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Mysteries in Books

Not the book I was expecting

By Shelby SchwartzPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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On the corner of Mason st. and Jackson dr., stands a small used bookstore. It’s called ‘Mysteries in Books’. The store has been there since before I was born. It was started by my great-grandma, then to my grandma, then my mother and now me. My mother passed away two years ago, and the bookstore became mine. I grew up within the shelves, reading every book that ever came in. Some I was even sad to see go. Nothing makes me happier to come through the arched doorway every morning. The smell of old books hits you the second those doors open, and it’s a feeling of becoming free into a whole alternative world. Each book takes you to a new place in time, and sometimes I even feel like I’m brought into the book, living out as a character. It will never get old. This shop is where all the book lovers want to be at. I’ve seen so many people come and go through its doors. Books come and go just as much as the people.

Today started just like any other day. I opened the store at eight in the morning. Turning on the lights that brighten up the room. Each book seems to shimmer in place, just waiting to go to a new home. Lately days have been slow, not many people reading as much as they used too. Most read digitally now, but the books still come in through the donation box in the back of the store. I have my regular customers that come in every week, always looking for something new. With things slowing down, upkeep has been getting harder, but I come in every morning with a smile on my face. There is nothing I’d rather do than come here every day. I would love to upgrade the interior, make it a little livelier. Repaint the walls, refurnish the shelves, maybe even add a better security system.

Before I had opened the store, I went through the donation box. Nothing new about that right? This time at the bottom of the box laid a small black book. Black books are normal, but this one didn’t have a title on the front. It had a black ribbon around it, holding it shut. I’ll admit, it intrigued me, but I didn’t have time to look as I had to get the store opened. Now that the store is opened, and it is another slow day. I start to go through the new books and add them to my system to get them ready to sell. The little black book will be last. I could barely contain my excitement as I got to the last book of the pile. It was now time for the little black book.

The binding is worn, like it’s been read many times. Parts of the book have small fingerprint marks from being held so many times. It even smells old. I run my hand over the front of the book before pulling against the ribbon. The book opens and dust flew in the air. I cough and try to wave the dust away from my face. It must have not been opened in a while. The book lands on the counter and as the dust clears away; I noticed some green paper laying inside the open pages. When the dust finally clears, I can see what it is. It is a hundred-dollar bill. I gently pick up the bill and there is another one behind it. I find this one of the oddest things I’ve ever found hidden in pages of a book. I set the hundreds to the side and try to read the page. It’s written in what appears to be Russian, so unfortunately for me, I can’t read it. I flip to the next page, and what do I find? Two more hundred-dollar bills. I flip the page and again and I find more. I keep going through pages and pages, and money keeps falling out between. I grab the book by its binding and shake upside down. Hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars fall from this Russian book. All the money seems dated, it’s old and worn. I assume whoever hid the money inside put it there years and years ago.

I turn off the open sign and lock the doors. I collect the money and rush into the back office and lay it all on the desk. I stand there for a moment staring at all the money I just found. I decide to count the money. I make a new pile for every thousand. Before I know it there is $20,000 laying on my desk in front of me. I’m in awe. I’ve never seen so much money. Then I realize I should probably find out who it belongs too. This isn’t my money and someone could look for it. I run back up front and grab the little back book. I go to the front of the book and see something inscribed on the back of the cover. It’s written in messy cursive and I can barely get out the name. It has a date of 1922 on it, but that is all I can make out. I sit down in my chair and think. I have no clue what I should do.

After sitting and pondering what I should do and staring at the money taking over my desk. I wrap up the money and put it in my safe. I don’t need it getting out that I have 20 grand lying around. It’s not even my money and it would kill me if it got stolen. I have posted a sign asking if anyone owned the little black book or knew who it belonged too. I’m hoping anyone who comes in to the store might also be the owner. I know most of my donations come from people that come into the store. Maybe they didn’t realize they donated it and will look for it. I take a picture of the book and the inscription inside. I make a poster on my computer and print a few out. I post them around the store and on the door. I really hope someone says something. As much as I would love to keep the money. I know I can’t keep it.

Over the course of the week, I do some digging on the book to find out who could have owned it. I use google translate to translate some words and the title I found on the inside book. It turns out to be a Russian fairy tale book. I want to read it. It sounds interesting, but it would take me a while to translate the entire book. It would cost a lot to have it translated for me. So, that option is out. I only wish I knew someone who was Russian. My regulars have asked about the little black book. I told them about it but never mentioned the money. I don’t need someone pretending for it to be theirs. Though no one has come in claiming to have owned it.

A few weeks later, I’m at the grocery store, looking for the things on my list, when I hear someone speaking in Russian. I have learned some language. Mainly so I can read the book. Its been the only thing on my mind lately. The second I hear the language, I stop what I’m doing and I run over to the next isle. There are only two people down the isle and its a man and who could be his wife. They both immediately stop talking as they see me turn the corner and stare at them. I admit my eyes are probably a little wide right now and there is a huge smile on my face. They both look at me in confusion. I try to bring back my composer before walking up to them. I say, in what little Russian I know, that I have a question and that I know little Russian. They still look at me like I’m growing a mushroom on my head. So I go to English, hoping they will understand. I explain the little black book I found, and that it’s written in Russian and that I’m trying to look for the owner. There aren’t many Russians around my area, so I’m hoping they might be able to help me. Their faces soften and they seem to understand. It’s the women who speaks first. Her English isn’t very good, but she says they can’t help me. They don’t say anymore and walk away. I feel so many things and I want to run after them and make them help me. But instead, I turn around and go back to my shopping.

A few days later, I’m back at the shop, dusting off the shelves when the bell from the door opening goes off. I yell out that I’m in the back and I’ll be coming. I set my duster down and set up to the front. My eyes are to the floor as I walk, when I get to front and look to see who it is, I’m surprised. It’s the women from the grocery store. The Russian lady who told me they couldn’t help me. I look at her in question and she smiles. She explains herself and tells me she’s the one who dropped the book off. I asked her if she knew what was in the book. That’s where she bit her lip and looked to the ground. She knows. I asked her why she donated it. Her answer shocked me. The book was her grandmothers, who passed away, and she was a regular when my mother was running the store. She asks to see the book. We go in the back to the office, and I take it out of the safe.

She gently takes it from my hands. Her fingers caress the front of the book, probably thinking of all the memories that have come from it. Part of me wants to know what they were, but I let her take her time. She recites something in Russian before looking up at me. Her grandmother had gotten sick and couldn’t visit the store anymore, but knew how my mother always wanted to update the store. I guess they had talked frequently about this. So, her grandmother wanted to give the money to me after she heard my mom had died, but could not do herself. The inscription on the back of the cover was for me. Telling me the money was to help me spruce up the store. Tears well in my eyes. I wish there was a way I could thank her. I thank the women instead and tell her how much it means to me. My mother would be so happy.

We end up sitting down and chatting for about an hour or two until she gets a call and needs to leave. She promises to come visit more often and see how I’m doing with the store. I rest against the door and let the tears fall. Happy tears. I am so grateful and it’s all because of a little black book.

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About the Creator

Shelby Schwartz

Hey, I'm Shelby and I've been an avid writer for about 6 years now. I mainly write about death and dabble in horror. I enjoy some poetry every now and then. I enjoy getting my words on paper and sharing my thoughts. Hope you enjoy.

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