“What was that?”
“Hmmm?” He smiles innocently, looking up from his wrapping. “Oh, nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You definitely said something.”
“Did I?” He only laughs. “Must have been the wind.”
With a wink, he passes the wrapped book across the counter to you.
“You know,” you say, holding your hands up as you take a step back, careful not to bump into the precarious stacks at your back. “I just realized how late it is. On second thought, I’d better hurry home.”
The air in the shop goes suddenly cold. Icy wind rushes through the room and flutters all the pages as itwhooshesthrough the narrow stacks.
Shivers race down your spine and your heart leaps into your throat.
“NO!” The little old man roars, his frizzy, white hair standing on end as the lights overhead flicker. “Youmusttake it.”
You lurch back in terror, banging into the books at your back, then leaping forward and landing against the front of the counter with a dullthump.
Ouch.
“Oh, my,” the shopkeeper says, back to his normal voice. As if surprised by his own outburst.
He blinks rapidly across at you where you cling to the edge of the counter, terrified, as the lights finally stop flickering.
“Excuse me.” He pushes his spectacles back up along the bridge of his nose and clears his throat. “Where was I?” He glances down at the book in his hand and smiles demurely. “Ah, yes. The book.” He holds it out, leaning across the counter to extend it to you. With shaking hands, he declares, “Fate haschosenyou.”
Fate!?
What in the creepy nonsense is this?
But it doesn’t seem you’ve got much choice.
“Okay, okay. I’ll take it.” With shaking hands, you swipe the book off the table. Static prickles your fingers as you grab it, and you jolt, nearly dropping it.
“Ouch,” you grumble as you back away, still clutching the probably-cursed book. This feels like a bad sign.
Hopefully you won’t regret this.
It’s just a book, you tell yourself. Just a book! You can always donate it later if you still feel weird about it.
Nothing to be afraid of, you repeat to yourself, but your heart is still racing from the strange old man’s outburst.
Now that the book is in your hands, he’s gone back to humming tunelessly, his eyes quiet and his smile demure as he meanders back into the stacks and begins dusting the haphazard shelves.
“I’ll just be going now,” you say, edging toward the door.
“Hmmm?” The old man asks, blinking slowly as he turns to look at you. “Oh, you’re still here.”
Maybe he really is senile.
“It’s late,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be getting to bed?”
But the old man only laughs, waving his dust rag. “This is the finest hour of the day! I wouldn’t dream of wasting it.”
You smile and nod politely. “Sure, right. Of course.”
But inside, you’re shaking your head.
