Chapter 1: Welcome to Burberry's

Chapter 1: Welcome to Burberry's

The town of Burberry smelled of wet asphalt and defeat. To Alex Vance, it was the smell of his new prison. Three weeks ago, his world had been green lawns, a bedroom with walls covered in band posters, and friends he’d known since kindergarten. Now, it was a rust-colored stain on the map, a town of sagging porches and shuttered storefronts where the sky seemed permanently bruised.

His father called it a “strategic relocation,” a fancy term for his new job at the regional bottling plant being the only thing keeping them afloat. He called it a “fresh start.” Alex called it the end of the world.

“Just go for a walk, Alex,” his dad had said that morning, his voice strained with forced optimism. “Explore. Get the lay of the land. You can’t just sit in your room all summer.”

So here Alex was, kicking a loose stone down a cracked sidewalk, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a faded grey hoodie despite the humid July air. The houses stared at him with vacant, grimy windows. Each one looked like it had given up long ago. He was twelve years old, adrift in a sea of middle-aged apathy. The loneliness was a physical weight on his slumped shoulders.

He turned a corner and stopped. It was the first building he’d seen that wasn’t a house or a boarded-up shop. A two-story brick behemoth, it stood like a stubborn old molar in a mouth full of decay. The paint on the large sign above the double doors was peeling, but the name was still legible in bold, archaic letters: BURBERRY GYM. Below it, a newer, hand-painted sign read: “Building Strong Bodies & Stronger Community Since 1952.”

Curiosity, a feeling he thought had died on the moving truck, pricked at him. It was something. It was anything. With a defiant sigh, he pushed open one of the heavy wooden doors.

The air that hit him was a strange cocktail: the familiar tang of sweat and iron mixed with something else, something clean and ancient, like antiseptic and old paper. The cavernous room was filled with hulking, old-fashioned weight machines, their black metal frames gleaming under the long fluorescent lights. A few stoic-looking men grunted through their repetitions, their faces grim. The place felt less like a gym and more like a temple for some forgotten, joyless god.

“Well now, what have we here?” The voice boomed from behind a high counter, echoing slightly in the large space. “A new face! A new soul for the iron temple!”

Alex turned to see a mountain of a man unfolding himself from a stool. He had to be in his late sixties, with a magnificent, perfectly trimmed silver beard and a chest as broad as a refrigerator. He wore a simple grey t-shirt and sweatpants, but he carried himself with the posture of a king. This had to be Louis Alistair.

“Just looking,” Alex mumbled, feeling small and unathletic under the man’s gaze.

“Looking is the first step to lifting!” Louis boomed, his smile wide and dazzling. But his eyes, Alex noticed, didn’t smile with the rest of his face. They were unnervingly clear and bright, like polished stones, and they seemed to see right through Alex’s sullen teenage armor. “Louis Alistair, proprietor. Welcome to my humble establishment. You live around here, son?”

“Just moved. Over on Elm Street.”

“Ah, the old Henderson place. Good house. Good bones.” Louis nodded, stroking his beard. “This town needs new blood. Let me give you the tour. Every member of our little family gets the tour.”

Before Alex could protest, Louis was rounding the counter, his presence so immense it felt like it was sucking the air out of the room. He guided Alex through the weight room, past the grunting men, and towards a hallway. As they walked, a door to a supply closet opened and a man shuffled out, nearly colliding with them.

He was the opposite of Louis in every way: tall but painfully thin, with a gaunt face and sunken, terrified eyes. He wore a stained janitor’s uniform and flinched as if expecting a blow.

“Watch it, Neil,” Louis said, his voice losing none of its cheer, yet carrying an edge of command.

The janitor, Neil, didn’t respond. His gaze flickered from Louis to Alex, and for a split second, Alex saw an expression of profound, soul-deep pity in those haunted eyes. It was so out of place, so intense, that it made the skin on Alex’s arms prickle. Then, with a strangled, breathy noise, Neil averted his gaze and shuffled away down the hall, his eyes darting fearfully into every corner.

“Don’t mind Neil,” Louis said dismissively. “He’s been with us forever. A bit shy.”

He pushed open a swinging door, and they were hit with a wave of hot, damp air. The locker room. Steam hissed from the pipes running along the ceiling, and the smell of damp concrete and chlorine was thick. The room was lined with rows of identical, drab grey lockers.

“Now, this is the heart of the gym,” Louis announced, his voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone. “Every new kid in Burberry, every boy who wants to prove he’s got some sand, gets an initiation. A little tradition.”

He led Alex down an aisle to the very last row, tucked away in the dimmest corner of the room. He stopped and pointed. “Behold.”

Alex looked. All the lockers had numbers stenciled on them in faded black paint, except for one. At the end of the row, its door was a blank, seamless face of bruised grey metal. There was no number, no keyhole, not even a slot for a padlock. It was utterly featureless, save for a simple, unadorned latch handle.

“The numberless locker,” Louis said, a theatrical reverence in his voice. “Legend says it’s been here since the gym was built. They say it’s where they keep the things people want to forget.” He leaned closer to Alex, his breath smelling of mints. “The dare is simple. You just have to open it.”

Alex snorted. “That’s it? That’s the big initiation?”

“That’s it,” Louis confirmed, his bright eyes twinkling. “Just put your hand on the latch, open the door, and look inside. That’s all it takes to be welcomed into the fold.”

It was stupid. A dumb prank to scare the new kid. Alex could see the game. He’d look, and Louis would probably shout ‘boo!’ or something equally lame. But his pride, already raw from the move, wouldn’t let him back down. He’d be the scared new kid from the suburbs if he refused.

“Fine,” Alex said, trying to sound bored. He stepped forward, his reflection a wavering ghost on the locker’s dull metal surface. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the latch.

The cold was instantaneous and absolute.

It wasn't the normal cold of metal in a damp room. This was an unnatural chill, a dead, sterile cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with absence. It sank into his skin, past the muscle, and straight into his bones, a profound emptiness that seemed to drain the warmth from his very soul.

His breath hitched in his throat. For a single, heart-stopping second, the grimy locker room vanished. He wasn’t in a gym anymore. He was staring into a void. Not blackness, which is the absence of light, but a crushing, absolute nothing. It was a silent, colorless, featureless space where things simply ceased to be. The sight—if it could be called that—screamed at his mind, a psychic shriek of utter annihilation. From the depths of that nothing, he heard a faint, dry whisper, like dead leaves skittering across pavement.

Alex snatched his hand back as if burned, stumbling away from the locker. He blinked, and the steamy room snapped back into focus. His heart was hammering against his ribs, and the fingers that had touched the latch were numb and tingling.

Louis was standing there, his broad smile firmly in place. But his eyes had changed. They were no longer just bright; they were ancient and sharp, filled with a clinical, evaluating light. He was watching Alex, gauging his reaction.

“See?” Louis boomed, his jovial tone returning, though it now sounded hollow and false. “Just an old locker. Nothing to it. Welcome to Burberry’s, son. You passed.”

Alex couldn’t speak. He stared at his hand, then back at the featureless grey door. It was just a locker. It had to be. But the feeling of that absolute void was seared into his brain, and the memory of that dry, whispering sound echoed in his ears.

This wasn’t a prank. The legends, he realized with a certainty that chilled him more than the handle had, were a pale, pathetic shadow of a horrifying truth. And he had just touched it.