The cat's claws dug deep into the carpet, his back arched as he stretched. The yawn that followed told Jonathan that it must have been getting late. The chorus of crickets singing the night's romances confirmed it. He set the pen down on his desk realizing that he had been doing nothing but staring at blank paper, unable to make ink flow into words. It had been years since he had written anything substantial and near a decade since he found writing comfortable. “Not a very exciting day I'm afraid,” he said to his cat and reached down to scratch behind his ears. Once a promising young author, Jonathan now found it impossible to formulate a creative original idea, let alone have the fortitude to compile a paragraph. Even the journal he had written in every day since childhood suffered for something new. There was the occasional trip into town or the bird or mouse that Watson would catch and hide in the house until the smell caught his attention, but that had been the extent of it. His life had become as stagnant and blank as the paper before him.
He pushed his chair from the desk and stood, grabbing the empty teacup. Watson, anticipating bedtime, ran out of the room and stood and stared at him, perplexed, as Jonathan went to the kitchen to put the teacup in the sink. He rinsed the remnants of Earl Grey and sugar as a cool breeze blew in the window, uncommon for the endless heat of summer. The day had been hot, near triple digits, and the electric fan he had in his living room did nothing but blow the stagnant air around the room. The summers seemed to be getting increasingly hotter and more humid, the winters blanketed with more snow and bone-breaking cold. Spring and fall seemed nonexistent. The seasons were becoming harsher here in his little corner of the world. As he turned off the faucet, a slight sound of shuffling and the growing sound of a cat hiss caught his attention from down the hall. It was not particularly rare to find a rodent or other animal trapped in the house, especially during the summer months. The woods around him were teeming with creatures, but the anger in Watson's hiss prompted him to grab the broom he had sitting in the corner of the kitchen.
It was not a long hallway. Eight feet and to the left sat his den. Another eight and to the right sat the bedroom. His first three steps were with purpose, the floorboards creaking under the pressure as he put half the distance of the hallway behind him. When the lights went out mid-step of the fourth, Jonathan froze. His hands gripped the wooden handle of the broom so tightly he could feel the grain. Blinded by darkness, unable to move, he stretched his other senses to their limit. The ticktock of his grandfather clock just a few feet in the den behind him, its pendulum swinging, beating every second, sounded nothing less than a drum to his now honed ears. Another breeze swept across his back, kissing his nape, racing to beat him to his destination. This was a strange wind. As it blew past him it was accompanied by sound. It was as if something was sliding across the floor. Not dull and heavy, more of a glide. Like a knife had cut through the air. As it reached the doorway to the bedroom the sound diminished and was replaced by Watson, a quick hiss, and then something different. Something that spoke to pain. Suppressing his fears, he raised the broom and raced the final steps down the hallway and through the darkness. As he burst into the bedroom his eyes met moonlight. Slivers of pale crept in through cracks in the curtains. Still gripping the broom tightly in his right hand, he reached with his left, wildly searching for his lamp. In his haste he nearly knocked it off the dresser. He found the switch, turned twice, and flooded the bedroom with a golden light. Jonathan stood and stared, broomstick in hand and at the ready, at his cat, listless and asleep in the middle of his bed. A quick observation of the rest of the room revealed nothing. Nothing unordinary. Nothing out of sorts. No woodland creatures, large or small. Just a sleeping cat in an otherwise empty bedroom. Confused, Jonathan set the broom in the corner of the room. As he undressed, an overwhelming urgency for sleep replaced his adrenaline. He turned off the lamp and climbed into bed.
Sleep was anything other than restful. Jonathan tossed and turned throughout the twilight hours and into the morning. Violent dreams filled with ominous clouds and pelting rains, accompanied by the sounds of children crying and gusting winds haunted his slumbering mind. Although it pained him to look upward, he found himself transfixed on the clouds. A massive black sea that covered the sky, wrought with monster waves and flashes of white. Around him was only empty space. No hills, no houses, just flat open area, the atmosphere cast in gray. Even the ground he walked was nothing but dry clay, devouring each raindrop as it hit, yet unable to quench an unending thirst for more. Direction was irrelevant but he found himself compelled to continue on, to walk to a destination that was not to be found. The crying remained ever present but its purpose remained unknown. It was to the front and the rear; the sobs rang from all sides. The only thought his unconscious mind would enable for him was to follow the flow of the ocean overhead, but this ocean had no boundaries and followed its own path. He was lost and he was alone in nowhere. Without knowing what else to do, he called out. White light shot through the sky, outstretching its fingers to penetrate the gray and touch the ground around him. The sound of his voice was not his own but the sky's, loud and heavy. Thunder rang out and cracked, deafening enough to drop him to a knee. Dazed and unable to move, without a reasonable course of action, he made the decision to stay where he fell and wait. The clouds above him began to slow down, seeming to sense the hesitation until they also stood unmoving. There was a pause, a moment of stagnation as he sat waiting for a sign, and then without warning, the sky began to fall. Gray became black; black became gray, as the turbulent sky swallowed the dry ground and became the ocean. He was now amongst the waves, struggling to remain above the surface. Legs kicking, he searched for anything to swim to, to hold onto, but there was nothing. Nothing other than sea and the crying which the waves had not managed to drown out. He tried to call out again and received a mouthful of salt and black. He spat it out as another wave came down upon him. And then another. Panic set in as he fought to catch his breath. His legs burned from the pace of their movement as the realization set in that he was going to drown. With one last desperate push he cleared the onslaught of water and cried out for help. Again, the voice that escaped his lips was not his own, nor was it the sky's. It wasn't the children crying or the echo of empty air. It was the hiss of a cat. The sound of an animal with anger and fear in its voice that snatched him from his sleep, from his watery grave.
Watson was on top of him, his hair on end and limbs stiff as wood. The cat's screams bellowed through the room as an extended claw missed its target and bit through the blanket and into Jonathan's side. Both afraid and in pain, Jonathan stretched his sight into the darkness of the bedroom. No light filtered through the window. No light shone from the hall. If not for the cat's weight upon him he would not have been able to tell where Watson was. As he moved so did they. Black figures. Four of them, darker than the night, moved from his side and then from the foot of his bed. Each slid a step away from him and stopped. He lay there staring at them, unable to concentrate, his mind teetering to return to sleep, his eyes feeling forced to close. Again, the cat hissed, breaking Jonathan from the trance, enabling reaction and movement. In the instant his eyes caught focus he raised his arm to fling the cover off himself. Frightened, the cat leapt from the bed, freeing him, but by the time the covers were removed the figures were gone. They had not fled; they had simply vanished, and Jonathan now stood in his bedroom, flooded with sunlight from both the window and the hall.
The events of the previous evening had little to no effect on the routine that was his morning. The black sky, the children crying, even the strange figures that had seemed to remain when he had awoken were rapidly becoming a fleeting memory in the area that dreams escape to. Jonathan picked the denim from the floor and dressed before retreating to the bathroom. He thought of drawing a bath as he relieved himself but decided against it, instead opting to wash his face in the sink. The cold water was invigorating as he looked at the man staring back at him through the mirror. He looked tired. Dark rings and circles lined his eyes making him appear as if he hadn't slept for days. He splashed another handful of water on his face, dried and walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Watson was there pacing an empty food dish. Jonathan walked to the stove, lit the burner, and placed a tea kettle on the flame. The cat meowed anticipating the morning feeding as Jonathan moved to the pantry to retrieve his food and filled the bowl with the last remnants of dry cat food just as the tea kettle began to whistle. “Looks like I'll be going to town today,” he said to the cat as he poured the water from pot to cup and made his morning tea. A quick survey throughout the rest of the kitchen revealed that he was indeed running low on supplies. It had been nearly a month since his last visit to town. He went to the bedroom, put on a pair of shoes and a t-shirt then returned to the kitchen, putting the empty teacup in the sink. Watson, now done with his food, meandered over to where Jonathan stood and nudged up against his legs, purring. He reached down and pet the cat. “I'll be back soon,” offering a quick scratch behind the ears then opened the door and headed out of the house.
The morning air was warm but not yet unbearable, though he knew by midafternoon it would be sweltering. The town was but a ten-minute walk on a path that had been cut through the woods that lay behind his house. Amongst the trees the temperature dropped slightly from the shade of the canopy. Birds sang and squirrels were abounded searching the floor for something to feed their young. Low light plants were plentiful, ranging from fern to various types of mushrooms both edible and dangerous. Ivy wrapped the trees and spread itself upward to reach the sun. As Jonathan walked and breathed in the clean air memories of himself and his father exploring the woods came to mind. They would spend countless hours writing lists of things to find and then go out and search for them. Adventures they had named them and recalled his favorite time when they picnicked in the cave they once stumbled upon while following coyote tracks down by the creek.
As Jonathan neared the edge of the woods the bird songs gave way to the sounds of a busy morning. The streets were awash with people, more than he had ever seen in town before. Unfamiliar faces crowded the walkways and stores. People sat on benches while their children ran and played amusing themselves. Conversations could be heard and overheard as he walked within the confines of strangers. Jonathan had never been particularly fond of people, much less large groups of them, preferring the solitude of his house in the woods and the company of his cat. A once pleasant morning walk mingling with sparrows and oak had become a nuisance of congestion. The town was by no means large, yet making his way within the parade seemed an endless march. By the time he had traversed both the post office line and the market, the sun had made its crawl overhead. The assault of heat made the crowds even more intolerable. He reached the door to the bakery as the sweat began to build on his brow and felt the bitterness melt away. The familiar face of Mrs. Henry, old and wrinkled with the smile of the grandmother that you hadn't seen in a while, curbed his contempt for the crowds as he watched her bag the guests’ purchases. It was good to see her busy and doing well, and although the bakery was the busiest of all his stops, none of them shared the smells of Mrs. Henry's. Fresh breads and pies baked in the ovens while hot coffee percolated behind the counter. Pastries, cakes and muffins filled with nuts, sweet creams or fruits of every variety lined the cases, all blending to permeate the inside of the small bakery.
Jonathan stood at the end of the line taking in the aroma, waiting as cookies, biscuits, and crullers were bought and bagged before him. He had hoped to sit at one of the small tables that ran across the bakery's walls but to the displeasure of many, no seat sat vacant. A quick observation revealed none of the regular patrons that frequented Mrs. Henry's daily were in attendance. Patiently he waited listening to the rants and ravings of those before and behind him while commending Mrs. Henry and her assistants on their pace of service. As he approached the counter the smile on Mrs. Henry's face broadened. She placed two cups of tea and a freshly toasted corn muffin, spread thick with melted butter, on the counter between them.
“What do you say?” she asked. “Can an old woman join a good friend for a cup of tea? My feet are killing me.”
She came around the counter, hugged him, then stepped back to look at him again.
“It's so good to see a familiar face,” she said just as a young couple stood from the table next to them. Jonathan seizing the moment placed his items on the two chairs as Mrs. Henry went about the busywork of clearing the dishes. He retrieved the cups and muffin placing them on the table then politely pulled out her chair, refusing to sit until she was comfortable.
“Always the gentleman,” she said as he took the seat across from her. For the better part of an hour they sat drinking tea, conversing about the bakery and the weather. Her offering up the news and rumors in town as he sat listening to tales of adultery, love and lust. Stories of good fortunes being won and crimes committed were told as both patron and pastry collected and left. Her smile never strayed far from her lips as she spoke pausing to nod or thank her guests for their purchases. Even amongst the onslaught of people, she remained the same caring, lovable woman he had always known. As they finished the last of their tea she stood.
“I've kept you for far too long. My mouth gets to going and it doesn't know when to stop,” as she walked behind the counter. Jonathan stood from his chair and cleared the cups from the table as Mrs. Henry returned, placing two large bags in front of him. He reached for his wallet and the smile on her face diminished slightly.
“Now you take these and promise me you will return soon. I do so miss our talks even if I'm doing most of the talking.” She hugged him again and Jonathan kissed her on the cheek.
“I promise,” and watched the smile return to her. She placed her hand on the side of his face.
“Good boy,” as she said every time since he was a small child. “Now run along,” she turned and went straight to taking orders. Jonathan grabbed his bags and his other items and made his way through the crowd and back onto the street.
He was surprised to find that both the heat and the people had diminished, replaced by dark clouds and the threat of rain. Mrs. Henry's bakery had been to capacity, but the rest of the small town was quiet, and if he hadn't had to fight through so many people beforehand, he would have thought it a normal day. A crack of thunder echoed from the distance as he wondered where they had retreated to. He started to make his way back to the wooded path to return home when the first drops started to fall. The summer storms were usually drenching but passed quickly, and he pondered returning to the bakery to wait it out rather than have his items and his clothes soaking wet. With less traffic, and facing the opposing way that he entered the town, he glanced a small store that he hadn't noticed before. It could have been the way the light shone through the windows that caught his attention. An orange glow filtered out of oddly shaped glass panes mixing with the mist from the water hitting and evaporating on the hot asphalt. Or maybe the ornate woodwork, its carved columns and shingled roof set upon a stone foundation had attracted him. Regardless, Jonathan made his way to the front of the store. Iron and glass lanterns hung from the awning holding lit candles whose flames danced violently fighting the winds of the approaching storm. At the top of three stone steps sat the door. A dark stained massive piece of lumber set with a wrought iron handle. Above that hung a sign, cut and carved from the same piece of wood, which read Wells’ Curations, Creations, and Curiosities. He grabbed the doorknob and turned as a mix of wind and rain snuffed the candles and pressed him inside.
Jonathan stood motionless in the doorway at the spectacle that lay before him. The outside of the building did nothing to reveal what one would find as they crossed the threshold. An intricately locked chest used to hide its treasures. Its exterior was a shell that opened into one expansive room with wooden floors stained the same dark color as the door and a twenty-foot tall, peaked ceiling. To both sides of the entrance stood a black bear on its hind legs, towering over him, teeth bared and claws extended. To the front, a large glass enclosure housing plants Jonathan had never seen before and confining a serpent twice as long as a man is tall. The walls were lined with shelves that ran the length of the interior, each holding a menagerie of items, neatly arranged, laid out in specific detail. While some held books and other random trinkets you may expect to see, others held items most wouldn't know existed. Shrunken heads and human skulls sat upon one shelf while vials claiming to be magic potions and oils sat on another. Jars filled with misshapen creatures mingled with other animals that had made their way to the taxidermist. He found one dedicated to outdated medical equipment while the tiny faces of porcelain dolls stared at him from the next. There were other glass enclosures on a shelf, smaller, housing spiders and scorpions and other creatures that gave people nightmares and another with knives and other tools used in both war and torture.
This was not a store for the meek of heart, and Jonathan was not surprised to find himself alone inside of it. The orange glow that he had seen from the outside was made from the dozens of lanterns that hung from long black chains strung sporadically from the ceiling. The candles inside of them provided the only light, adding an eeriness to an already dark environment. In the center of the back wall amongst the shelves sat a counter and behind it through his spectacles sat a man watching him, studying every movement he made. Jonathan had been unaware of how fragile the silence had been in the room until it was broken by the striking of a match. Distracted, he turned as he inhaled the scents of sulfur and spice.
“Good afternoon,” said the man behind the counter, the smoke from his pipe seething from his lips as he spoke. “What may I ask has brought you to Wells' today?”
There was something in the man's voice that gave Jonathan the feeling of uneasiness, whether it was the wording of the question or the way it echoed through the room.
Reluctantly, “The storm.”
“Ah, escaping the rain. I was unawares to it, being trapped here in my hole.”
Jonathan hadn't paid mind to it before but neither the sounds of thunder nor rain disturbed the silence inside the store.
“Where are my manners?” the man asked, hopping from his chair and coming out from behind the counter to greet his guest. Jonathan, anticipating the gesture, shifted the bags and accepted the man's extended hand.
“Bob Wells, owner of Wells’ Curations, Creations, and Curiosities,” as he shook Jonathan's hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Jonathan Weatherby. And likewise. This is quite an interesting place you have here, Mr. Wells. It is indeed curious to say the least.”
“An accurate assessment and good to see that you have made it past my guard dogs,” he said pointing to the bears. “I couldn't tell you how many they scared off.”
“I can see why. If you're not careful around here, you'll have bears like these rummaging around your own house.”
Wells chuckled at the comment prompting Jonathan to smile, the informality of the man easing the tension in his mind.
“Is there anything that you have found of particular interest today, Mr. Weatherby?”
“I find it all rather interesting, Mr. Wells, but sadly I must admit your wares are not for me.”
“Oh, come now, surely, I must have something here for you. How about a stuffed raven or perhaps an elixir or oil?”
Jonathan smiled and shook his head.
“Hold on,” he said. “Something tells me that you, sir, are a man who enjoys a good book.”
Jonathan gave him a curious look, pondering what gave it away.
“You took more time checking out those bindings than you did anything else. A good salesman always watches his guests,” said Wells.
This time Jonathan chuckled, “Indeed I do, Mr. Wells, but unfortunately, I haven't found the desire to read in quite some time. You see I'm an author, or should I say, I was an author. I have not found it easy nor pleasing to write in a very long time. When the writing went so did the reading. You wouldn't happen to have an elixir to fix that ailment, would you?”
Wells paused, placing his hand on his chin apparently in thought, searching his memory of his inventory. “No, but I may have something that is better.”
He requested that Jonathan unburden himself of his belongings then went and pulled the latch on the door, locking it, ensuring the two of them be left alone inside the store. When he returned, he walked to the counter, set down the pipe on top of it, then bent down and retrieved a wooden crate. Dust a half inch thick blanketed the wood where his hands had not touched. Wells looked to Jonathan then leaned and blew the dust sending the particles airborne. As it flew it shimmered, each speck glistening in the candlelight from the lanterns that hung above the counter. Jonathan watched the dust, amazed, then turned back to Wells, a smile from ear to ear. The man was looking down at the crate, transfixed on it. Three symbols were etched into the wood, two triangles back-to-back with a circle in the center. The symbols themselves glowed a golden yellow. Wells reached beneath his shirt and un-clutched a leather cord that bound a small oddly shaped key. He placed the key into a lock on the back of the crate that was facing him and turned. The ominous silence inside the store had returned as the latch broke free and the sound echoed through the room. The lid of the crate moaned as Wells lifted it. Jonathan waited in anticipation, eager to see the contents. The expression on the face of the man behind the counter changed. The ever-present smile eroded, changing to distaste and dead seriousness as he picked up the book and set it in front of him. There was a moment of hesitation as each man stood staring down at it. No words or symbols were printed on the cover of the thin black leather text.
“What is this?” asked Jonathan, half expecting Wells to pull something else from the crate. “I can see that the book looks old, but deserving of a lock and key?”
Bob Wells' eyes had not moved since he had brought the box up onto the counter.
“Do not be fooled by its appearance.” He placed his index finger on top of the book and looked squarely at Jonathan's face, the seriousness of his own remaining. “What is in these pages has the power to change lives, to make dreams become reality and to destroy all that you know. Trust me when I say to you, Mr. Weatherby, you have never seen anything like it.” Then he lowered his head, taking a last look at the book before replacing it in the crate and refastening the lock. The smile once again returned to his face as he placed the key on top of the crate and pushed it toward Jonathan.
He looked at Wells puzzled, waiting for the pitch but the man just stood looking at him. “Mr. Wells, if this is everything that you have said it to be I couldn't hope to be able to buy it,” trying to find the back door rather than to insult the man.
Calmly, Wells replied, “Of course not, Mr. Weatherby. This book is priceless and cannot be sold. I am giving it to you.”
“What? Why would you give me something that you obviously hold such an affinity for? I can tell that this is more than just a book to you, Mr. Wells. What's the catch?”
“What you say is indeed true. I have had this book for a very long time. I have loved it and cared for it for years on end but alas, it is time, for I am done with it.”
“But why me?”
“The book needs an owner who shall give it attention and understand what its pages hold, and above all else, someone who shall protect it. This is very important, Mr. Weatherby. You must ensure that no harm come to the book. Guard it with your life if you must. As for the catch, I was hoping that you are maybe able to help me with a little research that I had been conducting. Hopefully giving me more insight into a question that I have been asking for quite some time.”
“I can't make you any promises, but I can try. What type of research are you conducting?”
The smile broadened on Wells' face.
“You see, Mr. Weatherby, I have always had an interest in things others would find odd or abnormal, if you would. The so-called anomalies that others would turn their back on or squash. Do you mind?” he asked, referring to the pipe. Jonathan gave his approval and Wells continued. “I have traveled the world in search of them, finding strange things and meeting strange people. Regardless of where I have gone, I have found a singular common thread in everyone that I have come across. Care to take a guess as to what this may be?”
Jonathan said nothing and watched as Wells came from behind the counter and walked to the shelf holding the small glass enclosures. He lifted the lid and reached inside, retrieving a spider that matched the size of his hand.
“This is Brachypelma Smithi but I call her Belma for short. Would you like to hold her?”
“No, thank you,” shaking his head as he watched it crawl up the man's arm.
“Don't worry, Mr. Weatherby, most wouldn't. Preferring instead the underside of a shovel. I enjoy the grace of her movement, the precision with which she takes each step. The stealth with which she uses to corner her prey when it's time to feed.”
He took the spider off his arm replacing her in her cage.
“There is beauty in all things although most fail to see it. Without creatures such as these that society has deemed horrific the world would be overrun by insects and vermin. Those that carry plague and disease, far more dangerous to humankind than the ones I have here in this store.”
“What you say is true enough, but I doubt the perception of such creatures will ever change. Although I agree with you, it does not mean I want a spider the size of my cat prowling my house in the night,” he smiled, and Wells laughed at the statement.
“No, I would assume most wouldn't. So, this common thread, do you have an answer? No, then I'll tell you. Fear is the common ground in all people, and through my research I have learned that it is the most powerful and dangerous of all things. It controls how we live. What we do. It controls how we act. Fear controls all other emotions. Each one is defined and affected by it. The fear of losing love or happiness. Of losing property or being poor. The fear of sickness or death. Jealousy, hate, anger all generated by fear. We fear in different degrees, scared of some things less than others. I have learned that while all of us may not find love in this world, everyone is afraid of something.”
“But would you not also agree that because of fear we have excelled? Take medicine for example, if we had no fear of sickness and death, we would not have such things as penicillin or other medicines that save lives every day.”
“Without fear we would accept sickness and death as it comes. We wouldn't kill our brother. We wouldn't hide from the rest of the world. Let everyone not forget the atrocities that fear has persuaded men to do in the past but show the intelligence to learn from their mistakes. We are all aware that it is not the sword that does the killing, but the man wielding it. The question is why. Why do we feel the need to become a more proficient killer? It's fear. That is the reason.”
“And what do you plan on doing with these findings? What conclusion do you have to your research?”
“Sadly, Mr. Weatherby, I have not come to a conclusion, but if and when I do, well, we will have to wait for that story to write itself.”
There was something strange in the way Wells uttered the last words, almost with contempt.
“Now, Mr. Weatherby, of my payment. Enlighten me, what is it that you are afraid of?”
“Well, I'm not sure, Mr. Wells.” Jonathan's thoughts retraced the events that had occurred the previous evening. “The dark.”
“Good, but let me ask, is it the dark or the things you believe to exist inside of it? The things that you cannot see? Would it make it better if you could see them and to know that they truly existed? Is it not safe to say that the things that you are afraid of lurk not only in the dark but within the shadows of daylight?”
The word, shadow, seemed to resonate in his mind as the vision of the four figures at his bedpost flooded into his memory, and with them, the uncomfortable feeling he had when he first entered the store. The smile on his face disappeared and through the smoke of the pipe Jonathan watched as Bob Wells' smile transformed into something slightly more sinister.
“It appears that I have struck a nerve,” his eyes fixated on Jonathan's face.
“It's nothing. I was just remembering a dream that I had.”
Jonathan felt a sudden urgency to leave and to do it quickly.
“Would you care to share it with me?” asked Wells.
The room felt as though it was somehow shrinking, the items of the store becoming more cluttered and much closer as the smell of the spice from the pipe became stronger, almost choking him.
“No, Mr. Wells, I would prefer not to. As a matter of…”
Wells interrupted, “Some things in this world are meant to be feared, Mr. Weatherby. Sometimes the dark does hide monsters and sometimes we find out that they do exist.”