The Book Keeper

A missing poster spirals about in the wind, and the trash leaks from the tops of rusting dumpsters. The street lights turn from green to yellow, then red, leaving this splattered puke of colour across the wet asphalt. Some vehicles parked on the road are also hit with this ashy red colour. Decaying cars howl as they limp down the streets. The mid-march slush piles still suffocate the grass in the boulevards. It mostly rains these days. Oswald watches the reflections of broken windows and foreclosed buildings split in half as cars drive through the puddles around the manholes and catch basins that no longer drain.

Turning down Botsford Street now. Walking with his hood up, darkening his features, seeing only his feet as he looks down. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out this cracked old phone, the cracks drool these vibrant fractals that spread across the screen, reminding him of the roots of a plant or something like that. Water drips from his hood to the phone's screen, the cracks get all milky, and the colours widen. The song he was listening to switches. Then another starts to play.

Oswald bobs his head, watching the tip of his hood bounce up and down. Stepping his trashed white Converse in a puddle, then another as the bass drops, the splash amplifies the effect. MF Doom plays through his earbuds, his favourite wordsmith. Turning left onto Main Street now. The whole hill stared back at him from down here at the bottom. It all glistened in the post-rain dampness. The top of the hill starts to bend over the horizon where the church begins.

The first thing that catches his eye is that old gothic church with these strange black windows. These old white and yellow bricks make up its exterior, all broken and cracked. Even worse is the massive tower on it too, and at the top was this charcoal black cross that was all crooked and bent. It could be seen from anywhere in Newmarket that eerie busted Jesus.

Following the road down the hill toward the comic book shop's sign, this glowing green sign swallowed the pale yellow letters that made up the name. It looks mystical, the colours all mixed with the moisture lingering in the air, the green and yellow light drifting further into the street. The maid's cottage, the store next to the comic book shop, its open sign kind of flutters. Some other buildings around these stores have big signs dangling dangerously from rusting brackets. Some of the older stores have blown-out windows. Others just had cardboard covering now. It's not like any stores are closed; Oswald shops all over this street, even in the stores with cardboard windows. No one has money to pay the repairs on top of rent anymore. His mom says no one can keep the rats out of their bank accounts.

Oswald just stands there at the bottom of the hill. Looking at it all. Starting to flip through the songs on his phone, weighing the options as he did every night after school. He could walk and listen to music until his phone died, then sit around and wait for the street lights to turn on. Maybe walk by his house and see if the lights were on. If they were, he could head to the library to read. Or go home now, and listen to his father scream at his mother so loud he swore he could sometimes see the blood drip from her ears.

Stopping on a new song, not MF Doom but RZA, another one of his go-to lyricists. Oswald stood there bobbing his head more, thinking about his mother, his eyes all cloudy and wet now. Oswald pictures the first time she showed him rap when he was seven or eight. He could even see in his head the way she smiled. Watching her from that old brown sectional with all those holes in the cushions. Her eyes were half-closed, stoned out of her mind, but he didn't know that then.

Moving her hips and hands around in the air, saying, "Rollin down the street."

Oswald can't believe how happy she was back then while he pictures it, and he just wishes he could steal her, trap her in that memory in his mind, and keep her there in those years when she was still happy.

He starts walking up the street. Heading past the comic book shop, the maid's cottage, passing Henry's convenience store with cardboard windows. Then, his phone starts skipping tracks beyond the tattoo parlour with a shattered apartment door entrance and in between the old tavern and the barbershop, he pulls it out of his sweater's front pocket. The screen is flickering all these crazy colours, then flashing to solid white, then it shows the Google music screen, then flashes those crazy colours again. Watching the water that dripped into the screen earlier acting as a prism, cutting the light up. Listening to the lyrics mutate into static.

The phone powers down, and the words somehow seem to fade into the distance. Then, shaking his phone in his hand, squeezing it until that prism of colour expands across the entire face of the screen, it just turns black, and all the cracks widen with this white edging.

This broken reflection of himself stares back at him in the black mirror. All shattered into different sections. All these different Oswalds and he feels how inescapable it all is, like no matter what choices he could have made, he would still be any of these different Oswalds, standing here with this stupid broken phone and this tattered hoodie and these overworn shoes with these same exact thoughts and the same broken family.

Staring into these reflections, even though his eyes are covered by his hood, and curly brown hair sheathes his nose, he can still only see his father, his broad, ass chin, and those same sunken cheeks. Clutching the phone tighter, wishing his hair was long enough to cover his whole face. Then the screen starts to shrink. First, it makes this crinkle sound like aluminum foil being folded into a ball. Then it snaps in half.

Oswald turns, staring down the alley between the two establishments. It is filled with garbage, rats, and the entrances to some old apartments. The smell of bodies from the town just festered in this sogging alley, and then he whips the phone as hard as he can down the passageway. The parts fly through the air, all the way into a blinking sign of a store; the sign at first seizures very brightly, so bright that its colours go all white. Then it dims and shuts off. Oswald was about to run, but then he thought about his phone and how they could easily trace it back to him. So he tightens the string of his hoodie, the hood closing around his face, covering it. Then, running down the alley towards the sign, he sees half his phone in a puddle.

So, hunched over, he scours around, muttering, "Where is it? Where is it?"

Then, looking towards the store door, he sees the other half of his phone. That bizarre reflection of himself in the black mirror caught his eyes. Hurrying over to it, grabbing it. Stuffing it in his pockets.

That's when a bell rings above his head. It reminds him of something he would hear in those old black-and-white movies his grandfather used to watch. Enormous feet, wrapped in these old and tattered brown leather shoes, step out the widening door frame.

"Usually, the kids do it as a game, do it, but they're smart enough to at least run away after," this strange wise voice says from above him.

Oswald looks up at a man with a yellowed button-down, thick brown apron, and old, cleated khakis. This very dark grey beard wrapped underneath his chin, but his face had only patches of growth in some odd spots here and there. His skin was covered in these yellow pustules, and his nose was large and invasive of the rest of his face, which seemed peculiar in that it was an exception compared to the rest of his appearance, which was undeniably ordinary. Soft green eyes behind circle glasses rest on usual folds and wrinkles for his age.

"I'm sorry, sir," looking down, trying to avoid staring at his nose, "I wasn't thinking."

Just then, the rain starts to fall. Around him, the soft puttering of rain pellets plashed in the puddles, and that was the noise that filled the space between them. Then from somewhere in the distance, a flash.

"Anger is a terrible thing, young man. Best not get used by it," the water started falling harder. A few drops drip down the old man's circular glasses, blurring the calm, green colour of his eyes.

"Well, I'm going to go; sorry about the sign," thunder exploded from above. Followed by heavier rain. Another distant flash.

"You got far to walk?" the old man says, looking up towards the black clouds that every now and then were filling with lightning flashes.

"I don't know, ya, I guess."

"Well," the old man said, "I don't usually harbour criminals, but you're welcome to stay until it passes. Maybe we can figure out how to repay the damages caused to the sign" he steps aside and points to someplace behind the door. Another clap of thunder shakes his shoes. Oswald couldn't see anything beyond what appeared to be a candlelight in the dark through the door.

Oswald could make out some shelves, maybe some books on them too. Glances towards the window of the store. Seeing nothing more than the brick reflection from the other side of the alley. He did have a long walk, exactly half an hour before he was close to home. Staring back into that almost pitch-black interior through the door, watching the strange fluttering of the candle in there. Maybe he could work here after school. That's how he would spend his nights. He could save up money, maybe get an apartment around here, a real cheap one.

"Come along now. Your whole life will pass by if you always take so long to make a choice, you know?"

Oswald stepped slowly through the door, noticing how it felt like he was being wrapped by something the more he travelled into the dark room. The floor beneath him creaks, glancing down, seeing how it was like whole logs of trees that made up the footing. Like a birch tree, the tree logs were wrapped in this white bark. All the nails cried as he took a few more steps inside. It was still too dark to make out most of the interior.

"What kind of store is this?"

"Observant you are, it's a used book store, says so on the sign you smashed outside."

"I didn't smash the sign..." a loud crash blares from the other side of the door. Oswald jumps "..shit."

Walks to the sign, which is now crumpled on the ground in a puddle, studying it. The rain pelting it, making this quirky ting noise like being inside a car during a storm.

The sign is pale green, very faded, and around the yellowed letters, it looks like someone took a napkin with coffee and blotted it everywhere. The sign reads 'Harolds' in big letters and 'used and forgotten Books' below. Cracks now spread across the surface from the sign falling.

"I'm sorry about that; I wasn't aiming for it. I never even saw it there," scratching his head now. Remembering back to when he threw his phone. Unsure if he had seen a big old green sign like the one he was looking at. He had been here in this same alley before, walked these streets for years, yet here was this bookstore, his second favourite pass time. No recollection at all of it ever being here. This dreadful feeling crept into his bones. Almost as if his very skin was betraying him somehow.

Then, the odd silence behind him was even more apparent than this strange feeling. Not a creak in the floor, not a beep from a car or the sound of one driving by on Main Street, there wasn't a person's voice, and even the sound of rain seemed so distant that it might as well have stopped. It was dead. Turning around shyly towards that nothingness. Jumping a whole body's length deeper into the darkness of the store. This bizarre sight of the old man is all he sees, standing not a foot from his face with these pale white eyes and hungry orange skin, shocking him backwards. The pustules all leaked, and the white puss mixed with blood. Then he blinks again and catches his feet. The face of the old man returns to normal.

"You okay, boy?" the old man said jollily, "it's just a sign. I've been meaning to change it for a long time now."

Oswald holds his legs and takes a deep breath. "Ya, I mean, sure, sorry, I'm just, what's wrong with it? the colour or?"

There is a bright flash through the door and window. That's when all the sound of the heavy rain returned.

The old man hurries by him and picks up the big old sign studying it, "the colour," he replies, raising an eyebrow, "the colour is perfect." Then, turning towards him, "It's the name, Harold, that's not my name, that's my fathers, father fathers name, I'm Arthur, Arthur Clements, but in some circles, I am called the Book Keeper" thunder exploded from the heavens as he extends his free hand towards Oswald shattering the overwhelming silence.

Oswald reached out, accepting the old man's hand, which felt oddly soft and smooth, shaking it. "I'm Oswald Harth," the old man stared plainly at Oswald.

Time seemed to stretch out as Arthur held this wet gaze with him. Oswald couldn't help but roll his eyes and clench his lips at the awkward stare.

Arthur suddenly turns towards the rear of the store, just looking back towards the candle.

Oswald's every nerve was pushing him to run through that door. Turning around, getting ready to bolt out of there.

Until he hears above the patter of Arthur's quick steps, "This store contains some of the rarest novels and collections of poetry ever written." Arthur places the sign down on the face of one of the shelves.

Despite his entire being urging him to run, Oswald turned towards the voice and the little pattering of feet, "rare poetry," he said with interest. It was of no surprise to him, as he pursued Arthur's body deeper into the store that he was compelled to follow, there wasn't a single book of poetry he hadn't read, and he was even more confident that he had read the rarest collections of them all, on the internet.

The store was taking shape now, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lighted interior. It was a simple store with exposed wooden walls and brick between the wood. Simple tall shelves held all these old-looking books. Oswald loved how it had so much character, and it was impossible to understand why Arthur would keep it so blunted in here.

"The rarest," Arthur said from the deepest wall of the store, blocking out the little candle Oswald saw from the alley. Arthur's body had this strange black figure outlined with this dull orange light behind it, "one-of-a-kind poems you will never find anywhere else."

"Not even on the internet?" Oswald says, walking closer toward Arthur. Seeing now the first rows of shelves packed with books. Each leather-bound one had this strange thick yellow paper. Some even looked as if they had been saved from a fire. Letting his fingers slide across some of the spines, they felt odd, like his grandfather's hands, the way they were all rough and calloused. Some even felt a little sticky and sweaty. This thick smell of dust and burnt paper plugged the air the further he travelled down the shelves.

The first title that caught his eye was Dedi Badru, twenty-sixth century BC. That's all that was written on it. The next title was Djehuty Ini-Herit, fifteenth century BC, then Herihor, eleventh century BC, Kamose, Hafta, Manetho, twenty-first century, fourth century, and sixteenth century. These strange names littered all the spines and all the faces of every book he could see. There were hundreds of them. Books he's never heard of, from odd dates that made no sense to him.

"Did they even print books back then?" not sure what else to say; he knew they were printing books fifteen hundred years ago, but all the way back then? These looked like originals.

Perhaps they were copies of words written back then, like traditional oral stories handed down through generations of families. Oswald studied more books, Borin Woodchopper, Sadowan Horsebreeder, and Terrin Steelmaker. Dates underneath, ten sixty-six AD, ten thirty-three AD, thirteen forty-nine AD. Picking one off the shelf finally, more out of anger for the titles than actual interest in the books, who makes collections of poetry, and novels these weird, boring names. Opening the first page, expecting to see the usual reviews page, copyrights, and whatever else filled those first pages. Instead, it was handwritten with red ink. Maybe even brownish-black ink, depending on how he turned the letters into the dim light.

The chapter heading read, Rachwanda Baxter, then immediately underneath it started with a string of random words; shockingly, in his own head, it read distinctly what he imagined might be the voice of this Rachwanda Baxter, "light, pale light, liquid red, pressure squeezing, relaxation pain, screaming, animal, white black, figure, shadowy, tall, figure, round, sucking, latching."

"Is this like experimental poetry or something?" Oswald says toward the dark figure that was still just standing there. Then, murmuring to himself, "I hate experimental poetry."

Skipping the first hundred pages to the middle of the book, selecting a random passage, not expecting much of anything, he started reading.

The voice in his head was strangely not even his own this time, "I hate her, I do hateth with my whole heart, I hath bled, I am a full woman, a fair good woman with a good family, I would do what he desires of me, why my sister, why her over I" skipping another few pages, "I cannot yet get a night to rest since I saw them making love" he closed the book, with a sigh and thinks now of turning for the door again.

Looking down the row of bookshelves towards Arthur, who was just standing there looking through a passage of one of the weird old books. His bony shoulders rose and fell in the dark.

"This place sells a lot of these..." he pauses, unsure what to call what he's seen so far. Were these books or something else? He finishes with an eye roll that he hoped Arthur didn't see, "books?" he states with a very unimpressed inflection, tightening his lips again and placing the book back into its spot. He took another whiff in the silence, and the text's smell was overwhelmingly linked to a locker room, like a mass of sweaty flesh in a damp, enclosed space.

This gargled moan oozed into the crowded space from where Arthur was standing, and a book fell to the floor with a dull thud. Oswald darts his head around. All he sees is the old man holding his lower back, stretching towards the book on the ground.

"I get more in than I sell. But you know, when my great-father owned this place, people prayed to be here. Prayed to be a part of these unique collections. So I guess that's the way it's always been. But now, there's never enough coming in and too many pages leaving the store, you know what I mean" Arthur finished his long ascent, holding his lower spine, book in hand, rising to his feet, grimacing when he stood there stretching his back out. Then, looking towards Oswald, when he smiled, Oswald noted how his teeth were blacker than the shadows, not sure why he hadn't noticed earlier.

"I see," reaching down, still with pursed lips, and snags another book, shaking his head in agreement. This book seemed new. It had this pale white leather wrapping, what looked like this faded tattoo of a butterfly and this charming, thick blonde stitching. It even smelled like perfume, like a naughty rose. Opening the book, the smell just overpowered him, like walking into the makeup section at a drug store.

This book was relatively the same, with no distinguishing features yet again. Just the chapter heading, Launay Lowell. Closing the book reading the date on which all the books seemed to be marked. Twenty-twenty-two, Launay Lowell twenty twenty-two. That name was so strange to him, almost like he knew who that was. Maybe it was an author he had read before. This must be her most recent book. Opening the text to the first page, which reads strangely, as it started the same as the other.

When he read this book, he heard in his own mind the most distinct young woman's voice, almost like a girl in his class; it started "white, crying, faze, lifted screams from cloaked figures, clear, plain, shocking" Oswald rolled his eyes, skipping one hundred pages and reading "mommy says we don't talk to strangers" Oswald noticed how everything seemed to get bright in the store, the pages illuminating a little sharper and the red ink becoming clearer.

He flips through a few pages to another ramble of words, "Daddy says you don't exist, but how can that be if we're playing together" skipping a big chunk right to the middle of the book. "I wonder if they can smell me smoking up here, I can smell it, but can they? Hah, that's kinda funny."

Oswald rolled his eyes, skipping near the back of the book, where he reads, "I don't remember seeing that sign, but I guess..." another loud shriek from behind him; the noise caused him to stumble, snapping the book closed, looking towards where he last saw Arthur, who was no longer there, just that flickering orange candle.

"Arthur," Oswald calls out, putting the book back on the shelf. Then, walking into the brightness of the candle.

"Hello, Arthur, where's all this unique poetry, 'cause this ain't it," now right next to the candle, where Arthur stood. In this light, Oswald could see that all these books were dusty. So dusty that some of the names were buried beneath layers of it. Then there was a book that caught his eye, which wasn't dusty. It must have been the book Arthur was just reading.

"What the," he says as he studies the book, looking at an old antiqued leather-bound book that read the name Arthur Clements, seventeen fifty-five. Picking it up, looks it over, opens it, and studies the first page's inscriptions.

The voice in his head made him stop reading for a second, which was the unmistakable voice of the Book Keepers, "Blinding pale white light, blood, figure, shadowy." It was more of the same nonsense.

Skipping a good section of pages, "Why does he always talk about what the fathers have done." Then, glancing through more pages, "Dad said he had been meaning to switch that sign for a long time now," skipping near the middle of the book, reading more. The one thing that struck him most out of all these books was that they all read the same, some stream of consciousness, it was almost like he was reading his own thoughts, that same constant ongoing jumble of ideas that has followed him since birth, and as he skimmed through more pages, he was dumbfounded when he read the phrase, "you know your whole life will pass you by if you always take so long to make a choice."

That's when the nails in the floors started twisting, and as they bent, they cried, and the whole store filled with the sound of rusting nails screaming. Oswald drops the book and hits the floor with a loud pang. He looks towards the front of the store, where the Book Keeper stands in the dark. But he was all wrong and seemed thinner, like a cancer patient, all bone and murky flesh. His fingers were long like little arms, and his arms now stretched to his feet. His legs were bent in the wrong ways, and his ribs protruded.

Lightning flashed, and when it came through the store's open door, the whole room filled with this odd white light, and Oswald saw what stood there out in the dark. It wasn't Arthur. Something else, with these long shaggy grey strands of hair, dangled across this face of exploding festering pimples and these sick-looking lacerations. Pale white eyes and the skin was all rot, showing bone in some parts. Then the store went dark, and that thing just stood there watching Oswald. A contorted silhouette that seemed to scream in agony at its own deformed shape.

The thing started shaking its head. He could see it twitching there in the shadows. Oswald sees all the strands of hair being flung around. But, then, the silence cuts when the thing in the dark says, "It only works if you don't read from the book, it only works if you don't read from the book, it only..." The figure stomped quickly down the aisle towards Oswald, cracking the soft floor. "Works if you don't read from the book!" the nails were screaming now with the cries of dying human souls.

Oswald stumbles back into the little table behind him. The little candle wobbles on its stem, throwing this dull orange light all over the shelves and the beast approaching him.

The thing was all flesh and bone and long jagged fingers that came swiping violently towards his face, smashing Oswald right across the left temple. Oswald flies into the bookshelf, falling to the floor like a sack of dead meat. Tasting rusted copper before he felt the crushing pain spread across his skull. Not able to move, his legs bent awkwardly around themselves.

He hears this congested inhale before him, but he can't move, and the smell overpowers all his senses, like smelling rotting, mouldy food. Then he can even feel it, right on his face, this warm breathing, this vomit air fills his nostrils. His eyelids are heavy, and he can hardly open them beyond a sliver. But as a little more time passed, he could see through his eyelashes, and as his sight started focusing again, the dead white eyes staring right back at him became clear.

The eyes study Oswald. Then slowly fall away from his view. Finally, Oswald could open his eyes again. Even raise his arms. He watches the Book Keeper slowly rise, backing away and walking towards the end of the shelves. Oswald could still hear a ringing but was sure when the Book Keeper said, "Unworthy."

Then the Book Keeper disappears around the corner of the bookshelf, and from somewhere in the dark, it whispers, "Your story is not good enough."

Oswald climbs back to his feet. Holding himself up with the edges of the shelves. He could feel the warm blood draining out of his skull from where he was hit. Flowing right down his cheek, wrapping around to his chin. Over there, right beyond the end of the shelf, he could see the exit. Still open from when he first entered this place.

Stilling himself, he stumbles his way down the row of books. Holding onto the shelf the whole way down. His legs have a hard time holding up his torso. Peering now through the partings between the books to his left. Seeing there, at the far wall, just the rising and falling of shoulders, hunched over in the darkest part of the room. It was impossible to see if the thing was facing the wall.

Oswald kept glancing towards the door and back to the creature. Repeating in his head that he had to run. He had to go for it before this thing changed its mind. Then through the door and window, lighting struck the sky, and for a moment, the whole store filled with bright white light again. Oswald looks between the books, looking right at the face of the creature that now watched from the other side.

Oswald runs, darting with his hobbled legs as best he can toward the exit. Thunder explodes into the store. The thing behind him cackles, and the sound of books falling from above is all he can hear. The thuds and pangs. Then this terrible stomping erupts from behind him, and just before he is at the exit, he feels that heavy warm breath, breathing right down his shirt.

"Unworthy," the thing says again, shoving him through the door. Sending him straight across the alley, slamming into a large metal dumpster. Trash falls all around him and piles up around his legs.

Staring towards the shop door, he watches the Book Keeper approach the entrance. Half its body is shrouded in the shadow of the store, the other half caught in the light from outside. Its ribs all showing, its face all torn to shreds, its strange strands of hair. Just standing there, its shoulders rising and falling. Oswald looks at the creature breathing in the doorway and can't help but see a look of sadness on its face. Then in that same voice he heard when he was reading the book of Arthur, he hears in his own mind, "Your story will never be good enough to be a part of our collection," and just as the words are spoken to him in his own head, the door starts to vanish, floating upwards like pieces of ash from burnt pages, until all that is left where the door stood, is a brick wall.

Oswald holds his stomach and his head. Gripping the dumpster, pulling himself up. Wiping the sick trash and papers from his sweater. It smells like actual warm vomit all around him. Prying off some paper stuck to him by some thick chunky matter. The paper plops into a bit of puddle formed around the trash bin. Oswald looks at it; it's that same missing poster he has seen all over town. Going down to pick it up with a gasp after he reads the girl's name, Launay Lowell.