Books. Used.

Written from a WDC prompt

Used books are wonders, and I truly loved them for much more than the tales contained inside. I felt a used book’s history when flipping through its aged pages. I could smell the age, felt the bindings strain to keep the words locked tight. Used books carry a knowledge with them that is separate from the narrative within. “Merry Christmas, Peter, 1942,” and “To my dearest Evelyn, June 1894,” tell a story all their own. I often imagined that Peter went on to become an infamous explorer, bringing his favorite novel with him showing it the world’s lights and darknesses. I, then, could feel his excitement and fear. And in my mind, Evelyn and her darling spent their lives together in fevered love that the bindings of the book held but in essence.

When I claim that I enjoyed used bookstores, then, I mean that I enjoyed travelling to far away places in times that never existed. I enjoyed feeling close to those who had experienced these stories before me. I enjoyed walking into a used bookstore and knowing that for a few moments, I could be anywhere and feel anything. I could touch the lovely books on their lovely shelves and feel that they contained beauty and secrets and wonder and terror.

On the particular day this story is concerning, I walked into a used bookstore early on a Sunday morning. I recall so clearly the tepid feel of salty sea breeze ruffling my hair, causing goose pimples to spread pleasantly along my bare arms and the brief glances of sunlight through the shifty clouds. I chose this store at random. I suppose it was because I fancied the appearance. It was a small cottage at the end of the block downtown on the coast of Oregon. A fence that looked as if it must have once been white and picketed surrounded the faded pink house. It carried a crooked sign, weathered by winds carrying the abrasive salty erosion:

“Books. Used. For sale or bargain.”

The broken-tiled path to the front door looked ill-kept. The rows of flower beds that bordered it, however, were neat, pretty, and well cared for, making for a very perplexing walkway. I found the whole thing, I recall, quaint.
An overwhelming urge to enter assailed me, which -looking back- was unnecessarily strange for I had already made the decision to explore the eccentric business. I should have been suspicious. I should have noticed that the gate swung open on its own, that a Dimness seeped through me. I wasn’t aware of it even as the sky seemed to grow darker. I should have been. Just as I should have noticed when I passed over the threshold It dissolved, and the sun was brighter, colors more vivid. At the time, it all seemed so natural. It seemed, at that moment, I was destined to go forth, and Nature was urging me on. I had no other choice.

I did have a moment’s hesitation when, at the front door, I was confronted with a sign, “Ring the bell and enter.” I examined the bell. It had once been a lustrous silver with etchings depicting detailed sea life. Now it was rusting, lost of its shine, void of its youth and liveliness. A small knotted and thick rope hung from the bell, frayed at the ends, but obvious in purpose. Taking hold of it, I pulled, even as another wave of hesitation struck. A deep note originating from the bell spread, bending and shifting into desonating chords. For a moment I heard the voices of women singing and crying and humming a heady chorus. And then it faded. And I began to question whether it had ever happened. And the hesitation left me.

The door, a peeling white piece with thick tinted window panes, popped open with cautious purpose. A sound like the whoosh of air accompanying the opening of a long closed tomb passed me as I slowly peered through the crack. Again, I was overcome by an intense desire to enter. It was such a consuming compulsion that I was pushing the door open before I realized I had moved. I did not take stock of this small lack of self-control for the open door revealed a warm glow that cascaded over a homey foyer. I was immediately awash in the intense and pleasant smell of baked goodies, and -if I admit it now- it made me foolishly light-headed. Again and rather brusquely, I was assaulted by a Shade. It lingered now and I recognized a sense of curiosity in it.

“What’s this?” it seemed to ask. “Something new? No. No. Something old, but different.”

I shook my head to dispel the silly notion and only then realized that every wall, from floor to ceiling of the sitting room to my right was covered by books. Shelf after shelf, row after row. It made me giddy, and I much forgot my strange encounter. I should have remembered. I should have thought to question the intrusive behavior of the Dark. I did not. Without thought, I entered this new room. It was cozy and warm. A fireplace housed a merry flame whose crackling sound was much like the laughter of many small children. I gingerly stroked the bindings of a few novels over this fire, happy to merely be in their presence.

I had yet to even think of looking for an employee or owner, nor would the idea ever strike me. Which, again, now seems a bit strange. There was a mesmeric atmosphere that circled the room in the form of the fire light softly dancing across the walls. It played dreamily with the curtains of a window, and the soft fabric of a well-loved reading chair. Once more, I caught the distant sound of children giggling, and I felt a sudden desire to spring up, hike my skirts to my thigh, and dance. So comfortable was I, that I began to waltz the perimeter of the small room in joy and literary wonder.

And that is when I spotted the shelf shoved away in a far corner. No light touched it. Indeed, it was so angled that any who wished to examine the titles would have to do so in Shadow.

“Come,” the Shadow said then, sensing my growing intrigue. “Choose a book, and read. Stay with us a while. We’ve been so lonely.”

I noticed then that the fire, which had been playfully lighting the room, now cracked and popped in urgency. The laughter of before was changed to pleas. “Don’t fall into Shadow,” it appeared to beg me.
I still cannot explain why my feet suddenly began to take me towards the darkened shelf, nor why the Shadow thickened in anticipation.

“Think of all the things you might learn from these tomes. Think of the things you might do with such knowledge.” The whisper of promised wonders had altogether drowned out the light and merry sound of the fire and the happy songs of children. I am ashamed now for how easily the Shadow tempted me.

And tempt me it did. I found myself stroking the rough wood of the shelf. It was poorly constructed and leaned precariously to one side, but at that moment, I felt as if I was touching Fate itself. A rapturous sigh emanated from the Shadow and I felt it lick at my fingers. I reached for small red leather book. It wasn’t so much of my own power. I knew I was doing it, but the small tongues of Shadow guided my hand now.

The moment my fingers touched the book the sounds of both fire and Shadow ceased. The feeling of cold tendrils snaking up my arm and slithering down my back disappeared. In the following silence, I felt, once again, a brief hesitant moment. I somehow knew that I held a tool of destiny and my future hung like a knotted rope awaiting the final pull. This old book contained so much more than words. I could feel its tainted history, and was fascinated by it. I knew this used book had been bargained against men’s lives. And now it was my turn. I caressed this pocket-sized treasure. It was special. And I did not want to leave it to its own loneliness any longer.

Just then, a small token fell from its ancient folds. Scribbled on the back of a bookmark I read the most interesting thing, “You have made the decision. With Shadow you shall remain.”

The lights went out. It wasn’t the dim sort of darkness that came with the setting sun into a room with no bulbs. Nor was it the steading withdraw of light and sound that dwindled as one fell asleep. I could see nothing. There was nothing, nothing except for the feel of Shadow’s vines once again exploring my body; This time with a malicious glee.

I think I’m dead.

That’s what They tell me.