Restocking the Abyss

The Next Day

No new socks showed up, but an email from corporate did. The instructions were simple: tag the strange items with the provided label and ID number. If they didn’t hear back within a week, the items were to be placed in the clearance section at a price of $15.99.

Bob was unfazed—he’d dealt with weird stock issues before. He had a bin tucked away just for these kinds of situations. He slapped a sticky note on the 7.5G items, labeling them for "The Recycler"—his private nickname for the clearance dump—and set a mental timer: seven days until these things go out to the floor.

That day, no new shelves appeared, but a pen showed up. Just an ordinary blue Bic pen, no cap. It was sitting on shelf 10.5K for no reason at all. Without overthinking it, Bob tossed the pen into his personal pen bin on his desk. Weird, yes—but not “call the authorities” weird.

Trevor’s Dilemma

Trevor had seen the corporate memo and shrugged it off—it wasn’t unusual for corporate to send vague instructions. But the shelf issue? That was a different beast entirely. He still hadn’t reported it because, well… how could he?

“Prove the shelves exist,” corporate would say. And Trevor knew how that conversation would go.

"How do you mean, new shelves?"

"Can you send a photo?"

"Well… no. They sort of… disappear when you’re not looking they show up when you with in 20 feet of them do they start to filter into your Perception." "and they always! show up as 12 feet no mater where you measure from" " this is DR Who bull shit"

Yeah, not exactly a call he wanted to make. Better to just ignore it until they had something solid.

The Talk

When Trevor got back from a doctor’s appointment that afternoon, he decided it was time to confront Bob—lightly, of course.

"Look," Trevor said, rubbing his temples, "if this keeps happening, I might have to send you for a drug test." He held up a hand before Bob could respond. "I’m not saying anything official. I’m just… look, man, is it possible you unpacked something weird? Maybe you accidentally got a hit off some weird chemical, and that’s why you’re seeing strange stuff? I can’t force you to take a test, but it might be a good idea to get checked out—just in case."

Bob thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Can I leave 15 minutes early to hit the doctor before they close?"

Trevor blinked, caught off guard by how easily Bob took the suggestion. "Uh… yeah. Sure. That’s no problem."

Bob gave a small nod. "Cool. Thanks."

The Doctor’s Visit

The clinic was conveniently located across the street, so Bob clocked out early and walked over. The appointment was uneventful—they took some blood, asked a few standard questions, and promised to contact him if anything came up.

When Bob asked if he could get a copy of the results, the doctor just smiled. "Of course. Stop by anytime after 48hrs from now ,and we’ll have it ready."

Bob nodded. "Okay. Cool."

And with that, he headed home. Another weird day in the stockroom, but at least now he knew one thing: if something strange was happening, it wasn’t just in his head—or in his bloodstream.

The Handle

Two days later, Bob noticed a new problem: a bad smell.

If you've ever worked in a big building, you know the telltale scent of sewer gas when it creeps up through the drains. Bob, familiar with every inch of his stockroom, knew exactly where all the drains were and made a habit of pouring water down them once, sometimes twice, a month. So when the smell hit his nose that morning, he grabbed a bucket and did his usual rounds, dousing every drain he could find. But the stench didn't go away.

After making two laps around the warehouse, Bob realized the smell was strongest in the far back corner.

While scanning the area, his gaze landed on something strange: a small, silver handle embedded in the brick wall. It was so out of place that he stood there for ten full minutes, just staring at it. The handle was small—like the door it belonged to couldn’t be more than a foot wide. It looked like a brick wall, but this cut-out with a handle didn't belong.

"That wasn’t here yesterday," Bob muttered to himself.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he reached out, wrapping his hand around the handle. He gave it a pull. Nothing happened. He tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. But the moment his hand touched the handle, the bad smell intensified, like the stench was leaking straight from the metal.

He frowned, backing away. "What the hell is this?"

Just as Bob stood there, contemplating whether to leave it alone or get a hammer, Trevor came looking for him.

"Hey, Bob, what’s that smell? Smells like something crawled up a pipe and died."

Bob didn’t even turn. "Yeah, about that..." He pointed at the tiny handle. "It’s coming from there."

Trevor raised an eyebrow. "From... the bricks?"

Bob sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I know we’ve got weird crap going on with this stockroom, but I swear this handle wasn’t here yesterday. And when you pull on it, the smell gets worse. I’m thinking... maybe we seal it up? Get some spray foam, plug the crack, throw some plastic over it—pretend it’s not there."

Trevor stepped closer, inspecting the handle. "That’s... weird." He poked it but didn’t pull. "Okay. Here’s what we do. You grab some expanding foam and a screwdriver. Let’s unscrew the handle first, see if that helps. If not, we’ll seal the whole thing tight."

Bob nodded, relieved to have a plan. "Crack the windows, just in case."

With a screwdriver in hand, they removed the two tiny screws holding the handle in place. The moment the handle came free, the smell vanished. Like magic.

Trevor dropped the handle into a small cardboard box, looking satisfied. "Problem solved. I’ll take this with me."

"Where are you gonna put it?" Bob asked.

Trevor gave him a sly grin. "Don’t worry about it."

Side Story: The Stinky Handle

What Bob didn’t know was that Trevor really did attach the strange handle to his outhouse. And that’s when things got... weird.

At first, everything seemed normal. Trevor bolted the handle onto the door, thinking nothing of it. But when he opened it for the first time, the inside wasn’t his outhouse—it was nicer. The walls were made of smooth wood, with carved patterns that looked ancient and oddly ceremonial. The seat was padded, covered in what felt like fur—possibly animal, possibly not. It was the nicest crapper Trevor had ever seen, which, to be fair, was a low bar.

Trevor stood in the doorway, squinting. "Huh." It was weird, sure—but it was still an outhouse. How far could this rabbit hole really go?

Shrugging, Trevor stepped inside. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he turned to peek out the little crescent moon cutout—expecting to see his backyard and maybe a chicken wandering by. Instead, what he saw nearly made him shit himself.

Beyond the crescent moon was a vast, alien landscape—a place that felt ancient and unsettling. Rolling hills stretched endlessly, bathed in dim, purple-hued light. Strange trees dotted the horizon, their branches twitching like they were alive. The wind carried a low hum, vibrating in a way that made Trevor’s teeth ache.

The worst part? The smell.

The entire outhouse reeked like something—or someone—had used it centuries ago and never flushed. The air was thick, stinking of old rot and things best left buried.

Trevor gagged and reached for the door, hoping to bolt out into the eerie, open landscape beyond. But when he yanked it open—bam. His backyard. Chickens. The same lousy shed.

He blinked. Slammed the door.

Curious, he looked through the crescent moon again. Alien hills. Twitchy trees. Weird purple light.

Opened the door. Chickens. Home.

Trevor tried again and again, but the results were the same every time. Inside the outhouse: alien world. Step out: home sweet home. No exceptions. He could look all he wanted, but he couldn’t go anywhere.

It was like some twisted cosmic prank—an interdimensional peep show he didn’t ask for.

"Well, this is just great," Trevor muttered, slapping the doorframe. "A magical crapper. And I can’t even use it."

The first few times he sat inside, the frustration was real. "What kind of half-assed gift is this?" he grumbled. "I don’t even get to take a piss somewhere exotic?" But after a while, the absurdity of it started to grow on him. It was weirdly... peaceful.

Sure, the outhouse reeked like the bowels of hell, but Trevor had septic chemicals for that. A little elbow grease, and it became a tolerable, if stinky, sanctuary.

He started bringing a camera with him, snapping photos through the crescent moon cutout. "Hey, Bob," he imagined saying one day. "Wanna see the vacation pics I took... from my toilet?"

Any time work at the stockroom got overwhelming, Trevor would slip into the outhouse for a breather. He couldn’t explore the alien world or bring back souvenirs, but just knowing it was out there made life a little more interesting. In its own weird way, the outhouse became his escape—a strange little corner of peace where he could sit, think, and take in the alien view, far away from restocking shelves or dealing with Bob’s latest weird find.

And, honestly? That was enough.

The only downside?

He still couldn’t figure out if the handle would open a door back to the alien outhouse from someone else’s world. The thought gave him the occasional shiver: What if something on the other side gets curious, too?

“Meh,” Trevor would mutter, shaking it off. “If it shows up, at least it’ll have to deal with Bob first.”

And with that comforting thought, Trevor sat back on the furry seat, leaned his head against the wall, and stared out at the alien landscape—content with the knowledge that even though he couldn’t stay, at least no one else could, either.