The melodic clattering of chimes announced their entrance. Despite their weekly visits, the two friends never ceased to be taken aback by the magnificence of the store. Walking through the front door was like stepping through a time-portal to an ancient era. Full-bodied knight armor stood at attention at the entrance. A royal red carpet lined the wooden floor, and an enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, all thirty of the candles wielding flame. Having neglected to make acquaintance with electricity, the caretaker hung wall-mounted oil lamps that served as the large building’s only lighting. The house was three stories tall, with the top story presumably reserved for Wesley’s living quarters. And yet, it was not the scale of the store that continually amazed them, nor was it the ancient decorations—it was the books themselves.
On every wall, floor to ceiling, were rich oak bookshelves brimming over with books of all colors and sizes. The floor itself had become a spellbinding labyrinth, with stacks of books piled one-on-another higher than even the tallest man could reach. A customer could get lost in the expansive maze of books and have his decaying bones found again only years later. The books appeared to be in no apparent order, instead being simply shoved into any niche that would hold them. The air had the overpowering smell of leather and paper. It also had a coarse texture as millions of dust grains floated weightlessly.
Cody glanced up as he heard slow footsteps descending the spiral staircase from the third floor. In polite terms, as Jade preferred to put it, Wesley had pulled his weight in helping the family business sell books since 1683, as their slogan boasted. In other words, Wesley was not a young man. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the elderly bookkeeper glided toward the customers with agility uncommon for his age. “Ah . . . I should have known it would be you two,” he said in a slow, rich voice. “It’s been two whole days. I was beginning to get worried.” An awkward silence followed. The statement had been uttered in such an emotionlessly neutral way that it left Cody unsure whether it had been intended in joke or earnest. The old man appeared oblivious to the silence and in no particular hurry to fill it with further words. After several uncomfortable moments Cody opened his mouth to speak but the elderly man turned and looked toward the two friends, as if to notice them for the first time. “What will it be this week? More Dostoevsky for you, Master Cody? Perhaps The Idiot?” Once again Cody was struck silent, unsure whether the suggestion had been meant in seriousness or in jest.
Before Cody could gather his wits to respond, Wesley smoothly vanished and took his post behind the front desk, commenting, “You don’t need any help. . . .” Ready to leave Wesley’s awkward presence, Cody was relieved to hear Jade call for him.
Quickly navigating through the stacks of books, he found his friend surrounded by a pile of George Eliot works. “Jade!” He cried, catching his breath, “You’re not supposed to leave me alone with that crazy old man, remember!?”
Jade laughed. “Don’t be a baby. Didn’t your mother ever teach you how to talk to grown-ups?” she chided him. “Now go find some more of your useless fantasy garbage while I pick a book that actually talks about the real world.” It was a disagreement that went back to the first time they had entered Wesley’s and had threatened to tear apart their blooming friendship: Jade was a reader of historical fiction; Cody adhered to the school of fantasy and science-fiction authors. In order to save the friendship, they had adopted the necessary plan of splitting up and shopping in private.
Cody, taking leave of his friend, circled around the perimeter of the maze of books in order to avoid coming into contact with the strange store owner. Reaching the staircase, he quickly ascended to the second floor. Although the shop had been organized with no apparent pattern, one could find various stashes of similar books; Chaos masquerading as Order. The particular pile for which Cody was probing was a hoard of greats containing H. G. Wells, Tolkien, Bradbury, C. S. Lewis and more that fate had led him to on his previous visit.
At last he found his treasure trove, hugging the corner of the room firmly, towering ten-feet high against the wall. Cody’s mouth began salivating at all the classic goodies before him. Scanning the mountain for new immigrants to the pile, his eyes bulged; a first-edition copy of T. H. White’s The Once and Future King sat as the steeple of the stack. Cody cherished the classic story of King Arthur and his noble knights.
He scanned the room for a stool to reach his coveted prize but came up blank. He briefly considered asking Wesley for a hand, but quickly dismissed the idea, opting to avoid enduring any more cryptic conversation with the ancient bookkeeper. The solution presented itself in the form of a stubbed toe. “Ouch!” Cody yelped.
Glancing to his throbbing foot he saw a stack of Jane Austen novels littering the floor. Perfect! Shuffling them across the floor with his foot, he pushed them up flush against the larger pile. Then, his footstool in place, carefully ascended the Austen books. They wobbled beneath him like a swinging bridge. As with most areas of his life, Cody had not been gifted with exceptional balance, and as he tensely teetered back and forth on the books, he began to rethink his plan. He reached out his hand, his fingers brushing against his desired classic. Just a bit higher. Rising onto his tiptoes he grabbed the novel, but the sudden shift in weight caused his homemade stool to implode.
Cody tumbled out-of-control toward the wall and crashed into the mountain of books, which swayed slightly just before crashing down around him. The splattering of books upon the floor echoed like thunder within the antique shop. Fear seized Cody, wrapping its firm hands around his neck and stealing his breath. He paused, breathless for a second, waiting to hear if either Jade or Wesley had heard the commotion. After another moment of silence, he let out his breath. The coast was clear.
He half-heartedly turned around to examine the aftermath of his clumsiness—and released a startled yelp. The top portion of the book pile had come crumbling down, and behind where they had once been was a door. Above the frame of the door was one word: Restricted. It was written in blood.
A Midnight Visitor
Jade stared unimpressed at her anxious friend. “A door?” she issued in a bored, irritated tone. “You rushed me out of there like a bomb was about to detonate because of . . . a lousy door?” She shook her head disbelievingly, “I really hope you have a better explanation because I had a classic Middlemarch in my hand and . . .”
“You’re not hearing me, Jade,” Cody cut her off. “Okay, okay. So a door isn’t anything to sound the alarm about, but what about the word restricted? And, in case you had forgotten, it was written in blood!” Cody struggled for breath. Following his accidental discovery of the hidden door and without wasting any time to clean up his mess, Cody had dashed wildly down the stairs, grabbed Jade, and dragged her out the door before Wesley was able to question them. Pulling Jade by the arm, the duo had scurried down the alley. Only when they were a good six blocks from the store had Jade finally managed to demand an explanation.
“Or red paint,” she insisted in her rational voice. “You do realize that Wesley is going to think we shoplifted the way we dashed out of there,” Jade continued, still unable to grasp the significance and reason behind their impromptu mile dash. Cody collapsed onto a sidewalk bench, inhaling rapidly.
“That’s the least of our worries. It was blood. I’m positive! What would a man need a hidden door labeled with blood for?” Cody asked, as if there was only one logical conclusion to be deduced. Jade stared blankly. Exasperated, Cody bit his lip, “For storing dead bodies!”
At this Jade couldn’t suppress a laugh. “So, you think Wesley is a mass murderer do you? You do realize he’s . . .”
“. . . like eight hundred years old, I know,” finished Cody, “but still, you have to admit it’s not normal. He’s clearly hiding something back there.” Jade sighed, placing her arm onto her best friend’s shoulder, “Cody, maybe he is. But whatever it is, it’s his secret. It’s of none of our business.” A crack of thunder exploded in the dusk sky and the first drop of rai
n splashed on Cody’s shoe. “It’s getting dark, and a storm’s rolling in. Get some sleep, Cody, and I’ll see you at school tomorrow. I’ll walk myself home.” The two friends diverged toward their homes. After a few feet Jade paused, and turned around, calling, “Cody!”
“Yeah, Jade?” Cody answered while fitting his jacket’s hood over his head.
“Sometimes people’s secrets are just better off left alone. Forget about the door.”
With those final words the sky flashed pure white and the rain began to pour.
Cody rolled over in his bed. Noisy raindrops pelted against his window and the wind howled against the house. His bedroom seemed to sway like a pendulum against the unrelenting onslaught of the storm’s breath. He rolled over again, smothering his head underneath his thick pillow. The crackling of thunder erupted overhead. Cody squeezed the pillow tighter around his face. Blasted rain! Blasted wind! He was in the middle of turning over once again when something caused him to pause; he could have sworn he heard something. Straining his ears he heard it again. “Cody . . . Cody . . .” It sounded like someone whispering his name.
It’s just the wind playing tricks on me. It’s been a long day. It wasn’t his mother calling. She was away in New York for business, a regular occurrence ever since Cody’s father abandoned them. He didn’t think Jade would be calling him from outside in the miserable weather. “Cody . . . Cody . . .” He could not deny it this time; someone, somewhere was calling his name. He felt a tingling sensation rush across his skin. Who? Who? Who? “Cody . . . Cody . . . ” He could hear a slow creaking sound. Is it coming from my closet? he thought, petrified. He could hear the faint sound of breath seeping through the door cracks—he was not alone. The creaking noise continued. Cody squinted open an eye; shadows were moving across the ceiling. He took a deep breath and tossed away his pillow. Sitting straight up he screamed at the top of his lungs, “What do you want from me!”
There, standing unmoving before him in the open closet was a figure. Light from the window reflected off a ghostly white face as it stared back savagely: the pale face of Wesley. In his left hand was a serrated knife. Above the closet door, Restricted was written in fresh blood. “Cody! Cody!” The wraithlike man shrieked in an inhuman voice, lunging forward . . .
With a jerk, Cody rose up in his bed, drenched in sweat. In front of him was his closet—both doors were fastened closed. The sound of Cody’s racing heart was the only noise audible above the fierce offensive of the outside storm. I’ve been dreaming.
Cody glanced over at his clock, debating whether to call Jade and tell her about his nightmare, but he decided against it, knowing what he would get; another motherly lecture on the need to forget all about Wesley and that stupid door. No, it was too late now to simply forget that door. His nightmare had ensured that. For whatever reason, he and this door were now interconnected and there was only one way he was going to get it off his mind—he was going to have to go through that door . . . and he was going to have to do it tonight.
Opening the Door
An eerie fog settled in on the town of Havenwood like a hungry vulture following behind the passing rainstorm. Early remnants of frost seemed to proclaim the coming of the night’s nipping chill. No lights were shining; all of the town’s people lay nestled in their warm beds, shielded from the bitter night. All except for one . . .
Cody pulled his jacket up to guard his face from the wind gusts careening against it. The idea to enter the mysterious doorway seemed a good one while Cody lay in the warmth of his house. Rushing, completely drenched down the alleyway toward Wesley’s, he began to realize the rashness of his plan. I’ve come too far to turn back now.
Coming out of the alley, Cody saw the familiar mansion. Only not all was familiar. Standing out like a neon light from the rest of the unchanging scene was a wooden sign in the front yard. The sign read: FOR SALE.
Cody panicked. Does he know? Surely the new sign could not be a reaction to his discovery. But Cody couldn’t dismiss the odd timing. He knows.
Cody shuffled under the doorway ledge of an adjacent building. He needed a plan, and he needed it quick; otherwise he would freeze to death in the storm. Wishing Jade was nearby, Cody scanned the house. He was positive the front door would be locked. Backdoor perhaps? He tried to recall the backside of the house. Even though he had been in the store countless times, he could not recall the existence of a back door. He bit down hard on his lip, a nervous habit that emerged anytime he was straining his brain, which of course, was not very often.
Finally, it came to him. The window. Apart from the large, draped bay windows in the front, the house had a surprising lack of additional windows, especially considering its great size. There was only one rather small, circular window on the top floor, which must have served as Wesley’s peephole to the outside world. Or to scout out his next murder victim.
Another window was located on the left side of the building on the second floor. Clearly, though, without a legendary growth spurt in the next few moments, Cody knew it was not an option. That left only one hope: the back window. The window was of medium size, but large enough to crawl through, and if Cody’s memory served him right, which was rare, it should enter into the room that primarily housed poetry.
Determining that this was his only reasonable plan of action, Cody squatted low and sprinted toward the house, hiding behind parked cars and bushes along the way. For all I know old Wesley is scouting out that peephole right now. Reaching the store, Cody silently scaled the walls around the large house until he came to the backyard. What he saw next shocked him. In the middle of the backyard was a large hole dug into the ground with a shovel sticking upright. By the look of it, the dirt was fresh. He’s going to bury the bodies!
Cody sensed his quest was becoming more direr by the second. He examined the back of the house. Just as he had remembered, there was the window, his one glimmer of hope. Rushing toward it, he was pleased to find it had not been completely closed. A sliver remained separating the glass and the window sill. Sliding his fingernails under the crack he heaved with all his might—it didn’t budge. It’s jammed.
Cody looked around him for something to use as leverage. His eyes fell on the shovel. Dashing back into the rain he quickly retrieved the tool. Returning to the window, he slipped the spade under the crack. Applying all his weight, he pressed forcefully down on the handle. With a thud the rustic window dislodged and opened up. Eager to gain shelter from the storm, Cody crawled through the window and into the house—the house of a murderer.
He collapsed on the floor. The temperature inside was nearly as chilly as the stormy air outside. Gathering himself off the floor, he removed his drenched jacket and shoes, laying them by the window for his departure. He didn’t want to risk his soaked sneakers squeaking and revealing his intrusion.
Tip-toeing to the door, he cautiously stuck his head out of the room. As expected, the floor was empty. The house was dark, with the only light coming from the chandelier candles that still faintly flickered. Ducking down to conceal himself behind the piles of books, Cody made his way toward the stairs. Reaching them, he knew he would have to temporarily forgo his cover. Taking a deep breath, he stood and dashed up the spiral stair-case. Without stopping at the top, he turned down the hall, weaving his way around piles of books and corners, until he finally threw himself against the wall and sunk down to the floor. He had reached the spot. Looking at the wall erased any doubt that the ‘For Sale’ sign corresponded with his discovery. In the place where the revealed door had been, now, once again, was a neat pile of books. Wesley knows.
Just then he heard a creaking noise. Cody froze. The sound was coming from above his head. He could make out slight bowing of the ceiling. Wesley’s awake! And he’s walking around. Cody could think of only a few reasons for Wesley to still be awake, and all of them meant that Cody would be dead by the end of the night. He swallowed hard.
Every fiber in his body was screaming at him to return home, b
ut thoughts of the horrifying nightmare were too great to overcome. He had come too far to turn back. His desire to open the door trumped all rational thinking. As quietly as he could, Cody began removing books one by one.
The footsteps overhead continued in frantic bursts of movement. Wesley seemed to be riled up. Removing the top several rows of books, the red letters once again came into view: Restricted. Looking closer, Cody confirmed his earlier thoughts. The letters were indeed written in blood.
Exhilaration shot through Cody’s body. With increasing pace, no longer worried about noise, he continued to remove book after book. The polished oak door came back into view. Cody felt every hair on his arms stand straight. Having removed most of the books, Cody knelt down and pushed the remaining books aside with reckless abandon, too possessed by a savage yearning to worry about noise. The last book fell limp to the ground.
With the door fully revealed, Cody was surprised to discover that it was not full-sized. In fact, it resembled a child’s playhouse door. Odd thought Cody, pondering how an elderly man would be able to enter the door. Reaching a shaky arm out, he grasped hold of the handle. Adrenaline pumped uncontrollably through his veins like a drum. He braced himself for what he was about to witness; Cody turned the handle and opened the door. Ducking down, with a final pause, he entered the room . . . and gasped.
The scene before his eyes was shocking.
The Man with the Knife
Time was running out. The man glanced around his messy room. Everything is going to change tonight. With haste he raced back to his closet and grabbed another bundle of clothes, stuffing them into an overflowing suitcase. The boom of thunder outside startled him. Yes, time is very short.
It had happened as he had feared, yet the moment had still found him unprepared the same way one still flinches when anticipating a needle. His secret had been discovered. Shuffling over to his lone window he peered anxiously out onto the street. It was empty. How much longer do I have? They could be on their way this moment. This last thought sent a jolt of terror down his spine. I’m getting too old for this.
Legend of the Book Keeper Page 2