Able’s Books and Curious Things: A short story by Larry Ragland Jr.

It had taken Harold forever to fall asleep. The previous days work had finally taken its toll on him. He was mentally and physically stressed to the  point that only a day alone; a quiet weekend and nothing a bottle of old barrel no.7 couldn’t fix. By the time he had gotten off of work and gone to the ATM machine, he didn’t have much time left to make a mad last dash to the liquor store down the street from his home.  Tucked away just right of the corner, it was The kind of place that had sidewalk cracks adorned with old gum and cigarette butts stained black from the stampeding of shoes and vomit after a long night out with “friends.”

It was a seedy little place, intimidating to look at from the front, but had a charm all its own nonetheless. Besides, the owners new him, he had grown up with their kids. Back in the day when his cash flow was low, he could always depend on them to front a bottle or two–sometimes three–to ease the day away. It wasn’t a habit, not like it had been in the past, but old habits died hard. As the last straight shot went down with a burn that turned his stomach but was soothing and familiar, he stumbled down the hall and into the bedroom. Hurriedly he ripped off his clothes, thought about brushing his teeth before passing out, and collapsed unconscious on the cold, memory foam pillow that miraculously retained the shape of his long narrow head.

The combination of chirping birds and honking cabs below had proved just potent enough a concoction to raise Harold up like Lazurus from the grave. With glassed over eyes and a hangover bad enough to make his old Army pals blush, he cautiously slid his cracked dry feet along the hardwood floors leading to the bathroom of the small yet modern downtown apartment. He could’ve passed for an extra on the Walking Dead, he looked like shit, smelled like it to. He had learned long ago to dunk his head in cold water first thing in the morning after a hard night of drinking. His hands lightly trembled as he grabbed the edge of the porcelain sink. With a quick twitch of his wrist he turned the faucet on just the cold water. Pulling the plunger up, he let the bowl fill with water and as he waited for the sink to fill, he motioned towards the cabinet to see if he had any aspirin. Amidst the various bottles of long forgotten prescription medications, he found a lone aspirin resting at the bottom of dust covered bottle. An off brand but much appreciated.

“figures it would be just one left…” Harold fiddled with the cap; barely able to see the little arrows that needed to be lighned up with the precision of an Egyptian architect. For a moment he contemplated licking the residue out of the bottle. Realizing he wouldn’t be able to simply lick the edges thru the small opening, he opted to use his finger instead. In the end the effort was more work than reward so he abandoned his efforts and decided that a brisk walk to the corner store for coffee and doughnuts–as well as some aspirin–sounded like a decent plan. Reaching over to turn on the shower, he thought about how he didn’t want to waste the water he had already gotten. Slowly he dipped his face into the water that had filled the sink. It was cold from sitting in the pipes all night and had a chilling sting that was a supposedly a hallmark that it was working. He sat up, grabbed a hold of a nearby towel and methodically damped his face. When he cleared his eyes he gazed into his reflection in the mirror and allowed himself to get lost.

As quickly as it had started it had ended. His hands though dirty and worn from working in the fields were now covered in the still warm blood of another. Face down on the ground lay his victim his fingers still twitching, sporadically, like an overturned spider who had grown weary from struggling. His head had been smashed with a hefty sized stone that was mere inches from the body. So close in fact that the steady flow of blood was parsed by its presence, creating two small ruby rivers that flowed on either side. The man glanced back at his hands and then back to the stone. Every time he looked at it he could hear the crunch from the impact. Hell, he could feel it. It was a solid two handed blow, the percussion of which reverberated all the way down his arms into his elbows and to his shoulders. Truth be told he could feel it in his body: down his spine to his legs, ultimately rooting to the ground thru his feet. It didn’t bother him though. He stood there almost enjoying the moment, basking in the momentary satisfaction of his victory.

No sooner had the momentary thought of success entered his mind, the birds of the surrounding trees took flight as if spooked by some presence. The fields in which he stood and his prey lay dead blew violently back and forth in the warm days wind. Something was off however, for he had noticed that although the birds had taken flight, it was as if they had gone nowhere. Not frozen in place but, lost; as if in a holding pattern desperately trying to avoid the coming power. Then the fields stop swaying…but the wind had not. It hadn’t even slowed down, never once flinching from its constant barrage of sweeping gusts. All of sudden, the clouds gathered in forming a dark and ominous swirling vortex that stood guard over him. It was as if the world stood still and the universe was focused on this one being. It was an awesome weight, one that could be felt physically and spiritually. To his core he knew that he was engulfed in a superior presence. One that had commanded the impossible and was confronting him directly.

“Where is your brother…”

“What the hell was that!” Harold snapped back to reality, shaking his head and slapping it a few times for good measure. He gathered himself and then proceeded to go about his necessaries in an effort to make good on that visit to the store. His blue eyes were bood shot red and In his mind he was thinking about the crazy vision he just had. What was that all about? Why was he thinking about something so…violent. Every once and awhile he thought of clever ways to off himself, a devious last goodbye to friend and foe alike. Outside of one failed attempt, he didn’t have the guts. Either guts or resources take your pick, he decided to continuing fighting the good fight. Just as long as he could have a shooter or two along the way. This was different in every way imaginable. It wasn’t really like a thought, more like something that someone else put in his head, like he was meant to see, meant to bare witness to this event. Not only that but he could feel it. The wind blowing, the sun on his skin. He could even recall the smell of the fields stained with stench of death. A blood soaked harvest that cried out itself in sympathy of the fallen. The very ground where he had stood acknowledged the foul deed, soaking up the life fluid of a slain man.

Nothing was like that voice though. Nothing he had ever heard, let alone experienced compared to that. It boomed, echoed and roared–all at once with no regard, with no regard for how confusingly terrifying it was to those in listening range. Even the deaf would hear because it didn’t just speak to your ears, this voice of regal dominance alerted your soul to its calling. He himself had dropped to his knees immediately. Partly from fear and partly from some feeling of reverence that was uncontrollable. He had been forced to his knees by invisible hands it seemed. A fight against which would prove to be an exercise in futility. He wanted to fall down anyway. Flat on his face and begin digging to the other side, anything to escape that presence. It made him feel unclean, unworthy and even though he was not an actor in the brutal play he witnessed the results of, he still knew that who or whatever this new entity was had the power to bend existence to its will.

Keeping a steady pace, he could see the store from a distance and noticed that its metal garage door style gate had not been raised. He had never known the store to be closed on a weekend like this before, and so rather than wait for coffee and doughnuts he decided to grab a sandwich from the vendor who had the best spot in front of the courthouse. No one knew just how he pulled it off because it is against the law to be directly in front of a federal building. Yet everyday from morning to evening, he worked that corner like nobodies business. The medium sized push cart looks like you would imagine. The shiny aluminum and steel plating was shaped in square patterns and a large parasol stood stoically attached to the very edge of the cart. Big enough to cover it, the customer and the cook. The smell was intoxicating in its own right so he decided to take advantage of being the only customer in line.

“I have no idea what I want to eat. I’m starving but I don’t know what I want; don’t you hate that?” The vendor looked at him welcomingly and said  “I pride myself on ways to get you what you want. Basically, there ain’t nothing I can’t get you. If you can cook it on a grill, I’m your man.”Harold didn’t have the heart (or the energy really) to alert the man to the meaning of his rhetorical question but decided against it, as not to offend. The vendor turned to Harold,“Well…” pausing to take a breath, “you think about it and then let me know. And yes, I knew it was  rhetorical. I’ll be right here when you’re ready to order.” He smirked and nodded, and Harold acknowledged the short, stout cook.  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a sign he hand not seen before.  The distant crack of thunder could be heard in the distance.

“You ready yet?” the vendor’s patience had seemed to have worn thin. “There’s a storm coming and no ones buying, I’m packing up early.”

“No, go ahead, I’m still not sure what I want. My bad.” Harold’s attention was completely focused on the small store in front of him. An ornately hand painted sign hung slightly of center, right above the entrance. In red paint written in perfect gothic print were the words “Able’s Books and Curious Things.”

Once again thanking him for his time, Harold turned and picked up pace heading straight for the curious looking store. Glancing up to the sky he could see the storm picking up speed. Darkening the entire sky above, the encroaching storm made ample use of the surrounding skyscrapers lightening rods though It seemed odd for this time of year. The few people on the street also picked up pace making b-lines straight to their destinations. It was Fall so the leaves had begun dying off weeks earlier. The long continous bellowing of wind came from all four corners at once it seemed, effortlessly making the dead leaves dance on an invisible chilling current that graced his dry lips, making them dryer. He licked them before they cracked. His hands fumbled inside his pockets hoping to find a long lost tube of Carmex. He usually kept one around because he hated having dry lips, it looked tacky and unprofessional. He was a firm believer in you never know who you are going to meet. That first impression means something and you don’t want it to be lost because you had ashy, chapped lips. He chuckled to himself as he reached for the doors handle. As he opened it, the wind took hold of the door, snatching it out of his hands and forcing the hinges to strain under the sudden force. He stood in the door unsure if he should go in. It was curiously dark inside with only the smallest amount of artificial light showing the way. The shades were dusty and drawn, but open. However it didn’t matter because the dusty windows let little, if any, light in to begin with. It was as if this small store that smelled of foreign incense had been here since the beginning. Yet he knew better, he had lived here almost all his life and had never noticed it before. Still standing he realized then that he had not yet moved. But when he even thought about it, he physically became ill, like a sudden onset of nausea. Slightly dizzy, he took a step forward and as he did he could feel the grip of a giant man grasp him in one hand and force him back.  The fingers of a giant clinched his body as if he were an action figure in the hands of a child. It didn’t have the feeling of anger though, more like that of impending danger. As if something where trying to keep him back, steer him away. But the allure of the shop was a siren’s call. He could feel his ship about to crash into the rocks, unwittingly pulled closer by the sound of curiosity. Just then an old voice pierced the howling winds and darkness before him.

“If you are coming in, please do so and close the door. I have not time nor energy to replace it. Make haste before it falls victim to the wind.”

“I’m sorry, I…” Harold was caught in his words. He forgot about that feeling to stay clear and instead, closed the door behind him as he entered the world of the small old book keeper that stood before him. “I didn’t mean to leave your door open like that, I…are you new here, I’ve never seen this store before?” He noticed that the old man just stared at him. He had an evil yet mournful grin on his face. It made him think of something you’d find in a tale by the brothers Grim. It was un-nerving, and he desperately wanted  to avert his gaze.

“No need to say sorry, it is just a door after all. There are more important things in life, some of which affect us for a lifetime. A door is not one of them so please, come in and have a look around. You never know what you might…find Mr. Denin.”

“I’m sorry, have we meet before?” this time looking the odd old man directly in the eyes. It was his best attempt to being an alpha-male but it wasn’t working. The shopkeeper had seen a lot of life yet he didn’t seem worn. To the contrary, he had a youthful exuberance about him that was scary but admirable at the same time. Admirable because someone his age with that much energy and control of their faculties is what we all want but scary because you could tell that he had done some very bad things to stay ahead of the pack this long.

“Forgive me, I recognized you from your work; I am big fan of your op-ed pieces in the paper. I do not use the internet so I can not read you online but I always get the paper.”

“Oh well, in that case it’s good to meet the one person who still buys our paper. Pleased to meet you, I’m…” as he reached out his hand, the old man’s eyes turned revoltingly black. Violently  he shuffled back then forward and back again, all within a split second until coming to a complete standstill away from Harold and his outstretched hand.

“Don’t touch me! Never touch me!” he yelled it in a way that was loud but silent. The sentiment shared was not meant to be hard with ears but heard from the inside. It was a stern and serious warning and unmistakable in its intent. There was no smart ass retort nor was there thought of one. He did what felt best and kept his mouth shut. From that point on he vowed never to take his eyes of the shopkeeper. He also vowed that he would somehow get out of this place. However, he knew when he crossed the threshold that it was not meant for him to come back. Curiosity got the best of him and he was beginning to think that he may pay for that decision dearly.