors fell off their hinges, and Mr. Weather’s teeth rattled in his skull. He clung to a HOLMERUD side table for balance as a powerful gust of wind ripped through the store. 

After an eternity, the store calmed. Mr. Weathers tentatively stood and looked around him at the wreckage. All the furniture was toppled, and loose objects lay about at random intervals on the ground. A thick coating of dust settled atop the debris, and loose screws were everywhere. He hoped they didn’t belong to anything structurally important. His glasses were nowhere to be found, snatched from his face at some point during the explosion. His ears rung profusely. His hands felt damp and clammy. He searched his surroundings for any others who had been caught in the blast, but it was impossible to tell under the dust covering. It was then that he noticed that the fog had completely disappeared, and that there was a demon looking at him. 

Mr. Weathers wasn’t the superstitious type, but without a doubt, the thing watching him from atop an INGOLF dining room chair was a demon. There was no other explanation for its hideousness, its presence, the way every shadow seemed to grow darker in the spell it cast. There was a magnetic quality to the creature, as if even the air in Mr. Weather’s lungs would be absorbed by its massiveness. It was thrice his size, yet perched on the chair like a cat. Gray flesh hung in shifting masses from its skeleton. Mr. Weathers searched for a face, a pair of eyes, anything that would connect the creature’s visage to any semblance of humanity, but found only a shifting mass of dark matter. And yet somehow it could sense him, of that he was certain. He felt its crawling gaze fall upon him, assessing him. Sizing him up. 

As his mind worked in knots to explain the impossible phenomenon, the PA system chimed to life, filling the store with welcome noise. The demon lifted its head to listen. But instead of a pleasant faux-Swedish voice with a pre-recorded message, there was only a static crackle followed by the rushed words of a man who wasn’t trying very hard to sound calm. 

“Attention shoppers. Please evacuate the building using the main exit doors in the atrium and collect your 50% off coupon from our store partner. The police will arrive shortly to sort out the earthquake and natural gas explosion. I repeat, please evacuate t--- atrium and collect---the police---” 

The sound system clicked and fell silent. 

Mr. Weathers chanced a look behind him and slowly backed away, keeping his footsteps as soft and quiet as possible. The demon’s attention returned to him. It unfurled itself-- revealing small, clawed hands from within its sagging body-- and took a few steps in his direction. Strength coiled in its limbs. It was a predator. It seemed unscathed, despite the explosive force of the blast that had seemingly placed it here. A large store full of people- there was only one reason why it could be there. It was hunting. It could probably kill him in a heartbeat, though Mr. Weathers didn’t know if demons actually ate humans, or even if they ate at all. It didn’t look at all like the demons from the Bible, or in The Conjuring. But there was no doubt in his mind that it was here because it was hungry. 

The demon prowled toward him. Mr. Weathers took off running through the showrooms. Mr. Weathers was beginning to feel like the demon had been sent specifically for him; as if he was the one intended to banish it, to send it back to whatever hell-hole it had crawled from. From the very start he had been separated from everyone else, perhaps to perform this sacred task. It had exploded into existence near him for a reason. The demon was a test, a game of sorts, a trial put in place for Mr. Weathers himself. Perhaps, he thought, he was the only one who was capable of such a feat. 

The idea that he, Mark Marian Weathers, accountant from suburban Indiana, family man, was destined to slay such a monster, was electrifying. With newfound determination, he grabbed the post of a tall TÅGARP floor lamp and hefted it in one hand. In the other he took up a decorative GRINSBOL mirror and braced it against his body. They would be his sword and shield, and he, the knight, would slay the monster. Mr. Weathers stopped running and turned to face the demon.