At last, the customers are gone and with the shop having been picked bare, Gertrude's torment has ceased. With the costume designers getting their recognition and fair due, the Gallery of Garment’s walls begin to twist and splinter. Wallpaper slowly peeled away, dropping to the floor like discarded snake skin.

The furniture begins to finally show its age, rapidly morphing into something you’d find in a recently deceased relative’s storage unit. Footprints of perusers long past shifted in the dust, the fading remnants of Gertrude's first and last customers put to rest.

Mold slowly draped itself across the shop's surfaces, reaching ever closer to the register. As Gertrude lay herself down, finally resting her old bones in her trusty grave, she can’t help but feel like she forgot something…


…Meanwhile, Bartholomew smokes a cigarette with nonexistent lungs and an all-too-real terrible customer service attitude. Quite rightly so, considering how dreadfully long his shift has lasted. With one long drag, his bones began to crack and shake, alongside the Gallery itself. He wished he could still feel the smoke fill his lungs, wished he could exhale and watch the smoke dance and fade away….
It was with this last unsatisfied puff did the walls of Gertrude's Gallery of Garments heave their last creaking moan, as the entire building collapsed in on itself, officially closed for business…

… Until Gertrude asks Bartholomew to commit necromancy again that is. Hopefully she’ll pay next time.