18. Presley
Presley
“Are you sure?”
Gracie looks at me in disbelief. “Presley. It's Penny.”
At the sound of her name, Penny's tail starts wagging. Walter stands beside her, looking considerably less enthusiastic about the situation.
But then again, he’s old and never looks overly excited about anything.
“I know, but—”
“We're going home to watch television.”
“You make it sound like you're taking her on a date.”
“I kind of am.”
I laugh.
Gracie bends and scratches Penny behind the ears. “Walter needs friends his own size.”
Walter looks up at her.
“Don't give me that look.”
“He doesn't seem convinced.”
“He loves Penny.”
Penny moves closer and sniffs Walter's face. Walter sniffs hers. Their tails begin wagging.
“See?” Gracie says. “Best friends.”
“Or they're plotting something.”
“That too.”
I glance toward the clock behind the register. Eight fifteen.
The Crooked Spine closes at ten tonight, but no one has walked through the door in nearly an hour.
I agreed to work late so Margaret could run some errands. She left around seven to pick up candy and a few other things for Hollow Creek Halloween Week. Apparently, what she bought yesterday wasn't enough.
Considering she came back with six industrial-sized bags, I'm not entirely sure what she considers enough.
“You really don't mind taking her?”
“Not at all.” Gracie takes Penny's leash. “She can hang out with Walter while you finish closing. I'll bring her back when you're done.”
“You don't have to do that. I can stop by.”
“You live outside town.”
“So?”
“It’ll save you some time. I’ll bring her back here.”
“Gracie—”
“Presley.”
I stare at her. She smiles at me.
“Fine.”
“See? Easy.”
I crouch in front of Penny. “You behave.”
Her tail wags.
“No bullying Walter.”
Walter looks offended.
“No eating anything you're not supposed to.”
She licks my nose.
“And don't manipulate Gracie into giving you seventeen treats.”
Gracie clears her throat.
I look up. “What?”
“Seventeen seems oddly specific.”
“I'm establishing boundaries.”
“Right.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not planning on giving her that many treats, right?”
She tugs on Walter’s leash, refusing to make eye contact. “Come on, Walter.”
“Gracie.”
She heads toward the door with Penny and Walter happily trotting beside her.
“Gracie!”
She ignores me yet again.
“She's going to come home five pounds heavier!”
Gracie laughs as she pushes open the door. “Have fun closing!”
“You’re deflecting!”
The bell jingles overhead. Cold air sweeps briefly into the store before the door closes behind them.
I watch through the front window as Gracie leads the two dachshunds down the sidewalk toward her vehicle. Penny doesn't even look back.
“Little traitor.” I smile and turn away.
My smile disappears surprisingly fast.
The store is quiet.
Not the normal bookstore quiet.
Eerily quiet.
I hadn't noticed it with Gracie here. But now, it’s obvious.
I look around.
Tall shelves stretch toward the ceiling, creating narrow, shadow-filled aisles. Antique lamps cast warm pools of light throughout the store, but the spaces between them are darker than usual.
I shake my head. “Stop freaking yourself out.”
I'm in downtown Hollow Creek, surrounded by other businesses. Not alone in Grandma's house in the middle of the woods.
Correction: my house.
With a sigh, I grab a stack of returns from behind the counter and shelve them.
Then I straighten the front displays.
As I’m heading back to the counter, movement in my peripheral vision flashes across the front window.
I stop.
My heart rate kicks up. Someone’s there.
I turn quickly.
Nothing.
The sidewalk outside the bookstore is empty.
A few cars are parked along the street. Orange lights wrapped around the lampposts glow against the darkness. Across the road, a couple walks past carrying coffee cups.
But no one is standing outside The Crooked Spine.
I move to the window, cup my hand against the glass, and look both ways.
I don’t see anyone.
I release a breath. “Stop being weird.”
My reflection stares back at me.
I turn away. The stack of books is still waiting.
“Get to work.”
I grab the first one. It’s a mystery novel. Easy enough.
I carry it toward the back of the store, floorboards creaking beneath my feet. Normally, I like that sound. It gives the bookstore character.
Tonight, it makes me feel like I'm inside one of the horror movies I keep insisting on watching despite all evidence suggesting I shouldn't.
I slide the book onto the shelf.
A thud comes from somewhere behind me.
I whip around, searching the store for the source.
Nothing.
My heart pounds faster as I slowly move down the aisle.
“H-hello?”
Seriously. Why am I asking that?
If someone says hello back, I'm going to shit myself.
I keep moving, eyes searching, finding nothing.
When I reach the end, I finally see it. A book lies face down on the floor.
I stare at it for a few beats. “It’s only a book.”
It’s an old building. The shelves are crooked. A book could randomly fall for no reason.
Right?
I bend and pick it up.
The cover shows a dark forest. Naturally.
“Why couldn't it have been a cookbook?”
I find its place and shove it between two other books. Then I test it, making sure it’s secure. “Stay.”
I turn away.
The floor creaks behind me.
I still... then slowly look over my shoulder.
The aisle is empty.
My heart begins beating faster.
“Old building. It’s just an old building.”
The words sound too loud in the silence.
I don’t move, just keep listening.
Nothing.
After several seconds, I force myself to move.
I shelve another book.
Then another.
The floor creaks again.
This time, I ignore it.
A soft sound comes from the next aisle.
I stop.
That wasn't a creak.
It sounded like—
Footsteps.
I don't move.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
One step.
Then another.
Slow.
Measured.
I step backward until my spine touches the bookshelf.
“Is someone here?”
Nothing.
“Margaret?”
I immediately feel stupid.
I watched her leave. And if she had come back, I would’ve heard the bell.
Wouldn't I?
I wait.
It’s silent.
My heart slowly begins to settle. “You're freaking yourself out.”
That's all this is.
Everything has me on edge.
I resume shelving.
No more footsteps come.
By the time I finish the stack, I'm annoyed with myself more than frightened.
I head toward the counter.
Then remember the box Margaret asked me to grab from storage.
“Shit.” I glance back at the hallway. “I don’t wanna go back there.”
For one second, I consider leaving it until morning.
But I can’t.
That box is too heavy for Margaret to be lifting.
Besides, I refuse to become the woman who is afraid to walk into a storage room because an old bookstore makes noises.
I head toward the back hallway.
The light overhead flickers.
I stop.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
It steadies.
“Very funny.”
At the end of the hallway waits the heavy wooden storage-room door.
I slowly approach.
“You can do this,” I whisper.
I grab the handle and pull.
Nothing happens.
“Come on.”
I pull harder.
The door doesn't open.
Margaret warned me about this. Humidity makes it worse.
It was raining earlier. Now it’s humid.
I brace one foot against the floor and tug again.
Nothing.
“You're an asshole,” I mutter to the door.
I release the handle.
“I’m determined to do this.” I rub my hands on my jeans. “Third time's the charm.”
I grab it with both hands and yank. The door suddenly swings open.
I stumble backward, clinging to the handle to keep from falling on my ass.
“Jesus.”
My heart pounds.
I glare at the door.
“Seven years, Margaret?”
I shake my head. I'm going to find someone to fix this damn door.
I reach inside and flip on the light.
Boxes line the walls.
Old displays lean against shelves. Plastic containers marked CHRISTMAS and HALLOWEEN are stacked in one corner.
I step inside.
Margaret said the box labeled “Halloween Week” is toward the back.
I weave around boxes, totes, and an old register that looks like it’s from two decades ago.
She should throw the damn thing away.
Maybe I’ll do it.
Another day.
A cardboard box sits on the floor.
“There you are.”
I bend and lift it. It’s heavier than I expect.
“Good God. What’s in this thing?”
I shift the box in my arms.
Then I hear a creak from behind me.
My skin prickles.
“Margaret?”
Nothing.
I spin around, staring at the open doorway.
“Stop it, Presley.”
I adjust the box and take a step toward the doorway.
The heavy wooden door moves.
My eyes widen. “No—”
I move as fast as I can, still carrying the heavy box.
BANG.
The door slams shut.
I drop the box.
Candy dishes, plastic skeleton hands, cobwebs, and other décor spill across the floor.
For one stunned second, I simply stare at the mess.
Then I grab the door handle and twist it.
The door won’t open.
“Oh, come on.”
I yank harder.
The door doesn't move.
“No. No, no, no.”
I brace my foot and pull with both hands.
Nothing.
“Seriously? Come the hell on!”
My heart starts pounding. Sweat is running down my back.
I’m not a fan of small spaces. And this one is starting to get to me.
I try the knob again, pulling as hard as I can.
“No, dammit. Come on.”
My sweaty hands slip, and my shoulder slams against it. Sharp pain cuts through me, and I grit my teeth.
Dammit. I rub it, eyeing the door.
Mustering up every bit of strength I have, I grip the handle and yank.
It won’t budge.
I let go of the knob and step back.
I reach into my back pocket to pull out my phone... but it’s not there.
Shit.
I left it under the counter.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
All rational thought leaves, replaced by panic.
What if no one comes into the store?
I look at my watch.
It’s 8:30.
The bookstore doesn’t close until 10:00 tonight.
Gracie probably won’t get here until 10:15.
My mind keeps spinning, jumping to the worst-case scenario.
I’ll be stuck in here for a couple of hours.
No. I can’t be in here that long.
I suck in shallow breaths.
Calm down, Presley.
My words make it worse.
My heavy breaths sound too loud in the small room.
“Someone! Please!” I slam both fists against the door. “Please!”
Tears run down my face.
I slam my fists on the wood harder, not caring that I’m hurting myself.