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Noir - Occult Bookstore Pt. 2

by BP | Score: 5200

"Good. Now then, my book."

"Of course." A shuffling of feet, then sliding, something being moved from one spot to another. Books pushed down a shelf, perhaps. A pause.

Even through the door, [detective] could feel the weight of it. A held breath. Theodore's or Mr. Drake's he wasn't quite sure, but the enormity of it was palpable. Something was being revealed. Something of terrible importance.

[Detective] shifted his feet, pressed his ear against the door. He could wisps of abandoned spider webs on his fingers and cheek, entangling with his hair.

Push it out, he told himself. Ignore it. Ignore the possibility of a plump black spider emerging from a gossamer nest and crawling down the door toward his fingers. Feeling them out with its legs. Moving on. Heading toward his head or for the narrow passage between wrist and sleeve.

Was that something on his neck?

A gasp. There was a whine. [Detective]'s mind raced trying to place it. It sounded like a wind chime. No, no. A weathervane. Metal on metal. Not quite grinding, but pressing against each other. Swinging.

Hinges.

A door. A safe.

"Here you are, Mr. Drake." Theodore all but whispered the words. Not so much out of fear, [detective] thought but genuine reference. Not just for the tall man but whatever it was that just passed from hand to hand.

There was another pause. Something--whatever it was--powerful enough to silence even the chatty Mr. Drake.

[Detective] put a hand to his free ear and held his breathe. Anything to silence the ambient noises around him. A car passing down the alley; a man shouting, a delivery truck driver, he assumed; wind blowing in from somewhere in the room, though he had not been able to discover it's origin; rats and spiders skittering ever closer to him and the bare flesh of his neck.

Another sound. This one more enigmatic. [Detective] readjusted himself on the step, rededicated his ear to the door. Was it a gasp? Some other sign of adoration at whatever had been revealed?

More silence. [Detective] began to wonder if the two men had left the room. Perhaps they'd discovered his presence and signaled to each other to be silent, to move their transaction to a different room. Or where they there, on the other side of the door, their equals pressed equally tight against the door, listening, waiting for the telltale sign of a trespasser.

"Does it meet your expectations, Mr--"

Theordore cut himself off. [Detective] imagined the tall man waving a hand up theatrically, eyes still boring into whatever object he now possessed.

Something happened. Things were being moved. Slid across glass. Objects clinked against one another. There was unintelligible muttering, not so much words but they carried the harsh snippiness of admonishment.

Then, the turning of pages.

Was that it? A book? [Detective] moved his hand across the door then down, his fingers making the lightest of contact. They stumbled over splinters; clumps of paint from old, rushed paint jobs; the rough remains of decorative trim. The knob. [Detective] froze. He didn't want to disturb it. Given the state of the backroom the knob would be a mess of rust. The slightest touch would sound like cracked church bells signaling the coming of the apocalypse.

Still, he wanted to see. Needed to see.

A power not his own overtook him. He could feel it tugging his body, coaxing his mind.

Go on, it said. Touch the knob. Let your fingers feel the cold steel. Ignore the rust and the webs. Pathetic impediments for what lies beyond. There you are, now. Curl your fingers around the neck. Twist, my darling. Twist. Like hands around a lover's neck. Tight. Firm. Squeeze the very sound out of it. You have the strength. I am here with you.

[Detective] was aware of a feint muttering on the other side of the door. He teetered on the sides of his feet listening to it, like an anchored ship rocking side to side with the ancient rhythm of the sea. One of man's greatest feats of engineering and imagination, nothing but a toy in the hands of playful world.

What is the current if not the world's breath. The voice was back, whispering. It doesn't even need to think. And see how it sways you.

[Detective] felt himself falling deeper, not so much an absent-minded trance, but the deep, muted focus sometimes brought on by hunger. Or, in one case, when he had been undercover at an old jazz club and the vapors of the marijuana cigarettes popular their had worked their magic on him. Nothing else existed. There was [detective] and the voice. The door, faintly, was present, only because it was holding him up. The walls and their spiders, the tall man and his accomplice, mere shadows. Wraiths, ethereal and unimportant, wavering like a mirage in the distance. Shadows that once the sun fell, would be no more.

Let it fall, the voice hissed. Let the sun set on this beknighted world and join me, my son, in the dark.

The mumbling rose to a babble. Words, indecpipherale at first were be

Completed challenges

The following challenges were completed during the writing exercise:

Begin Start typing to begin
Location An antique store
Letter Use the letter H
Words Reach 50 words
Words Reach 100 words
Words Reach 200 words
Words Reach 300 words
Words Reach 400 words
Words Reach 500 words
Words Reach 600 words
Words Reach 700 words
Words Reach 800 words

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