The Haunted Bookstore

The Haunted Bookstore

250 words

It is a nondescript building, easily overlooked. Inside are more bookshelves than I have ever seen. A shopkeeper is at my side the very moment I step through the door. 

“I walk by almost everyday,” I tell her. “I’ve never noticed you.”

“Well, we’re not for everyone,” She gestures toward the overstuffed stacks. “We are a true authors’ bookstore.” 

There is an electrical buzz and the lighting flickers. I’m surprised to find the store full of people. One professorially-dressed man, neck craned, nose down in his book, peers over the cover. I read the title: “The Haunted Bookshop.” An old one.

“People don’t shop bookstores anymore, thanks to those monstrosities,” she hisses through her teeth. “Soulless, vacuous, robber barons.” 

Several heads swing our direction. “I’m looking for a cookbook.” My throat dries. “My friend’s.”

“We don’t have it.” She turns abruptly. And then, over her shoulder, “All of our authors are dead.”

“COOKING,” she points a long finger before disappearing down a row of stacks. “One right, four lefts.”

I walk down a narrow hall, trying to count the turns. The floor seems to angle downward, pitching steadily 

steeper through tighter pathways. I am sliding, stumbling, tripping over my feet. There is a dim light at the bottom. There stands the professor who smiles kindly, holding my book, my name and picture on the cover.

I blush hotly. “Was I that obvious?” 

He winks. “We’re an authors’ bookstore,” placing the book in my hands. “And all our authors are dead.”