This is my submission to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2016. I and another 2100 participants wrote our stories over a 48 hour period. My story was edited down from 1850 words to 1000 words. That is why the ending is a bit ambiguous and also shows strain from the editing.
My prompts for this story were as follows:
- Genre: Suspense (Emphasis is on the suspense, even more than on characterization)
- Location: A Bookstore (Majority of story must take place in this location)
- Object: A Passport (Must at least be mentioned in the story, but may play a key roll if desired)
Vanished
I stared across the street into the window of the bookstore, suitably named “The Book Nook”. The shop was bathed in darkness, diffident, unimposing. I saw something move within. Was it a trick of the light? I shook my head and fell back into the warm embrace of my home.
Every evening I found myself stood at the window in the throes of insomnia, watching, waiting. Tonight the moon was full illuminating the inky curtain of sky. Rays of light bounced off the bevelled glass of the aged bookstore and there she was. I found myself staring into the eyes of a young girl, my hot breath distorting the image I frantically wiped the window. She was gone.
After a sleepless night I broached the ancient building. What I had considered quirky and quaint suddenly appeared ominous. The windows were dirty, the paint tainted and chipped. For a second I hesitated. Turning the brass handle, a rusted chime echoed around the space within. The smell of incense and stale cigarettes clung to me as I marvelled at the lengths of literature, basked in a dusty haze. I was not sure how far the shop went back but it appeared endless. Scraps of paper adorned the walls, musings, quotes “a life without books is no life at all”.
The sound of a cough tore me away from the overflowing shelves of used paperbacks, and I turned to the desk nestled in the corner.
“Can I help you?” said the man occupied behind copious mounds of magazines and books.
“Sorry, good morning Mr….?” I asked.
“No need for such formality my dear, you can call me Charles”.
“Good morning Charles” I repeated. “May I ask, do you live here alone?”
“Goodness gracious me, what a bizarre question. Yes Harper, I do live here alone. Why do you ask?” he came from behind the cranny of his desk.
Astonished that he knew my name I was momentarily silenced. Before I had time to engage, he held out his hand containing my passport, which I took confused.
“You must have dropped it, I found it yesterday by the post office. To be honest, that is why I thought you were here, I left word with the postmaster”. He looked at me questioningly.
Reality smothered concern and I felt embarrassed. “I didn’t get your message. Thank you for returning this to me. I was copying it for ID purposes. It must have fallen from my bag.” I realised I was jabbering incessantly and fell silent. Charles just watched me, amused, absorbing. I felt my senses sharpen and my skin prickle.
“Why did you ask me if I live alone?” he asked.
“It was just that I thought I saw a young girl in your shop, last night, late?”.
He shook his head quickly “you must have been mistaken. I am here alone”. His voice was deep, mellifluous, convincing but I saw uncertainty cloud his eyes, unblinking yet drawing me in. I suddenly felt a chill.
“May I look around?” the words came unintended.
“Of course Harper, it would be my pleasure. Now if you don’t mind I need to get back to my work” and with that Charles disappeared beyond the mountain of clutter he had earlier emerged.
With trepidation I made my way into the bowels of the shop. Dust collected as far as I could see. Spider webs weaved loosely around books and between the dirtied shelves. Ancient lamp fittings hung motionless embedded into the cracked ceiling. The floor was littered with dirt, books, discarded paper. The fissures in the wall housed abandoned piles of dated material. Dust floated lazily in the air catching in the back of my throat. With each footfall it billowed and fell. All that could be heard was the rustle of paper beneath my feet and my own hurried breath.
I became immersed in the tiers of tired battered spines, mottled gilded print portraying obscure inscriptions of unknown authors, a mish mash of size & shape. I wasn’t aware how long I had been there but a gloom fell, making the silky thread of web invisible in the dim light. I heard a sniffle and as I rounded an ornate bookcase there she was. Sat huddled in a crumbly crevice was the girl. Two browns eyes stared up at me, the same eyes.
“Hello” I said to her “What is your name?”
She stared at me, her eyes red and swollen as though she had been weeping for a lifetime. I saw fear in her eyes that appeared to flow flagrantly from her soul. “Leave” she whispered. Shuffling towards me she grabbed my wrist with a strength I was not expecting.
“You must leave” she pleaded “Go now, before it’s too late”.
A clatter from behind made me jump and turn, releasing the grip of the girl.
“Who’s there” I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the clogged cases. When I turned back the girl had gone.
I turned to leave, making my way back through the dust and debris. The lofty shelves looming, threatening. At each turn another bookcase. I hurried through the labyrinth and yet the passageways still stretched as far as I could see. Panic engulfed me. The daylight had dwindled to a barely perceptible somber glow. Each wall of books was identical to the next without any identifying marker of any kind. Suddenly with a deafening grinding the walls of literature began to close in, I screamed but it caught in the back of my dry throat and I keened, like a wounded animal, as the historical prose consumed me greedily.
Charles awoke with a start. The shop was in darkness and he was unaware how long he had been dozing. He stretched with the enthusiasm of a tired elderly man, and mused that Harper must have turned down the lights and left discreetly leaving him sleeping. He turned the sign on the door and retired upstairs.
