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A Haunting of Words

Page 16

by Brian Paone et al.


  “I warned you!” she shouted.

  Diane reached under her pillow for her pistol. She had purchased the gun for protection against thugs in the big city. She never dreamed she would be using it against a clown in her bedroom.

  Pepe stared, astonished, at Diane. His red rubber nose illuminated the terror in his painted eyes before it bounced to the floor. Escaping the angry woman with a gun, he flung open the lid of the purple box and scrambled behind it. The remaining balloons floated around him, forming a useless barrier from a bullet.

  Diane squinted as she steadied her aim. He was difficult to see in the dark with the balloons hovering in front of him.

  “I warned you and I warned you. But you …”

  Pepe reached around the lid and deep into the purple box to grab the concave mirror he had stolen from the funhouse, holding it as a protective shield. The distorted image gleaming from the curved glass disoriented Diane as she fired the pistol.

  The bullet ricocheted off the mirror and struck her in the right temple. The carousel music slowed its tempo and stopped. The balloons hung motionless against the ceiling.

  Pepe leapt over the shards of glass scattered on the floor. He had one item left in the purple box. For the third time this year, he placed a For Rent sign in unit H-E11’s front yard.

  The clown returned to the vacant apartment a week later. Except for the industrial-strength pine scent of disinfectant hanging heavy in the air, everything remained the same. He withdrew a newspaper from the purple box to verify his rental listing had appeared in the classified section.

  As he unfolded the newspaper, a headline at the bottom of the front page caught his eye.

  Second Local Attorney Commits Suicide

  He studied the photo of the woman he knew so well.

  Pepe threw the paper into the purple box and dashed under the bed as voices from the hall became louder as they neared the bedroom.

  “You’ll like it here. The rent is very affordable …”

  Etched in old-fashioned filigree lettering, the sign in the shop read:

  For Sale: Trinkets, Things, and Brass Knockers

  Upon the first reading, Deven Harris found it stuck in his mind. As a young boy, at that point not even a teenager, he knew the reference to brass knockers to be amusing, even if he didn’t quite understand why. Every day after school, no matter the weather, he walked past that same shop.

  In winter, the snow on the sill would reach up to the bottom of the sign, cutting off the base of the letters. In the summer, the rays beating down on the shop front slowly turned the brass plaque to a dark brown tint. Every now and then he’d walk by to find the sign gleaming golden as the shopkeeper had applied a rigorous polishing. In his teenage years, it never failed to bring a smile to his face—the thought of a man standing outside, polishing his brass knockers.

  Despite his unique attraction to the sign and the shop beyond, he had never ventured inside. It seemed even stranger that he had never properly seen the person tending the shop. An occasional glance at a faded face somewhere far at the back of the shop was all the glimpse he’d had.

  On his momentous last day at school, with the future at his feet, the world his oyster, about to embark upon life as an adult, it seemed odd to his group of friends, shouting and laughing their way home, when Deven came to a complete stop in the middle of the path.

  “What’s wrong with you?” his friend, Gray, asked.

  Deven didn’t answer. His eyes were inextricably drawn to a new sign in the window. The brass plaque had gone, leaving a faded outline on the glass. The new sign, a horrid off-white plastic affair with brash red lettering, read:

  Closing Down. Time’s Up

  Arrangements can be made

  “Deven?” Gray asked as he backtracked along the path to stand beside him.

  “Shop’s closing,” Deven said.

  “Oh. Yeah, stupid old place run by that old weirdo. I hope they turn it into something better.”

  Gray slapped Deven’s shoulder and then ran to catch up to the others. Deven stared aimlessly at the window, his focus switching between the sign and his own reflection. The mess of mousey coloured hair fell flat on one side of his head as a breeze blew down the street. He noticed his shirt was twisted across his chest, showing off the thinness of his torso, and as a pretty schoolgirl on the opposite side of the street cast a glance in his direction, he knew the flush of red on his cheeks would be impossible to hide.

  Two more girls headed down the street, walking to join the first, the three of them staring at him—or perhaps they were staring at the closing sign in the shop. He wasn’t sure they would feel the same affinity toward the loss of the brass knockers plaque as he did. Having decided that the now-giggling girls were staring at him, he moved forward with determination toward the only reasonable escape. The shop.

  Inside was dark and musty. A single brass lamp hung low, forcing him to walk in a circle to avoid smacking his face into it. The yellowish bulb inside the lamp didn’t contribute much in the way of light. The interior of the shop was stuffed full of shelves and racking laid out at odd angles, the model of utter inefficiency in comparison to the other modern shops which occupied the remainder of the town. The sparsely-stocked cell phone shop on the next street over seemed an entire world away from Outlook Supplies, with gleaming glass windows and neatly uniformed staff; it was as though the two shops occupied different centuries, never mind different streets.

  Despite having never set foot inside, there was something strangely familiar about the shop. He picked up a snow globe from a shelf and turned it over. The white flecks inside had faded to an off-white colour and seemed more like flakes of mud snowing down on the small old-fashioned building inside. Deven placed it back on the shelf a little to the side from where it had sat before. An obvious mark of a circle showed up against the dusty shelf.

  Deven scrunched his nose up and then turned to check the window, wondering if the girls had moved on or if they were waiting outside for him to come out so they could resume their cacophony of high-pitched giggling.

  “It doesn’t belong there,” a light-toned voice came from behind him.

  He jumped a little and then quickly raced to cover it up with a shrug as he turned. “So?”

  The face that greeted him was weathered with years of wrinkles. Cool blue eyes looked directly at him. The hair atop the man’s head was mostly white, with only a few strands of mousey blond poking here and there. The man’s stance mirrored his own, an odd sort of teenage slump to his shoulders, though his was clearly from the effects of age rather than the uncaring plunge of defiance against standing up straight in Deven’s shoulders.

  Deven straightened his back and placed his hands in his pockets.

  “So … it has a place. Everything does. Its place isn’t there.”

  “It will have a different place when you sell it.”

  “Are you buying it?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  A wry smile cracked across the man’s face in response. The wrinkles on his cheeks increased significantly in number with the smile. The pair of them stood staring at one another for a moment; the oddness of the smile made the hairs on Deven’s neck stand up, and his fingers itched with discomfort.

  He knew precisely what the man expected him to do, and he was utterly torn between wanting to stand defiant or give in and move the globe back to the right spot. He felt his fingers wriggle in his pocket as though the appendages were twitching to make the decision for him.

  The man sucked in a breath through his nose and took a slight shuffle backward, his lean fingertips moving toward the snow globe, wiggling as he reached out to move it back into place, covering up the non-dusty spot.

  Deven squished his own fingers together in his pocket, curling both hands into fists. Something about the man didn’t seem right. Something about the entire shop didn’t feel right. He glanced over his shoulder to peer out of the window once more, wondering if having a group of girls
follow him home giggling would be less stressful than spending any more time inside. To his confusion, it seemed as though snowflakes were falling across the windowpane. The odd tint in the glass was colouring the flecks a light brown.

  “That’s better,” the man said, dragging Deven’s attention back toward him. “I’ve seen you walk past my shop many times.”

  “It’s on my route home from school,” Deven said with a shrug.

  “Yes, all the school children walk past here; not many give the shop a second look. You always seemed as if you would come inside. Although I know it sounds a little creepy of me to point it out.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  The man smiled again, with an odd sort of puffed laugh accompanying the increase in wrinkle density. He thrust out his hand. “Harris,” he said.

  Deven looked down at the hand, which was waiting expectantly to be shaken. His own hands remained firmly stuck in his pockets; both seemed unable or unwilling to come out and be shaken.

  “Right … probably not a good idea anyways,” Harris said with a shrug as he retracted his hand and put it in his pocket. “Were you looking for anything in particular, young man?”

  “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

  “No? That is a shame. I was hoping to make one sale at least.”

  “You’re closing down?”

  “Yes. I’ve come to the end of my tenancy, and alas, I have neither the means nor the desire to stay here any longer.”

  “What exactly do you sell in here?” Deven asked as he glanced at the snow globe; his gaze then raked over the other shelves and moved toward the window. The odd-looking snow flecks had gone, but it seemed oddly dark for the time of day.

  “Everything you could possibly need for the rest of your days. It’s expensive stuff though.”

  “I don’t have much need for brass knockers,” Deven said, stifling a derisive snort.

  “Ah yes, an old joke, here even before my time … Well, sort of. As to my stock, tell me, what sort of things interest you?”

  “Nothing you have here,” Deven responded, glancing over the shelving.

  His eye settled on an odd item, which seemed completely out of place with the rest of the things in the shop: a brand new mobile phone. The latest iPhone model lay out in the open, curiously out of its packaging and sitting on a shelf, a layer of dust surrounding it as though it had been there for years.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Deven asked, pointing at the phone.

  “The latest model,” Harris said with a nod.

  “They’ve sold out at every shop in town. How have you got one? Is it stolen?”

  “I have one because that is what a retailer is supposed to do, provide things that people want. No, it is not stolen.”

  “Then why is it out of the box?”

  “It’s a display model. The only one I have currently. I’ve not bothered to order more because, well, because I’m closing. I thought I didn’t have anything that would interest you.”

  “It doesn’t interest me.” Deven stuffed the pointing finger back into his pocket in defiance. As much as he wanted that phone, he couldn’t afford it.

  “It’s expensive,” Harris said.

  “I told you, it doesn’t interest me.”

  “We could come to an arrangement.”

  The light flickered slightly, and an odd sensation ran up and down Deven’s neck, as though a set of long fingernails were drawn across his skin.

  “What sort of an arrangement?”

  “I will give you the phone, for all the use it will be to you … In fact, I’ll give you anything you want from my shelves. All you have to do is watch the shop for me.”

  “Watch the shop?”

  “Run it; you know, if anyone comes in and asks to buy something, then sell it to them. It’s pretty simple really. You’ll catch on,” Harris said, the easy smile ghosting across his face again.

  “Now?” Deven asked as he glanced out of the window again, something feeling rather odd about the whole thing. Outside seemed odd too—the building across the street looked distinctly different, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

  “Now,” Harris said, drawing his attention back.

  “How long will you be gone for?”

  “As long as it takes to run my errands. You do want the phone, don’t you, Deven? Anything else you want will be yours too, if you wish it.” Harris stepped away, back-stepping toward the door, his grin growing wider.

  “Even your brass knockers?”

  “Especially those.” The grin split across Harris’ face.

  Deven felt sick, as though the world were a sink full of water spinning in a swirl down a plughole. Perhaps he should have endured the giggling girls teasing him the whole way home.

  As Harris stepped through the door, Deven realised something curious. He had not told Harris his name.

  The door slammed shut. The spinning sensation stopped abruptly, and Deven found himself standing in a very clean-looking version of Outlook Supplies. The shelves were free of dust but utterly bare. The snow globe had gone and his coveted iPhone gone too. He stared dumbstruck for a time, his jaw slack. He turned, heading first toward the door, fully intent on chasing Harris down the road and telling him to keep the damn phone, but a note on the counter beside the till caught his eye.

  An envelope addressed to Deven Harris, written in his own spider-scrawl handwriting, sat at a jaunty angle. Behind the counter lay a room full of boxes stacked on top of one another, each with a year written on the side. The first box marked: 1967.

  Curiosity pulled his hands from his pockets, and he opened the letter with a tremor running through his arms.

  Deven,

  I will be a little longer than expected. Fifty years longer. Watch the shop. Sales will sustain you. Be patient. Stock is in the back. Keep the sign clean. It will capture the interest of a certain young man in the future, and that’s one customer you want to come in.

  Yours,

  Deven Harris

  Outside, the shops on the opposite side of the street had all changed. An old-fashioned diner stood in place of the mobile phone shop. A toy-shop front filled with matchbox cars seemed to be attracting attention from a group of strangely-dressed children.

  A chill ran down Deven’s spine, settling uncomfortably in his brass knockers.

  The outlook did not look good.

  The monster had come back for her.

  Marie heard the worn floorboards downstairs groan beneath its feet as it hunted relentlessly through the house.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Not again. Please, not again. Every time the monster came back, she lost someone else. Now it was here for her.

  Marie curled into a tight ball under the musty bed. Fear shivered down her back, and her hair stood on end as heavy footsteps tramped down the front hall. It took all her strength not to wail in sheer terror. She didn’t know what to do, except hide.

  Papa had fought it with all of his strength and lost. Brother too. They had been the strongest. What hope did she have?

  Long minutes passed. Nothing happened. An eerie, waiting silence fell over the house. It’d stopped moving.

  She didn’t dare peek out from under the moldy bed skirt. Had it given up? The dying sunlight cast hollow shadows into the room. Nothing moved.

  What was the monster doing? She hadn’t heard it leave. It was impossible to walk silently in this house. It was over a century old. Every single board creaked like an old man’s bones. It was still here then, had to be. The monster was too big and solid to sneak around properly.

  The risk wasn’t worth it. She’d stay under the bed all night if she had to. Marie drifted deeper into the meager shelter until her back bumped against the wall. Dust bunnies skittered about like disturbed spiders in her wake.

  She wanted Mama. Why couldn’t it have just left them all alone? This was their home. It was supposed to be safe. It had been abandoned and unwanted, like them.
>
  Marie waited. Fear gave her a new patience.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  It wanted a soul. Her soul. She was the only one left. Everyone else was gone, consumed by the monster. It had come back for her. Nothing sated its hunger for long.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Stairs creaked as the monster ascended to the second floor. A fearful moan escaped her throat. Marie wrapped both hands over her cold lips to trap the sound.

  Had it heard?

  She trembled as the footsteps on the stairs hesitated. Tears trickled down her cheeks, leaving icy streaks. Which way would it go? Marie burrowed into her ratty cloak, though it offered no warmth or protection. Nothing would protect her if the monster found her.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  No, no, no. It was coming closer now, relentless as it hunted her down like an animal to slaughter.

  Papa had told them the old stories about the monster before it became a reality. Told them the rules. How not to attract its attention. How the monster’s mere voice burned your ears, and how its words were like chains. It would bind you and take your soul.

  Papa had been taken first. Marie hadn’t seen it happen—she’d hidden in the closet with Baby Boo. Mama had wailed, heartbroken, for weeks after; more so after Brother’s soul was gone. How she’d grieved. Until it had gotten her too.

  How could she escape it by herself?

  She’d tried to keep Baby Boo hidden and safe. She’d failed. Boo had been the last to be consumed by the monster. Mama would never forgive her if she knew.

  It had taken everyone she loved. Her entire family. Except for her. She was all alone. Marie moaned, overwhelmed by the grief and terror that shredded the remnants of her heart.

  Rusty hinges squealed as the bedroom door swung open. Startled, Marie shrieked and flew out from beneath the bed. The monster had found her. She had to run, but where?

  A huge figure loomed, silhouetted in the doorway. She was trapped. Sudden cold permeated the room and frost bloomed across the floor beneath her feet. Marie stared at the monster, frozen in place by its terrible presence. It was bigger than she’d thought.

 

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