Fear the Crab

I’m in a one-story shop, wood floors and walls with thick tree trunk columns supporting the roof. The varnish is very dark, offset by the white sunlight through large pane windows on the far side. I believe it is a shop because there are tables with assorted knick-knacks, but there are no prices (perhaps an antique store?). The shop is part of a larger structure, in a district of concrete. There are people outside.

A homeless man walks into the shop, eating rice out of a dog bowl. I briefly think that he stole it from a stray dog one of the residents leaves food out for. I watch the man walk across the room to a door set in the wall. He tries to open it, but it is locked.

A bus has pulled up to the shop, breaking the white curtain of light with its silhouette. Japanese tourists disembark and proceed single-file into the shop, heralded by a cacophony of conversation punctuated with desperate cries from the tour group leader. The homeless man approaches the tourists as though he works in the shop (I know he does not), and begins to “confiscate” their lunch under the premise of the store not allowing any.

A woman enters the shop from the opposite end. She seems familiar, yet unrecognizable. She disapproves of the homeless man, but does not stop him. I feel disgusted by the lack of authority and the willingness to be taken advantage of. I move to the center of the shop. My intention is to kneel and meditate in front of an altar. My thoughts briefly justify this action as an attempt to garner sympathy and mete out guilt. “Look, he has to pray to the ancestors for you to stop this.”

I sit for less than a minute. I am then prompted to approach the homeless man and lead him to the altar. I tell him that “Grandfather wants to talk to you.” He stands in front of the altar, which has transformed into a hinged door. The door opens to reveal a slender woman, gorgeous and robed. She beckons the man to enter. All his sins shall be forgiven. I step back. My mind tells me that this was not planned. I watch as the man sheds joyous tears, understandably eager to absolve himself of past misdeeds, and he graciously enters the door.

The door closes. I know it was a ruse, a trap. The door and beyond is something terrible. I wait for the scream, but it doesn’t come. The tourists have begun to browse the store shelves. The woman thanks me for my help. I try to tell her that the door is an illusion, that what is on the other side is worse than the man before. I try to tell everyone that they need to leave. The evil behind the door is not finished. It is still hungry and wants to consume.

I am ignored as the door opens again.