The occult shop was in a far too gentrified of a neighborhood to be intimidating in any sort of real way. It smelled of sweet, potent innocence, old hemp and specialty coffees. It’s clientele were not exactly what you’d consider “serious” practitioners of the arts; a few guys in skinny jeans wearing black mascara, girls who bought only the earthy-smelling candles, and moms from the suburbs attempting to relieve lost youth. Which was why the shop’s owner wasn’t entirely certain who had cursed the building with the evil eye, much less why they’d even care to. He removed it. Again.