Title: "The Last Shave" Narrator's voice, low and eerie: There’s a barbershop in a small, forgotten corner of town—one of those places you walk by without a second glance, as if it had always been there and always would be. The kind of place where time seems to stop, and the clocks, if there are any, only tick in whispers. The flickering neon sign outside reads: "Carl’s Cuts." No one really knew Carl, but they all knew his shop. People said he never aged. His razors were always sharp, his blades... unforgiving. Some swore by his straight razor, the kind used in a wet shave—a hot towel, a smooth lather, the cold steel sliding against skin. A perfect cut every time, they said. But no one noticed how some men walked into Carl’s... and never came out. One stormy night, the bell over the door jingled, and in walked a tall figure. His coat was soaked, dripping onto the black-and-white tiled floor. Carl, always calm, glanced up from his chair. There was something off about this man. His face was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes... well, they weren’t quite there at all. The stranger sat down without a word, gesturing to the barber’s chair. Carl’s hands shook for the first time in years as he reached for the straight razor. “Wet shave?” Carl asked, forcing a smile. The stranger nodded, his bony hand slowly pulling away the scarf from his neck, revealing skin stretched tight—too tight. As Carl prepared the lather, the lights flickered. A chill ran through the air. He applied the hot towel, but the steam seemed to dissipate too quickly, leaving behind only coldness. Carl tried to steady his hand as he approached with the razor, but something told him this was no ordinary customer. The blade touched the man's skin, and Carl gasped. The razor didn’t shave; it sliced through the air, gliding over the skin without resistance. Not a hair fell, not a drop of blood spilled, and yet the man was perfectly clean-shaven with each pass. As Carl continued, his heart raced. He glanced at the mirror in front of him, and what he saw chilled him to the bone. There was no reflection of the man in the chair—just the chair itself, empty... but still, he shaved. Carl wanted to stop, but his hands moved on their own, tracing the hollow of the stranger’s jaw, the sharp cheekbones, until at last... the shave was done. The man stood, turning to face Carl, who could feel his heart pounding against his chest. “Thank you,” the man whispered, his voice dry and cold as winter’s breath. He reached into his coat, pulling out a silver coin and placing it on the counter. But before Carl could respond, the man’s eyes—those dark, empty sockets—met his. “You’ll need this for yourself,” the stranger said, his bony fingers tapping the razor Carl still clutched. And in that moment, Carl knew who had been sitting in his chair. The bell rang as the door opened and closed, but Carl didn’t move. He stood there, frozen, staring at the coin on the counter... until it crumbled into dust. The next morning, they found Carl. Eyes wide open, razor clutched in his hand, his face as clean-shaven as ever. But Carl wasn’t breathing. He never would again. And as for the shop? They say it’s still there, hidden in plain sight. You might even walk by it someday, but be careful. Because if you walk in... you might just get the closest shave of your life.* End.

4 months ago