Rules of a Haunting

If you could wish for something in this life of ours, what would it be? If it were me, I would've liked a higher power to be real or the supernatural to be more evident to me.

Unfortunately wishes like that never get made. I could ask for all my debts paid, my body remade, a second chance at life with this wiser mind of mine, or something like that, and it will be made true, but never a wish that'd make life itself a work of fiction.

Life as a story, would make quite the work of art. However, in our times, now that we've realized the difference between myths and actuality, a story takes on a life of its own.

It is not just the author's desire that must be conveyed but the story's individual meaning; the emotions it gives, that must be communicated.

In that search of being, sometimes the story makes a puppet of us.

In any case, it seems someone else's wish was granted, and I am here left with the witnessing of said wish. What they wished for was emotions, for the feelings and bonds, the thoughts that consume a person to be made into something more than just tears and worry.

This wish was meant for the kind of emotions you can't shake. Like the ones from a bad breakup, when you're lost in the minutiae, or when you're doubting your career choices.

Those moments in life when we face life's mundanity with hopeless little convictions. That which we call our hopes and dreams are nothing more than the holding-on's of a scared individual. In that futility, these emotions and thoughts linger more and more.

This is what makes them haunt you.

So, in short, we shall call these emotions given form, Hauntings.

I don't know where this story began, or how to start it, so I'll start it at when it seems the most convenient.

A young man walked to a front door, his back heavy with weight.

His legs shook from climbing the steps.

Why does this house have so many stairs? This sucks... He thought to himself, though knowing him he probably grumbled something else.

As soon as he passed the fence, the weight had been lifted. Almost like it was shed at the imaginary border the fence made from the sidewalk to within the property.

He hesitates to knock. He didn't know why he's here. His legs seemingly carried him there, and he was so lost in thought that he didn't realize he was on autopilot.

He tried turning around but when he did, he saw an "OPEN" sign in the window.

He never noticed that this wasn't a house but a store.

Or maybe it was a home repurposed into a store.

Whatever the case may be, he was curious about what was sold inside. If he's lucky it might be a boutique with book boxes and trunks.

He was an avid reader, and he relished in his books a lot. Adamant about reading only physical books, he realized at some point; most likely after buying an entire set of his favorite supernatural book series, he needs to properly store and care for his literature.

So, he began collecting these storage units for his books.

He thought it was clever.

Books inside of a book.

Heh.

Entering the store, there were piles and piles of books.

Books on the shelves, on tables, and books in cardboard boxes.

It was unorganized and dimly lit. At least the familiar smell of pulp and glue hung in the air. He heard someone sniffle somewhere deeper within the store.

The air inside was arid and dry; he wanted to sniffle too.

Approaching where the sound came from, he saw a man with a sad look on his face scribbling away at a notebook.

"Welcome, if you see anything you like, you can bring it here." He looked away from his notebook and eyed him up and down as he spoke.

"Uh..."

"This is a bookstore; we sell manuscripts, paperbacks and hardcovers."

"Oh no I-"

"Our accessories are in the office behind me, if you'd like I can take you there." He said putting down his pen and standing from the desk.

There was an elegance in his movements, he placed both hands on the desk as he got up and the moment made him look wide, almost like a lion asserting total dominion of a rock.

"What kind of accessories do you have?" The first question the young man was able to actually say before being told the answer.

"Stationery, book boxes and trunks, I'm sure it'll all be to your liking."

"Eh?"

"Is something wrong?"

"No..."

He followed the attendant into the office. It was far more well-kept than the front of the store. His guess was probably because people rummage through the main area all the time and somewhere along the line someone thought it looked better leaving it a mess.

He started to wonder how on earth a store like this managed to stay afloat.

"Take your time, pick out what you like." The reassuring words from the attendant made him feel like he was obligated to buy something now. If he didn't then that would mean he didn't like the entire selection of pens and book boxes.

He felt the pressure and was daunted at the fact this is the first time he seen expensive fountain pens and a wide variety of trunks that lined the walls on shelves.

Overwhelmed, the young man stared at a handful of fountain pens he could pick from on a rack. He could see books boxes and trunks by the register and decided to pick out a pen and whatever box was beside him at checkout.

The attendant made his way to the small desk within the office and sat down behind it.

Flipping out a notepad and pen he scribbled and tore out a receipt for the items.

Old fashioned... The young man thought as he watched him do so and approached the desk with the pen in hand.

Then suddenly it dawned on him.

How did the attendant know he was ready to buy?

Maybe he's used to reading the air, reasoning he must be a veteran in retail. Still though, he didn't much like how the attendant seemed to see right through him; almost like he's in his head.

Regardless, he dispelled his uneasiness and grabbed a birch-colored book box standing next to other boxes along the desk.

"This too." The young man wondered, momentarily, if his wallet could afford this.

"Usually these would go for twenty-two, but since you're a first-time customer and a writer you'll have a discount."

"No way! Really?" Delighted in the good news he might have lunch this week, he beamed a dumb smile on his face.

The attendant smiled back; however, it was less dumb than the young man's smile.

"Yes, you'll only have to pay one."

"One dollar?"

That's like 99% off, what a steal!!

"One story."

The attendants smile persisted, while the young man's smile faded in the confusion.

"One story?"

"We deal stories here in this shop, all the paperbacks, hardcovers and manuscripts here are originals left by previous shoppers. If you'd like you can use that pen you have to write it down." The attendant quickly flipped out another notebook, this time it was large spiral bound journal wider than it was tall, like it was meant for sheet music.

"You're serious?" The young man wanted to up and leave.

"Yes, and it has to be original too though as a writer, I doubt you'd have trouble with that."

"How did you-"

"You felt like you just walked into here without meaning to, didn't you?"

The young man wanted to say something but before he could the attendant continued, "You had that look on your face when you entered here. Like you were sleepwalking and then suddenly woke up in your kitchen."

What kind of face is that?

"Only writers make that face when they enter here, and they only come here because they need to. You can call it a bunch of things from coincidence, fate, to providence, but in the end it's just an inevitable outcome that you'd be here."

Not quite getting what the attendant meant he decided to go along with it and write a story.

The young man gripped the pen he had selected tightly, setting down his book box, he felt his palms sweating.

"I can't think of anything..." His voice beginning to sound parched.

"You know it can be about anything and it doesn't have to be perfect. It's a story, usually they tell themselves you just have to write it."

Now you're just talking crazy. I'm done here, I don't want to spend time with some delusional-

His thoughts stopped when he saw his arm refusing to obey him. He knows he's not holding onto the pen voluntarily anymore but it's almost as if someone else's hand held his clasped closed and unmoving. His head was the only thing able to move. His legs wiggled and his free arm refused to get off the desk. He turned desperately to the attendant, who simply watched amused.

"You look funny, you know that."

"I wouldn't look so funny if I could move properly! What's going on here!?What did you do to me!?" The young man barked back still wiggling against whatever was holding him in place.

"Take a good look, and you'll see what's holding you. Just close your eyes hard for a few seconds, open them and then, scan slowly from left to right."

The young man continued to struggle to the attendant amusement and reluctantly complied after a minute.

Strings, countless and countless strings reaching up to flashing lights. The lights were surrounding everything, and everything was connected by strings. Everything except the attendant. He was the only one without strings, without the lights surrounding him.

The lights seemed to avoid him.

The young man started crying out incessantly, in a way so annoying I refuse to type it out.

"These strings don't belong to me so no; I can't help you out." The attendant responded as he shooed a lone stringless light; it looked like a balloon someone filled with their own breath.

"What are these things!?!?"

"They are the Inevitable. Right here and now, you have to write a story whether you want to or not, just cause they're here watching you. The Inevitable are really quite friendly just do as they say, or they'll rip you apart forcing you into doing what they need you to do like a ragdoll."

"How is that friendly!?"

"Just do as you're told, before they force you." The attendant sighed as he said this.

"Alright!"

Suddenly just as they appeared the Inevitable disappeared in a blink of an eye. The young man sank into the ground then pulling himself back up to the desk, he finally relent, but he still doesn't know what to write about.

If it can be anything, if it can be imperfect; if by just being made it would good enough.

Just what kind of a story can that be?

As he thought, he remembered the news he heard earlier that day.

A suicide by a lake in the mountains was discovered last night, and apparently today was going to have the longest recorded sundown in history, it was uncharacteristic for this area as well.

He rummaged in his head how to make these two connect.

And then he wrote.

He wrote more than what was asked of him. Giving the manuscripts to the attendant, he looked at them and nodded as though he were pleased.

"To think you'd be so cruel to your characters." The attendant turned to look at the young man disapprovingly, "Who hurt you?" He feigned concern with a little pout.

"No one! I did the best I could to connect the stories, okay! Be grateful I even gave you an extra one." The young man was clearly flustered.

He really didn't like hearing feedback so soon after writing, the pains of postpartum you could say.

Unaffected by the young man's outburst the attendant replied, "Stories are living things. The crueler you are to the characters the more power that story has on us, on people."

What's up with this guy and this spiritual crap?

The attendant continued speaking, "Try being nicer to your characters, true you can't always have a happy story but too much suffering can't be good for anyone. That is to say, if you ran into one of your own characters..."

What they'd do is a scary thought, it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination if they wanted to kill me on sight.

They had left the back office and returned to the small desk near the front of the store.

Handing him a handwritten receipt and a bag for his items the attendant had that same sad look still of his face.

Noticing the sunset had started, the young man knew he had to leave. He doesn't even know how much time he's spent in the store or if time even worked the same in this kind of place.

He didn't want to think something as a crazy as a story selling and buying store was real.

Or that he's seen what the Inevitable look like.

"Come back whenever you need to." The attendant said with red rays splashing across his face; the only bit of light the blinds allowed through.

"I don't think I'll be coming back..." The young man felt like going through all that again would be bad for his health.

Especially if the original price for a book box and a pen was twenty-two stories!

"You can do what you like, just don't forget the trick I taught you. It will be useful if you need it." His eyes shining their brown pupils in the sunset, he deadpanned this message to the young man.

"Yeah sure..."

Stepping out into the reddened outside he watched the cars whiz by. Far away in an apartment complex he could see people lounging out in their balconies, watching the historic sunset.

For a moment someone looked at him.

Someone saw him. Eyed him up and down in the red haze. Through the beams and clouds at an impossible distance to pinpoint a person.

Through it all he knew he felt someone look at him with eyes redder than the dusk overtaking the city he called home.

He thought about resetting his eyes and that maybe that would do something, but he didn't know what he'd see.

And he didn't want to know.

If he saw those things again; the Inevitable, what would he do?

If they're the Inevitable, does that mean something opposite to them exist?

If ones the puppet strings, what's the other?

The scissors? Or the master?

A whale of a thought.

These thoughts and doubts haunted him all the way home. All the while he felt the eyes of someone burrow into the back of his neck.

Later that night, he went to a window that looked in the direction he felt that tireless gaze from, and he reset his eyes.

He wonders if yawning in the middle of the process would mess with the effects of it but, he didn't think too much of it.

He could open his eyes now, and all he had to do was look left to right.

Upon opening them, he saw the wall then, the curtain, the outside of his window then, the other curtain and finally, the other side of the wall.

Sighing in relief he rubbed one eye and yawned again, only this time, something out his window blinded his lone open eye.

He could see those flashing lights.