Afterword

You step back to examine your surroundings.

An empty alleyway you don’t remember turning into, but you’re convinced must be a shortcut to your destination. You notice a sign above the door.

“The Page Turner,” you read aloud.

*Click*

The door’s rusted hinges creak inwards. A bell tinkles from somewhere inside. You cautiously inch the door open and a musky scent fills your nostrils, the familiar smell of leather-bound books, with a hint of wood smoke. Easing yourself around the door, you step inside.

The room before you is crowded, yet cosy. Books along every wall, lining every shelf. It’s quiet, save for the crackle and pop of a fireplace in the corner. The heat makes the loose pages of a nearby book flutter. The counter has various trinkets; pots of pens, tarot cards, and dice.

There’s no one standing by the till. No other customers either. Not a single person in sight.

“Hello!” beams the man who appears on cue. He takes your hand in his, shaking it violently. “Welcome to my shop! Welcome, welcome! How can I help?” he asks, still grasping your hand. His is skeletal and cold to the touch.

You prize your fingers free just before he turns away and takes you along for the ride. “Erm…” you say. “What is this place?”

“The Page Turner!” he says over his shoulder. “Didn’t you read the sign? Now, where shall we start?”

Your fingers are numb. “What?”

“You know, romance, cooking, travel, crime, thri- cut me off when I get to it – thriller, mystery, pets, nature-“

“Oh, genr-”

“Nature?” he interrupts, “Just over here, if you’ll follow me.”

You almost trip chasing after him. “I wasn’t looking for anything, actually. Didn’t even know this was a bookshop.”

He stops so suddenly you almost run into him. “You mean to tell me,” he says, “you aren’t in the mood for a good old fashion tale? A spin of the yarn, epic saga or drama?”

“Well-”

“That’s what I thought, now let us not dawdle. We’re barely a page in!”

You massage the blood back into your fingers. “What do you mean?”

He frowns, “I mean we need to get cracking, get weaving and reading! We have lots to explore.”

“But I don’t even know what I’m looking for?” you ask.

“This is a bookshop!” he beams, hands in the air. “Most people who come in are trying to find the plot.”

You’re silent for a moment. He looks you up and down expectantly.

“I just ope-“

“Opened a door and walked in? Yes, that’s how most people get here. I’ll put the kettle on, you make yourself at home. Feel free to browse. Tea? Coffee?”

He’s already walking off before you can answer.

∞

The books, you discover, are all bound in the same way. Smooth black leather. They’re all exactly the same thickness, with exactly the same number of pages. Embossed with formal looking gold letters. You pick one at random from a shelf near the door. It’s titled Twenty-Six, the one next to it is called Twenty-Five.

Twenty-Six has no listed author. No copyright pages. It doesn’t have an index or contents page. No chapter headings. No paragraphs. It just starts and from the very first word, it’s utter nonsense. Hardly anything is comprehensible English.

You try another book, on a shelf a little further away. This one is the same as the first. No chapters, no author, no break in the wall of text. Complete dribble. Occasionally there is a real, basic word, but they are few and far between.

“How’s it going?” the shopkeeper whispers into your ear.

Startled you spin round. You catch your eye on the gold nameplate pinned to his waistcoat, which reads ‘J. Doe’.

“John’s the name,” he says, following your gaze.

He places the tray of drinks he’s been holding onto a nearby table. “I didn’t catch what you wanted, so I made tea as well as coffee,” he says, motioning towards the twenty or so mugs on the tray, “And then I realised you might not take milk or sugar, so I made all the possible variations. Hot milk and sugar, cold sugar and milk, luke war-”

“I’m okay, for now, thanks.”

John shrugs, picks up a random mug and says “Found anything you like the look of?”

“I’m struggling to understand how they’re organised,” you say, “To be honest, I’m struggling to understand them at all.”

John looks at the spines on the shelf you’ve been reading from.

“Ah yes, these are quite postnatal,” he says “Fear not, I’ve picked you out something a bit more mature.”

He holds up a book titled Five-Thousand Seven-Hundred and Ninety. “Biscuit?” he asks, thrusting out a tin that you’d not realised he’s been holding. Between the mug in one hand and the book in the other, it seemed like he’d already run out of hands.

“Er, no, thank you,” you say, watching as the tin makes its way to the table with neither mug nor book being let go.

“Actually what time is it?” you ask, vaguely remembering you had somewhere to be.

John looks at his wrist, which, notably, does not have a watch on it. “Hmm,” he says, turning to look out the black void of the window, “Nighttime.”

This seems to answer the question enough for him to turn his attention to his tea, blowing at the steam before taking a sip. He recoils in disgust and quickly puts it back on the tray. At the same time and without looking, he hands you the book he’s been holding.

“I don’t think this book is for me,” you say, immediately handing it back.

“Pah” he snorts. “Show a little gumption!”

“No, sorry, I really must be off,” you try.

“But we have so much to read,” he says, motioning around the room.

You feel something heavy in your hands and looking down, find that you’ve taken back the book without noticing.

John heads over to where you were previously reading from and slides number Twenty-Six off the shelf. He promptly makes himself comfy in the closest armchair and starts reading. You watch him briefly, completely engrossed, before glancing back at your own book to find it open on a random page. Looking at the wall of text in your hands, it feels weighty. Compressed. Like there is more information at your fingertips than one person could ever hope to understand, but yet…

“This is oddly familiar,” you say.

John glazes over. “Thoughts are one of the few things that can be enjoyed twice for the first time,” he replies, staring into space. He nods to himself and returns to reading.

Realising that’s the end of that, you go back to reading your own book.

This section describes a teenager. They’ve invited some friends around because their parents are away visiting relatives. A bottle of vodka has been stolen from the alcohol cupboard. Mugs, filled with a teenager’s naivety, waiting to be drunk.

A bitter taste forms in your mouth.

“Huh,” you say, puckering your lips, “That's relatable.”

“Hmm,” says John, barely paying any attention. “Where are you now?”

“Some kids are drinking their parent’s vodka.”

“Oh. You little rascals,” he chuckles.

You take a sip from one of the mugs only to spit it out immediately.

“Urgh. What is this? It tastes like paint stripper!”

“Oh, not the carpet!” whines John, “Took me ages to clean them last time.”

This being all the validation you need, set the mug to one side.

The teenagers by now are drunk. Slurring and mumbling, as you read on the words themselves begin to make less sense. One of the teenagers reaches for their glass but fumbles.

John looks up to the sound of smashed glass. “Did you hear that?”

“I… did,” you say. “Alright, what’s going on?” You put the book down.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Am I being pranked? That tea definitely tastes like vodka,” you snap.

“Well, the milk might have been a little out of date but it’s wasteful to-”

“And that smashing we heard, that just happened in my book. And to top it off I could swear-”

“You’ve done this before?” he interjects, “Of course you have, this is your bookshop.”

He says this so casually it catches you off guard.

“Well, actually it’s my bookshop,” he continues, “obviously. But it’s your story.”

“What?”

John rolls his eyes as somewhere from within the shop a phone rings. He utters a hurried apology and is gone, all within seconds. Leaving you alone and quite convinced that John is a few sandwiches short of a picnic. An escaped mental patient masquerading as a shopkeeper. You dread to think what horrible end befell the true and unfortunate owner of The Page Turner.

∞

As you walk deeper into the shop you wonder why on earth John decided to make such a seemingly endless space feel so cramped. Tracing your fingers along the spines of the books as you walk, they catch on Four-Thousand Nine-Hundred and Thirty.

You open the cover of this latest book.

It describes a young teenager at secondary school. It’s lunchtime. The natter and laughter of children can be heard, but this teenager sits alone in the locker room, quietly eating. Three others enter the locker room. The teenager scoops up their belongings and hastily makes for an exit at the other end. They’re blocked by a fourth person. Backing up the teenager trips, dropping their bag and scattering the contents of their lunch across the floor.

The bag, you notice, is described as having your very initials sewn to the front. The crest is the same as your old secondary school's one, and the sandwiches scattered on the floor, the same as your mother used to make them. You shudder and stop reading a moment to cast an eye down the hallway to see if anyone is watching. Your jaw is stiff. You hadn’t realised but you’ve been clenching.

“I’ve never told anyone about this,” you mutter, noticing goosebumps forming on your arm. You stamp your feet softly to get the blood flowing.

The kids push you to the floor and tear the clothes from your body, leaving you naked. You beg them for your shirt. They laugh; throwing it to each other as you chase desperately.

Your hands are trembling.

Three of the kids hold you down as the fourth opens a locker. They drag you over and force you inside, kicking and screaming. They slam the door and turn the key.

“How is this possible,” you sob.

Trembling excessively, you put your hand out to steady yourself.

The bookshelf opposite definitely wasn’t this close last time you checked. It was just out of reach before but now your hand rests against it. The fire has gone out. Cold ash sits in the hearth.

You close your eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

Your hand resting on the shelf in front of you begins to move backwards. Impossibly the shelf edges closer.

You feel something at your back and before you have time to react, you’re pinned between the shelves. Thick books press into your ribs, legs and face from both sides. Your breath catches in your chest. Pushing back against the books to make room to breathe you rattle the shelves, causing books to fall, burying you in paper and leather. Your heart hammers in your chest. Panic rises inside you, just like it did in that locker all those years ago.

Pinned and unable to move you wait.

You wait.

∞

Sometime later you hear rustling. Books being moved aside. John’s skinny face appears through the rubble.

“Hello!” he beams, all chipper and smiles. He frowns curiously at the books. “Rather cosy in here isn’t it?”

His breath smells like tea and peppermint.

“I…” you start.

“...am in need of assistance!” he finishes for you. He reaches into the pile, clasps your arm and with an incredible display of strength heaves you free in one movement.

You land on your back, John peering over you.

You breathe deeply, free of the books which, looking back don’t appear anywhere near as numerous as they felt. The bookshop looks as normal as ever. Shelves still packed closely together but at a much more sensible distance.

“How is this possible?” you whisper.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“How can these books be about me, what is this place?”

“Oh…yes that.” He glazes over again.

You wait a few minutes, watching the cogs of his mind churn without response. Sitting up you notice the book in his hand. “Have you been reading about me?”

“Hmm?” he says, looking through you briefly before his eyes focus “Oh yes! Always good to get to know a customer! I especially liked this bit with your English teacher when you were eight.” He holds up Three-Thousand One-Hundred and Ninety-Five for reference.

“You look a little shaken,” he says after you don’t respond. “Let me get you a glass of water.”

He heads off, whistling to himself.

You really are parched. Your mouth is dry. When you stand a wave of dizziness flows over you but passes just as quickly as it came.

John returns with a glass of water then shortly excuses himself. You notice the fire has been lit again but where previously it afforded you no warmth, now it feels too hot. The water washes down pleasantly.

Even as the last few drops of water trickle down your throat, you already feel cottonmouth returning. It is unshakable. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth as you wipe away the sweat forming on your brow. Cheeks flush red as your temperature rises.

You decide to walk it off.

∞

Rounding a stack of books, you step out into a large open space. Alleyways of towering shelves extend outwards, stretching into infinity. Two armchairs sit facing towards a fireplace. Set between them is a small side table with a single book resting upon it.

Nine-Thousand Four-Hundred and Seventy reads the embossed letters. Instead of gold, these characters appear singed to the cover. You trace their outline, warm to the touch. Residue sticks to your fingertips. You realise it is ash.

A dull ache creeps up your legs. How long have you been walking?

Tempted by the allure of the armchairs and the promise of rest you recline deeply into the leather. You tug at your shirt to get air onto your chest, searching around the room for a much-needed distraction. The book beside you beckons.

The occasional sound of cars passing, a train chugs in the distance, the laughter from a group of young lads out on the town. The sounds of a city at night. You lie asleep on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn balanced atop your chest as the movie you were watching plays to an otherwise empty room. To say the room is empty though would be untrue. In fact, it is crowded. Clothes lie flung across the floor, stacks of pizza boxes next to an overflowing bin leaking a dark liquid into the what-once-was, cream carpet. The disconnected casing of a fire alarm next to a crusted stovetop. The smell of burnt toast slowly fills the air as thin strands of smoke escape the closed lid of a pot ringed neon red, humming in the dark.

A bead of sweat trickles off your nose and lands on the page. Wiping the back of your hand across your brow, you lean back and let out a groan. Shadows of flames dance across the ceiling.

Your eyes sting. You reach up to rub them with one hand while stretching out for a yawn with the other. A bitter taste hits the back of your throat. You shoot upwards, coughing and spluttering. The bowl clatters to the floor spilling popcorn over the carpet. It takes you a moment to realise it isn’t your eyes that are hazy, it’s the room. Clouds of black smoke billow out of the kitchen. An orange glow illuminates the shapes of furniture through the smoke. You notice the heat. It’s oppressive. You pull your jumper up over your mouth to block out the smoke and wipe away the tears streaming out your eyes. The scene before you is one you wish you could unsee. Flames lick at your earthly possessions, pouring out from every corner of the room. Panicked, you instinctively look over to where you know the door to be. A path touched by fire but not impassable. You launch yourself from the sofa, kicking the bowl of popcorn into the depths of an inferno.

You pull away from reading to puff out your shirt again, getting some air onto your skin. Your chest is heavy, throat tight.

You round the final bend in the stairwell. Ground floor. You throw open the stairwell door, gasp at the fresh air and retch. Across the grass, you turn and stare back up at the building. As you descended the ten flights of stairs, the fire instead climbed. Smoke pours out of windows several stories higher. There is a noticeable lack of alarms. You pat yourself down, looking for your phone, but come up empty-handed. You stare back at the building. Burning. The building is burning.

A hand knocks the book away from you.

“Why are you still reading?! RUN!” shouts John over the roar of the flames.

Drenched in sweat, you look around in panic. Thick black smokes pools at the ceiling, pouring from shelves that are quickly crumbling into piles of charred wood. The pages of nearby books shrivel and turn to ash.

Everything is on fire.

John grabs you by the scruff of your shirt and pulls you from the chair. The smoke chokes you instantly, lungs burning. A memory vividly experienced moments ago in the pages, now unfolding before you.

He clasps you on the shoulder and pushes you down, the air here is just about breathable but the heat is enough to set your head ringing.

“What the fuck is happening!” you choke.

“The situation is quite heated isn’t it!” chuckles John.

Having had just about enough of this man, you shake from his grasp and make for a gap in the shelves that isn’t ablaze. A path touched by fire but not impassable.

Running down the narrow corridor you reach a junction, shelves leading left and right. You take the left quickly but stumble into a stack of books.

You realise you’re gasping for air that isn’t there.

The image of the burning building seared into your memory. Screams can be heard from somewhere in the shop. You double over, hyperventilating. Books dislodge from a shelf above. One lands on the back of your head, dropping you to a knee, dazed. You steady yourself and glance over your shoulder to see flames following, quick at your heels. Leaning on a shelf for support, you hobble on and round a corner.

Dead end.

There’s a loud crack like splitting floorboards and you dive just in time to dodge a collapsing stack of shelves. It leaves you trapped against the wall. Panicked, you push at the debris but your strength is failing.

John rounds the corner.

“Thank god, John, please. Call for help!”

He smiles. Sarcastically mimes patting himself down and huffs, over-exaggerating the movement as if performing for an audience. “Sorry, looks like I don’t have my phone on me.”

Against the hellish glow of the flames, John looks amused.

“What are you talking about?! Help!” you scream.

John’s expression doesn’t flicker. He just stares. The flames licking at his heels apparently not a bother.

“Yes,” he says. “Help.”

He’s holding the book you were just reading.

“You stare back at the building,” he reads from the last page. “Burning. The building is burning.” He says this last part while looking directly at you.

“A busy day for the bookshop that was.”

“It was an accident. A mistake. I didn’t notice until it was too late!” you exclaim.

“Ignorance is not an excuse,” John replies. He doesn’t raise his voice, no inflection or emotion. For him, this is simply a matter of fact.

The flames move quickly, snaking around him and climbing nearby shelves. Your throat burns. The taste of oxygen long forgotten. You collapse, coughing and spluttering.

You put your hand out to steady yourself and howl. The skin on your hand bubbles and welts. Fire creeps under the debris of the shelves. Kicking yourself back into a corner, you catch a final glimpse of John, staring blankly, before he closes the book with a finality and disappears into the smoke.

Pressing yourself up against the shelves, the flames snap at your toes. You try to stand but almost lose consciousness.

In a blink the fire is on you.

You let out a blood-curdling scream as the fibres of your clothes fuse to your skin. Blisters explode up your arms and legs, popping as quickly as they appear. You can feel your blood boiling in your veins. Unable to even comprehend the pain, your eyes flutter and the room spins…

∞

“Come on my friend, get up off the floor.”

Your eyes snap open to the sound of your own screaming. You run your hands over your body to check for burns.

Nothing.

No smoke, no fire.

John is leaning against the front desk of the shop, stirring a spoon around his tea.

“What...what happened,” you say hoarsely.

You notice birds chirping outside the window. Sunlight pouring through the panels.

“How do I explain this,” he begins, “life is all about perspective and while these books are most certainly your perspective on things, often, this bookshop will show you another.” He taps the spoon three times on the rim of the mug and sets it aside.

“Whose perspective?” your voice shakes nervously.

“Oh many,” he replies, taking a long sip, “In your case, Forty-Seven to be precise.”

You sit in silence.

“Forty-Seven people died in that fire,” he continues, “Forty-Seven souls lost to the flames, yet you survived. The cause of it all.”

The memory of searing flesh makes you squirm.

You make a wild dash for the door. John’s watches with interest, sipping his tea. Gripping the handle you throw yourself through to reveal the very same bookshop. Instead of cobbled streets and sunlight, endless rows of shelves, books and a gently smiling John.

“No. No, no, no, no…” you mutter. Running through the door again and looking back, only to find the exact same bookshop and exact same smiling shopkeeper.

“My dear,” says John, setting down his mug, “you cannot move on until you have atoned to what you are accountable for.”

You double over, vomiting on your shoes.

“Now,” he says in the tone a teacher would use with a student, “shall we keep reading?”

END