The Bookseller's Secret

by Catherine Jordan

  I am here. In her house. You wanted to see this, I told myself, and here you stand.

  I stepped forward, and the splintered, warped, wooden floor wavered beneath my feet. I stopped and waited for an attack, a warning, a servant or someone to jump out from behind a door and ask what we were doing.

  “Smell that?” McPhee asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “Yeah.” An unearthly smell lingered in the air.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” I couldn’t name the scent, much less describe it.

  Wallpaper in the lit entryway pulled away from plaster. The floor ended a couple feet ahead, where the house’s insides became entrenched in blackness.

  “Those stairs look like they lead absolutely nowhere,” McPhee said, referring to stairs that seemed to have fallen from space onto the floor.

  There were no chandeliers, light fixtures, or candles, yet, still, there was enough light to cast shadows up the partially exposed staircase wall. The entire back of the house was entombed in a black hole.

  “Why is it so dark back there?” McPhee asked.

  My eyes wandered, searching for an answer. “I have no idea. The house—it looks like its waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For the shade to hit the rest of the house, for the sun to go down, so the house can finish morphing.”

  I found myself fascinated by it and deeply unnerved.

  An open doorway stood to the right of the stairs and a set of open double doors hung to the left. Darkness lay beyond the doorways. Even the light from the entryway did not cross the doorway’s black void.

  The smell—it was entrenched into the floorboards, exposed beams, and woodwork. It made me think of nested hopelessness.

  McPhee stood in front of the doorway. He stuck his hand through the opening and his hand disappeared.

  McPhee snapped his hand back to his chest.

  “It’s like a freezer in there,” he said, rubbing his hand. “The book. It has to be in there.”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked, not wanting to consider the possibilities beyond those doors.

  “These double doors are exactly like the doors to my library at home. Same molding and paneling.” McPhee drew in his breath. “Smell that? Mildew. Dust. Paper. It’s my library. The book has to be in there.”

  “We could wait,” I piped up, recounting what Jeffrey told me about the house changing when the shade fully descended. “One version at night, another in the day. Dusk is coming. I think. We might be better off waiting.”

  “You’ve been inside this house before, haven’t you?”

  “No, not inside.” I didn’t want to tell him about my run-in with Mr. Granger in the barn. That was my story, and I was saving it.

  “So you don’t know for certain what’s going on in here. I say we go in the room, grab the book, and get out.”

  I took in a deep breath. There wasn’t much of an alternative to consider. I didn’t want to stay inside much longer, and we’d eventually have to trek back through those woods. “Okay.”

  We took one long stride into the room.

  71

  For a blink, we were enclosed in pitch black.

  And then we stood in a room lined wall to wall with filled bookshelves. The ceiling was round, but the shelves came together at strict edges. Burgundy fabric luxuriated under our feet. Four armchairs upholstered in rich navy sat around a dark mahogany table. In the center of the table laid the open book.

  “Does your library at home look like this?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Yes, it does. Almost exactly.”

  “You’re shittin me,” I said, turning to him.

  McPhee looked around the room, then said, “The dimensions are a little off, but the carpet, the books, the furniture. All mine.” His eyes focused on the book. “And the book,” he said in an exhale as he made his way to the table, moving a chair aside.

  My book, I wanted to remind him, but I decided to keep my mouth shut, for now.

  He leaned against the table top and pulled the open book close. “What language is this?” he asked, staring at the contents, forefinger running over the words.

  I bent over the book. “IsiZulu.”

  “You speak isiZulu?”

  “No. Well, yes.”

  McPhee glanced at me, then back to the book. He turned pages at random and stopped at one with a drawing of a serpent coiled around a naked woman, penetrating her up one end and out the other. The page beside it was filled with symbols and shapes forming words. “Cuneiform,” I said.

  “Ancient Sumerian?” McPhee asked. “You can’t read this, can you?”

  “It’s a love spell,” I said, fingering the soft, velvety paper. “Once you read from the beginning, you can decipher the languages.”

  “You read the book?”

  “Only once,” I said, longing to park in a chair and read it again.

  McPhee turned several more pages, coming to a red page. “These pages are soaked,” he said, pulling away fingers dripping red. He wiped his hand on his pants. “Phew. Smells like raw meat.”

  A coppery taste formed in my mouth. “This wasn’t here before,” I said, awed. “I’d remember. What was it Caroline said—the more you read, the more is revealed in the pages? Her blood. This must be the secret chapter about raising the dead. Necromancy.” Blackened words on the page were also written in cuneiform. Oh, what I could do with this. Who would I bring back first? And would they look anything like Caroline’s rotten form? Would they live forever? Could I?

  “I can’t stand the smell,” McPhee said, flipping the pages with a splat, wiping his hand again on his pants.

  He had turned to a page with ancient, gold script, Greek words. I knew without being told that it was the spell needed for the seeds, the alchemy.

  I shoved McPhee aside, slamming the book closed, lifting it to my chest. “Mine.”

  “No,” McPhee said. He sprung to my side, whisked out his gun, and pressed the cold metal right against my forehead. “It’s mine.”

  I ducked and tried to dive around him. McPhee’s gun came down on my head. Everything flashed bright white in my head, then all went black.

  72

  When I regained consciousness, I opened my eyes to a polished wood floor. It felt cool against my cheek. I lay at the bottom of the grand staircase carpeted in the same burgundy as the library. My temple ached where McPhee had clobbered me. I put my hand to my sore head, the tender spot tacky. My fingers came back red with blood.

  I tried to sit up, but was struck with a flash of bright white pain. I closed my eyes and lay back down, groaning.

  “He got you pretty good,” Jeffrey said. He stood at the bottom of the steps.

  “Where’s McPhee?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbows. “Where’s my book?”

  “They’re together,” Jeffrey said. “I’ll take you to them. Get up.”

  73—Jeffrey Thurmont

  “I knew you’d come back,” I said, recalling Mason’s excursion into the barn where he had gone in and walked out, then off her property. I hadn’t been able to wrap my head around the idea that she had let him go. She had been up to something. She would destroy everything, maybe even the entire world if she thought it would help her get her way. That was when I realized it was time to make a deal. She liked to make deals. Winners always do.

  I had sat at the dining room table many mornings since then, reading Mason’s articles in Die Burger, wondering when she would bring him to a conclusion. And now Mason lay at the bottom of the stairs wearing jeans, flip flops, and a tee shirt with a fat giraffe on the front that said, “McDonalds hits Africa.”

  “The seeds must have brought you back. They’re addicting.”

  “I’m here for a variety of reasons,” Mason said, touching his wound. “Mind if we talk?”

  He sat up, slowly. The wound on his head had stopped bleeding, and the blood on the floor seeped in and under, the stain swallowed by the house.<
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  “You’re different,” Mason said, standing unsteady.

  “This house has a way of changing people,” I said, looking him up and down. “You’re different, too.”

  “Mmm,” he replied, wobbled, and said, “I have another friend with me. He knows Mr. Granger. He encouraged my return, to take back what you stole.”

  “You were stupid enough to follow me here for the seeds,” I said. “It’s no wonder you came back for the book. I’ve met your friend, Lowther. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. Lowther has a lofty goal. To take away choice—to make you think you have none. He’s doing it now. ‘What choice do I have?’ you’ll ask yourself when you kill McPhee.”

  “I’m not going to kill him.”

  “We’ll see. Besides the book, why else are you here?”

  “A woman.”

  I massaged my chin. “Do tell.”

  74—Mason, the Reporter

  “I met Caroline,” I said. “She was living in the woods.” I coughed, barking like one of those things. “You loved her, didn’t you? Caroline told me her sister brought her back.”

  “Yes, I loved her,” Jeffrey said, unfazed by my revelation. “That was why I asked her to bring Caroline back to life. It was part of our deal. My daughter cut her wrist and poured blood on her ashes. I had to cauterize her wound and sew it closed so my daughter wouldn’t bleed to death. Her body doesn’t heal; it’s immune to the muti.

  “Caroline looked like herself, sort of, when she awoke. It never occurred to me that my daughter had turned Caroline into a zombie. But, what did I expect?”

  “Her body was much more decomposed compared to the last time I saw her,” I said.

  “The zombie’s new life depends on how far they were gone,” I said. “Caroline was burned to ashes. Too far gone. I’m sure she scared the shit out of you. In fact, I smell it in your pants. Heh, heh, heh.”

  Jeffrey’s laugh scratched me like sandpaper.

  There was nothing likeable about the man standing in front of me. I hardly recognized Jeffrey as the same person I met on the street. Not only was his demeanor different, but his face had changed. His jawline was angular and square, his skin tight across his face. He had an intense glare, like Lowther’s, and his eyeballs bulged from their sockets. Jeffrey’s hair had darkened to black ink, and he wore it slicked back.

  And the house? It was no longer the shack I had seen when I stumbled inside. The lighting was dim, but it was no longer half baked in black. Ornate molding crowned the walls, damask curtains hung over the windows, and a large, intricately carved, wooden front door stood behind Jeffrey. I knew the grass outside would be green, the trees and flowers in bloom.

  “You were ill-advised to come here,” Jeffrey said. “Granger and Lowther were supposed to scare you away.”

  “Lowther didn’t try very hard, ’cause here I am.” I coughed again. I inhaled, and began a violent coughing episode.

  75—Jeffrey Thurmont

  “The cough is from the alien inside you,” I began to explain once Mason caught his breath. “The entity will wreak havoc on your body. Your air is too human, if you can accept such a simple explanation. Muti helps, but I don’t need it anymore, due to my recent development. The lining of my throat has thickened. I no longer have an aversion to what lurks inside me. Would you like some eyeball muti? Yum, yum. Perhaps from one of those missing children you’ve been reporting about.”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that? I don’t have anything inside me,” Mason said, coughing once more, wiping spittle away from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You opened her book,” I said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “That was the beginning for you. You visited her barn, you met Mr. Granger. You developed a cough, like I did. Perfect possession is almost complete. There is no hope for such an unfortunate soul.

  “Edward, her father, suffered too much to be perfect. Her maid was perfect. Her cook. Phred. The guests at her book signing party. Poor Caroline. She was tortured, but not perfectly possessed.”

  “You perfect?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  “I am more than perfect.”

  Mason looked me over carefully. “You’re shaved and groomed. Your clothing—it's not ripped or outwardly dirty.”

  “But?” I asked, catching the expression on his face; he had more to say.

  “But you present yourself as unclean,” Mason said.

  “I was reborn!” I spread my arms wide and proud.

  “Your neck,” Mason said, aghast, finally noticing the scar.

  My collar had stretched open when I spread my arms, revealing the open scar. It was ugly; I had seen it in the mirror. I tried hiding it from polite society, but didn’t make an effort in my own home.

  “It’s gashed,” he said. “She slit your throat,” he whispered, horrified.

  He stared, mouth hanging open. I could almost hear him thinking as he put the puzzle pieces together.

  “She killed you. You weren’t reborn. You’re a zombie!”

  The poor chap was probably wishing he was at his desk in front of his laptop. What a tale it would make, how she rang my neck until my eyes bled, and my head felt like it would explode. I awoke with an open wound below my throat from where the necklace gave itself up. She held the necklace over me.

  “She tricked you,” Mason said.

  “Careful,” I replied. “She tricked you, too. ’Cause like you said, here you are. And unlike Caroline and all her other zombies, I won’t rot. I have a new entity within me. In fact, let me introduce myself. I am Samiel.

  “I used to be chained to her,” I said, fingering my wound. I leaned closer to Mason. He backed away slightly. “The day you and I met, I was at the restaurant, watching the telly, reading the paper for news or gossip about missing persons, about Edward. It was part of my usual routine. Every morning I woke and leaned over my daughter’s sleeping form, wanting to kill her. I never could. I’d then argue with Granger, and go out for breakfast where I’d look for another reason to kill her.

  “Granger was the one who gave me the idea, to not name her. It sounded like a jolly good plan.

  “When you walked out of her barn alive, I finally, finally, realized nothing would hinder her. She’d have her way, no matter what. So we made a bargain—I gave her what she wanted.

  “I named my daughter Nora, after my mother. And the moment I named Nora, she became aware of everything, including the fact that Granger was the one who told me not to name her.”

  I buttoned my collar.

  “The necklace circles Granger’s neck now.”

  “Where is Granger?” Mason asked.

  “With Nora. She's keeping a tight leash on the insipid beast.”

  “And...” Mason looked around the entryway, then up the staircase. “Where is Nora?”

  “You'll be meeting her soon enough.”

  Mason's face turned grey. “She might not like what I have to say.”

  I almost burst out laughing. “What, dear chap, would you have to say that could possibly upset her?”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this,” Mason said, his Adam’s apple bobbing after a deep swallow, “but her sister, Caroline, is dead. Again. I think. McPhee shot her.”

  I suppressed a smile. “How unfortunate for him.”

  Mason nodded gravely.

  “Nora was to choose whom to award her book. The choice is now mine.” I started up the steps. “You want the book? Follow me.”

  76—Mason, the Reporter

  My practical side wanted to turn and run. But to where? Back inside her woods? My reporter side still wanted to meet the author, to touch, to witness her apparition.

  I followed Jeffrey—or was it Samiel, and did he expect me to call him that—up the carpeted steps, numb, a bit blurry. The floor kept silent under my feet, but I heard movement on the other side of the walls.

  “Almost there,” Jeffrey said. “A few more steps.”

  A few more steps tu
rned into fifty. The walls moved in and out, but Jeffrey kept climbing like everything was normal. At one point I almost fell backward, and I reached out to grab the railing for support. It was warm and soft, and when I squeezed I felt a tight, rigid cord underneath. It was like squeezing someone's forearm. I did my best not to cry out.

  By the time we reached the top, I thought I would throw up.

  A white thick rope dangled from the ceiling. Jeffrey yanked the rope, and a door in the ceiling gave a whoosh as it fell open. Hot air blasted me in the face. Stairs tumbled out of the dark opening to the floor, landing right at my feet.

  “Up you go,” Jeffrey said.

  My eyes shifted from the hole, to Jeffrey’s face, to Jeffrey’s wide mouth. The smile on his face reminded me of Lowther’s.

  I turned and looked longingly down the steep, main staircase, wishing I had never crossed the house’s threshold. Damn McPhee.

  “If you don’t go up, you don’t get the book.”

  “McPhee is up there?”

  “He is. With your book.”

  77

  I took a deep breath, grasped the flimsy handrails, and ascended the rickety steps one at a time. I watched for movement above as if each creaky footfall might be the very one to disturb whatever lurked up inside.

  I poked my head through the opening and stretched my neck, peeking inside. My eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness. The dry heat had me gasping and coughing.

  “All the way up,” Jeffrey said. “I’m right behind you.”

  “You said the same thing last time, when I went inside her barn.”

  “And you made it out of there alive and well, much to my chagrin. This ladder won’t hold our weight for very long.”

  I sighed, then climbed the rest of the way into the attic.

  The room lit up. Pictures hung on almost every square inch of wall space. Enormous ones, modest ones, close-ups, and full lengths. They illuminated as if from within.