I gently brush the torn spine of something written in French, or maybe Italian. My hand falls on something missing a cover. The front page is so yellow and bleached that the words are barely visible.
“Moby-Dick; or The Whale…” I murmur as my nail traces the lines.
Holy shit.
Goosebumps rise along my arms as I realize I’m holding the original American publication ofMoby Dickfrom 1855.
This is atreasureand it’s just been flopped into a pile!
I hold the book close to my chest as I stand, pointing my flashlight across the others in the haphazard cluster.
A strange growl emanates from under the books, and then, they shift. Maybe it’s just the floorboards groaning and of course the books are shifting because I fell onto them…
They move again, and another, longer growl sounds.
I point my phone at the spot of most action and holdMoby Dickup like a weapon. I’m sorry to Herman Melville, but if his original printing can save me from getting rabies, I am going to use it.
The books slide apart and a set of glossy, white eyes glare back at me. It’s not a racoon, or a squirrel. It’s not a furry animal at all. The snout is long and green and scaly. Do they have snakes in Wisconsin?
I take a step back and find myself on the edge of the top stair. The creature pushes farther out of the pile, its little clawed hands gripping onto book covers and pages as it hauls itself forward.
“A lizard?” I ask no one in particular, because the lizard surely isn’t going to answer me.
It opens its mouth and for a second, I think I might be wrong, but then, it hisses. Two sharp fangs glisten against my phone light as the thing pulls back its lips in a menacing display. It’s only the length of my forearm, and its teeth are about as long as Oscar’s, but still, I don’t want to be on the receiving end of a bite.
“Sorry to disturb your rest,” I say, taking one step down the stairs as I grab the door handle with my phone hand.
The lizard scrambles over the books and charges at me. I holdMoby Dickout in front of me like a shield and it stops, skidding to a halt. It hisses and growls, stomping its front feet.
“Nice lizard, no biting,” I say, heart pounding in my chest. “I’m just gonna close the door, let you go back to bed.”
I pull on the handle but the door is stuck and my phone slips from between my fingers. It hits the ground next to the lizard. It hisses as it goes full attack mode on my technology. I wish I was dignified enough not to scream as I run, but I’m not.
I charge down the stairs to the back door before remembering Oscar with a curse. I sprint into the bookshop and pick up his kennel but when I turn around, the lizard is there, waiting.
There’s fury in its glossy eyes, but they don’t immediately fall on me. It sniffs hard as it moves into the shop, hunting left and right. I calm my breathing, trying my best to be quiet since I think the thing is blind.
Oscar growls, and the lizard’s head snaps toward me. Its little feet clickity-clack on the floor as it rushes us and I run for the wall, leading it on a chase until I can safely get back to the door to the hallway. I jump over some rotted wood, and the lizard easily navigates around it—as if it could sense the obstacle.
Oscar is bouncing around in his kennel, complaining wildly as I dash down the long hallway to salvation: the car I never wanted to sit in again but will now live in if it means escaping this feral reptile. I throw the back door shut behind me and lean against it. There’s scratching on the wood from the other side and the lizard growls in anger, but it can’t get out.
I set the kennel down and my trembling hands fish the keys out of my pocket. I lock the door, then run with Oscar back to the car. Isqueeze into the driver’s seat and shove him over into the passenger’s, then finally take a breath.
I still haveMoby Dickin my other hand, but the title page is wrinkled and ripped from my harried flight. I wince as I try to smooth the page back down, but it’s no use.
“Shit,” I mumble, then set the book on top of Oscar’s kennel.
He glares at it, then at me.
“What do you want me to do? Call an exterminator?”
He blinks his eyes separately and I remember I can’tcallanyone.
I groan, thinking about my phone lying upstairs next to the book pile, probably covered in bite marks. I glance back at the closed door as I consider how to grab my phone.
No. There’s no way I’m going in without a weapon this time.
“Maybe I should go to that gun shack and get some pepper spray, or a taser,” I mumble, watching the door for signs of activity. Not that I think a little blind lizard can open a door…
