Scared books smell of sulphur

The books fluttered when he arrived. They always fluttered when a new customer arrived in the store. They could feel the newness of the customer. What was this customer looking for? The books had to know whether they were the one to please the new customer. Were the new customer looking for a romance so strong that they were literally swept of their feet? Maybe a crime novel so full of blood and hideous acts that the book had to hide from his mother when she visited? A horror so dark that it did not tolerate the sun? A fantasy so thick and pretentious that no one really understood what it was trying to tell? 

The store had it all. 

The man took of his hat when he entered. Henrik was standing next to the cashier machine and counting the earnings of the day. It had been a good day, so his mood was light and good. The books had gotten good owners, and the customers had gotten good books. Expect one customer that had hurried along an old woman. Henrik could not stand bullies, and the books had felt his mood change. It just arrived in his hand, the book that was right for this bully. That book had an act of always being where you were sure you had not left it, but still in a place that you could believe you had left it. One of the most irritating books Henrik had ever sold. The thought of the bully looking for his book all over his house brought a smile to his face.

“What can I help you with my good man?” Henrik asked the new customer with a real smile on his face. A real smile was as usual on a service worker as a horn on a horse, but Henrik was a real unicorn when it came to his job. 

The new customer walked slowly toward Henrik. He was a handsome man, with a good tan and a nice coat over his suit. The hat he was holding in his hand looked very expensive to Henrik. A rich, pretty-boy, that Henrik would have no reservations closing his store for if asked. The man smiled to Henrik, but that made his whole face wrong. It did not look like the new customer was used to smiling, and that woke Henrik up from his daydream.

“I am looking for a specific book, that I think you have in your inventory, Mr. Anderson.”

How he knew his name Henrik did not know. The man did not look familiar, and even though Henrik liked the nightlife and the ‘fruity-clubs’ as his friends ironically called them, he was not one to sleep around. It could not be a one-night-stand gone wrong. At least, Henrik did not believe it could be so.

“What book is that, Mr?”

Henrik tried to weave his question about the customer’s name into his question about what kind of book he was looking for. Either the customer did not hear or would not answer the hidden question. 

A book on a shelf, shoulder height of the customer, started singing the song that books sing when looking for a new owner. Since the customer had not answered yet what kind of book he was looking for, the books knew he was fair game. 

“None of that please.” The customer addressed the book, and the book stopped singing. Every book in Henrik’s store stopped talking, fluttering, and singing. It had been a long time since Henrik’s store had been this quiet. Henrik could hear himself breath. He started breathing heavier, now looking more closely on the customer.

“You can hear the books?”

“Yes.”

No one, except Henrik, could hear the books. He had never met anyone that could anyhow. Henrik had asked his parents when he was little, why the books talked to him, and they had sent him to a psychiatrist. After a couple of years, Henrik had started lying to the psychiatrist about being able to hear the books, but they still talked to him when he had the time to listen. His career working with books was a straight given from the day he understood that he needed a job. The other children had wanted to be astronauts, lawyers, doctors and princes/princesses. Not Henrik. He wanted to be a bookshop owner. 

Now, right in front of him, stood another person who could hear the books. The only other person he knew of. On the other hand, Henrik knew of other types of magic than understanding books. 

“Then what book do you need? I have most of them, books I mean, and am always ready to find my books good homes. Can you make a good home for the book you want?”

“The goodness of my home is of no concern to the specific book I need. Also, the name I know it as, may not be the same as the name you know it as.”

A cold wind hit Henrik in the face. A part of him knew already what book the customer was talking about, and he did not want to think about that book. That book was under lock and key in his own head. Locked away, for Henrik’s sanity sake. No, he did not want to think about that book, so he asked instead:

“Could you describe it to me? What is it about?” Maybe he was wrong in his assumption of what book the stranger wanted. 

“It is a black leather book, made a long time ago. What it is about is difficult to give an answer to, since it is about different things for different readers.”

A black leather book, with different names depending on different readers. Henrik knew now that his fear was well grounded, but still he did not want to concede. Sometimes the truth is to tough to accept, and this time was no different. The stranger continued:

“I know it as Liber Mortis, but you may know it as the Necronomicon.”

On the mention of that spesific book all, the books in the started screaming. Henrik had good discipline on his books, but this was too much for all of them. The sound was ear piercing, and a miasma of fright ebbed from the books. Scared books had an unusual smell. It was a bit like dust, but more sulphurous dust. Henrik knew that his books was scared, before he started smelling it. Still, the odour was a way of verifying his knowledge. 

Henrik stared at the stranger, standing there smiling and talking about that book. That dark, black, terrifying book. How could a young, handsome man stand there, so sure of himself, and talk freely of that book?

“I do not have that book. Now, I would like you to leave.”

The strangers smile faltered for half a second, but appeared again as fast as it vanished. He started walking toward Henrik, with determination written on his whole body. Henrik started to back away from him, but stopped when bumped against the counter. The stranger kept walking toward him, and only stopped when their noses was an inch from touching. Henrik felt his sweat coming out of every pore on his body, his breathing going faster, his heart pounding harder. Later Henrik would spend many a shower thinking about the reaction of his body and what it meant, but all he could do in the moment was control his bowels. The books on the shelves still felt the fear from the mentioning of the black leather book, but they also wanted to see where this was going between their owner and the stranger. 

“I would not like to leave, Mr. Anderson. I would like to purchase the book I am looking for.”

“I should not sell it.” Henrik whispered under his breath.

“What was that, Mr. Anderson?”

“I should not sell it!” Henrik almost shouted to compensate for the earlier whisper. 

The stranger just stood there, looking at Henrik. His dark eyes piercing Henrik’s soul. Waiting for an explanation from the bookshop owner. After a couple of seconds of complete silence, he did.

“It is a terrible book Mr. A terrible book. No one should own that book. I have it here as a precaution. To keep the world safe! What images it has shown me. What stories it has told with the lights off and every beast imaginable is hiding in the dark corners. No, I will not send that book out into the world.”

Henrik tried to sound defiant, but all he managed was to sound scared. Like a small child with a broken night lamp. 

For the second time the strangers smile faltered, and this time it did not go back to a smile. His mouth stayed as a straight line, making his face look both young and commanding. He looked like a general from a fantasy story. 

“That will simply not do, Mr. Anderson.”

The stranger lifted his hand, and put it on Henriks shoulders. A more pungent smell of sulphur hit his nose like a sack of bricks. His head started to swim. Henrik tried to focus on the stranger in front of him, but could not do it. A haze appeared around the stranger.

“You will tell me where you keep my book, Mr. Anderson.”

He did not want to tell the stranger anything. He opened his mouth to tell him to get out of his store, or else he was going to call the cops. Henrik never said anything like that. What came out of his mouth was:

“It’s in the back, in the safe behind the photograph of my trip to The Strand. The code is 1-1-4-9.”

The stranger walked out of his vision. Henrik tried to follow him with his eyes, but could not do it. He was stuck in his own body, locked away from himself. Never had he experienced magic like this.

The stranger came back into his vision, with a bundle under his arm. The black book. The Necronomicon. It looked wrong in the strangers’ hands. The resonance between owner and book was shattering. The black book did not make a sound, but Henrik could feel it watching him. Measuring him. A feeling of dread crept up his back. 

“Thank you, Mr. Anderson. You have been a great help. As payment, let me take this book out of your life.”

The stranger put his hand on Henrik again, but this time his head cleared. The haze vanished, and with it, everything the black leather book had told and showed him. Every memory of the book seeped out of his head, and left only the image of a normal black book. There were quit books in the world, even to those who could hear them. The black book turned to one of those in his mind. 

The stranger put his hat on his head again, turned around and walked toward the main door. 

“Not every book in the world is safe to listen to, Mr. Anderson. There are books that you have to control, if you are not to be controlled by the book.” The saviour said over his shoulder.

The memory of getting his memory altered would never leave Henrik. He remembered why it was good to be rid of the things the black book had told him, even though he would never remember what the book had told him. Henrik did not know why he did it, and he could not understand why when he thought back to that moment either. A morbid fascination, a mental itch that he needed to scratch. Whatever it was, he shouted after the saviour:

“What is your name?”

With his hand on the knob, the saviour stopped moving. The books was as quiet as normal people experience them. The sulphur was still a strong smell in the store, but the smell was not only coming from the scared books.

“You can call me Morningstar. So long, Mr. Anderson. I will come back if I have the need of procuring other books in the future.” The stranger walked out into the cold outside, taking the smell of sulphur with him.