The Bookshop From Hell

by David Haynes

  “Give me my book!” Paul shouted. “You’ve always been a pussy, Law, I’m going to enjoy killing…”

  He opened the book. “It’s not real, Paul! It’s all a lie!”

  Even as he spoke, he saw his own book, his own story. The images he’d seen were real. They were more vivid than any memory he had. Yet he’d only read a line, maybe two, he didn’t know. Someone who’d read the whole thing would be gone, lost in Castavet’s pages. Locked in his vault of stories.

  “Don’t you touch that!” he shouted.

  Dan took a wad of pages between his fingers and pulled. They ripped free of the binding, releasing a smell so vile he almost gagged.

  Paul screamed as if he’d been stabbed in the stomach.

  Dan took another few pages and tore them out. He threw the paper on the floor, ripping it into shreds and scattering it over the carpet.

  Paul crawled around the room, picking the pieces up one at a time and staring at them. It was almost laughable. Dan continued to tear and rip, enjoying the pathetic spectacle. Paul was mewling and sobbing, trying to collect every single shred of paper and order them. He was ignorant of Dan’s presence, all his murderous intentions gone at the sight of his beloved book being destroyed.

  Dan ripped every single page out of it and then broke the spine over his knee. He tossed it across the room. Paul wept like a child.

  Dan left him and ran to the kitchen. He grabbed a knife and cut Lori free. Her face was a mess, her lips swollen and cut, but it didn’t look like anything was broken. He tried to guide her out of the house, to take her to the hospital, but she wouldn’t go. She resisted him, pulling him back toward Paul.

  The man looked up briefly but wasn’t concerned enough to get to his feet. He was like a child concentrating only on the toys in front of him, scrabbling about on all fours. She stepped over him, pulling away from Dan, and grabbed the tire iron. He wouldn’t blame her if she smashed his face in, bashed his brains out and killed him. He deserved it for what he’d done to her. He wouldn’t stop her and deny her that final act. Yet, inside, he hoped she wouldn’t.

  Lori raised the tire iron above her head and screamed something utterly unintelligible. Then she lowered it and swung at his right hand, the hand that had beaten her so many times. His fingers buckled, twisting under each other, useless forever now. Paul yelped but even that couldn’t distract him. She hit him one more time and then reached down and took a few squares of ripped paper, stuffing them in her pocket. She looked at Dan and smiled.

  He returned the gesture, although he felt more dead than alive. They walked toward the door, stopping only to pick up Paul’s gun from the carpet.

  There was only one thing he could do now. It was the only ending left for Castavet.

  49

  Dan drove straight to the hospital. He wouldn’t risk taking anyone else to the bookstore. Least of all Lori. She’d been through hell, not just tonight but every night since she and Paul had been together. She was hurt, worse than he’d ever hurt her physically before, but she was alive. If he took her back to Castavet’s, he had a feeling that at least one of them wouldn’t come back out.

  “JJ?” she asked. Her lips were swollen, her mouth cut badly. The effort it took to speak and the pain it caused were obvious.

  Dan didn’t know how to answer. JJ was alive but under Castavet’s spell as surely as Alex Potts, Linda Phelps, Emily Carr and Paul Weaver had been. Probably half the town as well.

  “He’s alive.” It was the best he could managed without lying.

  “With him? Castavet?”

  Dan nodded. He felt his emotions start to get the better of him. He bit down on his lip and watched the road. A couple of men ran across the street, causing him to swerve. They were laughing and hollering like maniacs, trying to hit each other with hammers. In the distance, over the sound of the engine, he heard gunfire. It was coming from the residential area on the other side of the park. There would be more bloodshed before the night was over.

  They pulled into the bay outside the emergency department. Dan jumped out and helped Lori into the building. A nurse was waiting. She looked terrified, her hair a tangled mess. She put her arm around Lori and turned to Dan. “You better come in too.”

  “You okay?” he asked. He saw a streak of blood down her uniform.

  The nurse shook her head. “I don’t know…I don’t know what’s happening. Most of the staff have gone, they just up and left, and those of us that’re left are struggling to cope.”

  Dan needed to act, to do something. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Lori put a hand on his cheek, his uninjured one. “You better,” she said, grimacing. “Bring JJ.”

  The nurse led her away.

  Should he stay? Was it his responsibility to finish Castavet? He took a step toward Lori and the nurse, and then stopped. If he didn’t then all this would just continue. The town would eventually implode with everyone in it smashed to pieces, pieces smaller than the ripped pages of Paul’s book. There was nobody to tell, nobody would believe him. He had to do it. Him alone.

  Dan ran out of the building and jumped into the car. Paul’s gun was all he had. He hoped it was enough. He screeched out of the car park, driving back toward town. As he hit the main road, he stamped on the brake. Someone was walking down the middle of the road. A girl with long hair.

  He swerved, narrowly missing her, and then pulled up. He checked the mirror. At first, he didn’t recognize her, there was so much blood. Her hair, her clothes, her face, it was all covered. It made the whites of her eyes vivid, her smile devilish.

  He wound down the window. “Megan?” he shouted.

  She walked toward him still smiling, something in her hand. “Mr. Law? Is that you?” She pushed her head through the gap in the passenger door.

  “I was going to come see you later,” she said. “Actually, I was going to visit all the men in town. That’s what my story says I should do. What I need to do.”

  He heard her words. The same words they all used.

  She lifted her hands. In one was a tangle of gristle and gore. Blood dripped from between her fingers. She lowered them. “The Simmons boys won’t be bothering any more girls.”

  As soon as she dropped her left hand, her right hand shot up. She pushed a knife through the window, trying to reach across and stab him. She laughed just like Castavet.

  She couldn’t quite reach but managed to open the door, attempting to climb inside. Dan stamped on the gas, leaving her on the road, yanking the door shut as she tumbled aside.

  “See you in class!” she shouted.

  A little farther down the road outside Sandy’s, a group of six men and women were fighting with each other. It was four o’clock in the morning. One of the men had a hammer and was wielding it in all directions. He didn’t seem bothered who he was hitting. He looked at Dan as he passed and snarled, hurling the hammer at the car. It hit his window, shattering the glass. The man was Pete Carr.

  A fire was burning in the park. A crowd of perhaps ten were gathered around it, their naked skin reflecting the orange light. The fire burned bright and hot. Through the broken window, Dan could feel the heat on his face. One by one the group walked into the fire and immolated themselves. The screams were hideous. Principal Fisher led the way.

  He looked away but saw only the hulking figures of the Pope boys standing in the road. Lewis and Shaun both had shotguns in their hands and were casually pumping, firing and then reloading. A sack full of ammunition was at their feet. They didn’t seem to picking out anyone in particular, but whoever got in the way was mowed down. And there were plenty of people running around out there.

  Dan had heard what happened to their father, heard about the town’s reaction. The boys were reacting to that. He slowed down, checking out the side-street to his right, hoping to go around them. In the midst of reloading, Shaun turned his way, peered through the windscreen and tapped his brother’s shoulder.

  Dan put the car in reverse just as t
he windscreen shattered into a million tiny fragments. Something white hot pierced his shoulder, making him cry out. There was another shot and then he lost control of the car’s front end. The hood flew upward, obscuring his view entirely, and steam billowed out. He hit the brake and the back of the car slid around until he was facing the other way. He stamped down on the gas, not caring which direction he was heading, the car not responding to his hands anyway.

  There was a loud thud, a scream and then he hit something solid, something unyielding. The airbag detonated, filling his face with nylon. Over his shoulder he could hear the continued sound of gunshot. He waited for the inevitable appearance of either Lewis or Shaun Pope to finish things but the gunshot stayed in the distance, not coming closer.

  He reached out and released the door lock, falling out of the car. Its front was buried in another car at the side of the road. The alarm was sounding, shrill and penetrating. He squeezed his eyes together and rolled over. The road was warm and sticky beneath his face. He felt sick.

  Lying next to him was Christine Adams, the mother of Melody, one of the victims they found in Gary Palmer’s cabin. The back of her head was missing, blown away by a shotgun blast. In her hand she held a hatchet; the handle and the head were both covered in blood.

  He staggered to his feet, looked up and down the road. People were fighting everywhere. There was gunfire in almost every direction, screaming and cursing. No vision of hell could be worse. He stumbled across the road, heading for the side-street he’d seen earlier.

  A massive explosion almost sent him back down onto the hardtop. On the edge of town, on the other side of the bridge, the sky was transformed from black to a brilliant orange. Sparks fizzed upward like fireworks. The Popes’ farm had gone up. Shaun and Lewis didn’t even turn their heads in that direction. They were now fighting hand to hand with the same group who’d been outside Sandy’s a few seconds ago.

  He ran – anywhere would do, just to get off the street, out of this madness. Most of the lights were on in the houses he passed. People were out in their yards, some fighting, some screaming. He tripped, falling into a fence. Chris Newsome’s impaled head stared back at him. The stench was appalling.

  Dan groaned and collapsed behind Newsome’s picket fence. The grass had a crust on it. He knew it was dried blood but he didn’t care. He just wanted to lie there and wait for it to end. Wait for the town to self-destruct. He lay on his back and stared at black skies above his head.

  Some of these people had read Castavet’s books and they were acting it out. Some hadn’t, but they were reacting to the chaos caused by those that had. He’d created a chain reaction. A few books, a few of his sickening stories had transformed the town into a version of hell. His hell.

  Dan lay and listened to the town imploding around him. He could imagine Castavet laughing, watching it all through his windows. Laughing like a wild hyena.

  Fuck Castavet and his books. He got to his knees and then to his feet. Paul’s gun was still in his jeans pocket. He’d never fired a handgun, only a rifle when he was a kid. One thing he knew for sure was that Paul wouldn’t have had it with him if it weren’t loaded, primed and ready to go. One in the chamber.

  He kept low, running as fast as his legs would carry him. The street ran parallel to Main Street, and he could still see and hear the sporadic gunshots and screams. If he kept going to the end and turned left, he would be back out on Main Street, farther down than the old police station, almost opposite Castavet’s shop. He clutched the gun and kept running.

  At the intersection, someone tried to drive into him as he rounded the corner. It wasn’t an accident. Dan saw the driver smile as he steered his Rav4 toward him. He hurled himself over another fence as the car careered off down the street. It ploughed through someone’s yard and came to a stop when it hit the house, burying its front end in the lounge.

  As he hit Main Street, he glanced up and down. Most of the carnage was lower down. He could see another fire; it looked like his car had been torched. He didn’t care. He turned his attention to the bookstore.

  Dan bolted across the street. He took the steps to the shop in one bound, then put his foot through the lower glass pane on the door.

  “Castavet!” he screamed. “JJ!”

  He need not have bothered kicking the glass. The door creaked slowly open. The interior was lit by three gas lamps. He looked left and right, pointing the gun with a shaky hand.

  “Get out here!” he called.

  The back of the store, where the shelves were, was dark. Castavet must have removed the gas lamps. Taken them away to hide better.

  Dan picked the closest one up. “I’m armed!” he shouted, before entering the darkness.

  The first thing to hit him was the smell, or lack of it. Gone was the sickening odor that had filled the shop. In its place, just the dusty damp of dereliction.

  There was one shelf and it was empty. It wasn’t the cavernous room it had been earlier. It was just a dark and unused corner of the store.

  Dan spun around, his mind utterly confused. He hadn’t imagined it, he couldn’t have. Had he read more of Castavet’s book than he thought?

  No, no, he hadn’t. JJ had been back here, among the books. Those glowing names…Ryan Simmons, Linda Phelps. He hadn’t imagined them, the shelves, any of it. It was gone, the room as empty as it had been for the two years before Castavet arrived. Dan touched the walls, held the gas lamp to them. They were real. Brick and drywall. Solid.

  He leaned against the wall and slid down. Castavet was gone. JJ was gone. The books gone. The only thing left was the carnage outside.

  “No!” he yelled and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the wall about ten feet away, whining as it dug into the brickwork. Making a point. There were no shelves, no books, no dark and cavernous vault. Nobody would ever believe that.

  Dan got to his feet and walked to the front of the store. It was empty. His eyes landed on the counter. Not quite empty. He walked over. Castavet had left one book behind. He didn’t need to touch it to know whose story it was.

  He lifted the gas lamp and smashed it down into the book. The counter lit up beneath it. Dan watched it take hold of the wood, then took the second lamp and hurled it at the last remaining shelf. It caught immediately. He took the last one and simply dropped it on the floor. Within seconds, the old floorboards were ablaze.

  Dan walked outside, stood on the street and watched the windows explode outward. The fire ate into the structure of the building, consuming it quickly and without pause. The building screamed as it burned. Or was it laughter he heard? A hyena’s sickening screech.

  Castavet was gone.

  50

  He drove over the old bridge and out of town. In the rear-view mirror, he could see the town burning. It was beautiful. Not quite as delicious as the souls that burned with it. They flooded into him on a great tide of murderous gluttony and intent. The best kind of intent. It satisfied and soothed him in equal measure.

  It had all ended a little prematurely in Silver Lake, but occasionally a town would burn itself out. Someone got wise to what he was doing and tried to interfere. Leaving the teacher behind didn’t worry him. Nobody would believe him. He’d end up in some hospital somewhere and he might even pick up the little present he’d left. Every customer gets a free gift! He laughed aloud.

  His new friend, JJ, had been kind enough to loan the use of his mother’s aged station wagon. The mode of transport didn’t concern him. It was as unimportant as the name of the next town he would find.

  “So,” he said, “I think we should drive east. I hear the mountains are quite beautiful this time of year.” He licked his lips, glancing over at the near-catatonic boy in the passenger seat. He would need to feed again soon. A war, perhaps? He rubbed his hands together, excited at the prospect of a new story.

  “Oh, stop here, I see one of your friends. I think she might appreciate a ride with us.”

  The girl was on the road, up ahead. She stopped
when she saw the lights approaching and smiled.

  “Hello,” he said, winding down the window. “Can we give you a ride somewhere?”

  “Yes please!” she said.

  “Climb aboard!” he shouted. “Emily, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Emily Carr.”

  “Ah, yes,” he replied. “I think we’ll take you with us. I think you’ll be very useful.”

  *

  By the time the National Guard arrived, there wasn’t much left of Silver Lake. Nearly all of the shops were burned out. The fire appearing to have started at an old bookstore.

  There were bodies everywhere. Some of them mutilated beyond recognition. In the dull morning light, the road possessed a glossy sheen that shimmered red.

  The soldiers cut down a body from a gibbet erected outside the police station. In his hands and at his feet were thousands of little squares of paper. The paper was blank. The soldiers let them drift away on the wind.

  A vile-smelling haze clung to the streets. The smoke drifted from a fire in the park. When the soldiers found that, they realized it wasn’t a simple fire but a pyre. The charred remains of several Silver Lake inhabitants were pulled slowly from the ashes.

  Some of the population hadn’t joined in the night’s festivities. They had been scared to death, literally in the case of some of the elderly residents. Some had even taken their own lives, done it on their own terms before one of the baying crowd took the decision away from them.

  The town had literally consumed itself and nobody seemed to know why. Or if they did, they weren’t talking.

  Dan found Lori at the hospital. He’d driven up there in an old Dodge camper van that someone had left running out on the street. The driver had climbed out to beat his neighbor with a fence post and left the keys in.