“All I want you to do is go into the bookstore for me. See, I can’t go in there no more ’cause Mr. Standish don’t like letting people like me and my Mama in.”
“Okay, and what do I do once I’m in this bookstore?” Greg’s eyes scanned the sidewalk.
“Go to the back of the store. All the way to the back where they keep the adventure books. Then just ask the books, ‘Where should Charlie take the shovel?’ That’s it. But ask quietly so old man Standish doesn’t hear you.”
“You want me to talk to BOOKS?” Greg backed away.
Charlie advanced. “I’ll explain later. But for right now, you have to trust me...and this five spot.” Charlie waved the bill beneath Greg’s nose. “Once you ask the question, books will slide out from the shelves, all on their own. Don’t be scared, though, okay? It won’t hurt you.”
“So, I walk into the back of Standish’s bookstore and ask the books where you should take the shovel.”
“Read the first word of the title of each book, in order, as they pop out.”
“And the books will give me the answer. And for this I get five bucks?”
“You got it! Don’t let me down, okay? And get in and out fast. Don’t hang around.”
“What if I get caught?” This seemed almost as important to Greg as the five-dollar bill which still held his eyes captive.
“Doing what? Talking to books? Look, if Standish catches you, just say you’re rehearsing for the school play and that’s why you were talking to yourself. Okay? Do we have a deal?”
“You’re weird as hell, Drier, ya know that?”
“Yea, I know. But do we have a deal?”
“Deal.”
The boys shook on it and Greg took off, bound for the bookstore. Charlie waited in front of his house, kicking stones and chewing his lip, hoping Greg wouldn’t get busted. It wouldn’t take Standish long to realize just who had sent Greg into the store. Then he might well come after Charlie.
At twelve past forever, Greg ran toward Charlie. He skidded around the corner and planted his gray sneakers on the sidewalk in a dead stop.
“So? So? What did they say?”
Still panting and holding his sides, Greg tried to stand fully upright. “I’ll tell you what, man. That bookstore is the creepiest place I’ve ever seen. How do they do that, anyway? Books popping out all over the place?”
“I don’t know how they do it. What did they tell you?”
“The old abandoned fishing pier. Dig at the end farthest from the water.” Greg paused for a moment, grimacing from the stitch in his side. “Now, where’s my five bucks?” Charlie yanked the bill from his pocket and pressed it into Greg’s sweaty palm. “Thanks, man.” And he dashed toward his house.
“Hey! What are you digging for, anyway?” Greg yelled after him.
“I’ll let you know when I find out,” Charlie hollered, then disappeared around the side of the house.
The ground was soft and mucky beneath the rotted old pier, so the digging wasn’t too hard. Charlie had waited for a spell, until all the old-timers dragged themselves home, fishing poles in tow. It had been a long time since fishing had been legal there, though the old residents refused to admit that.
Charlie watched the pile of dirt and sand pile up behind him, quickly at first, then more slowly as his arms got tired. He dug wide and deep, hoping against hope that he hadn’t lost his mind, and that he wasn’t digging in the wrong spot. Somewhere around seven that evening, he offered up a silent oath to pummel Greg into the ground if the kid had lied to him.
Then he tried to withdraw his shovel from the dirt and it stuck. Something soft and spongy had grabbed on to those little prongs on the head of the spade and held tight. Charlie let go of the handle and bent down to examine the hole more closely.
Something thin and black protruded from the sand and he poked at it, watching for signs of attack. Once he had decided that the thing was not really alive, he began pushing the sand away from it with his hands.
He poked one finger through the thin plastic, then shoved in a second finger and pulled. The bag slipped open, splitting easily from age and wear. Something white and hard poked through, stabbing through the air at him.
Charlie screamed and fell backward into the sand. His eyes locked on to the hole in that bag, he panted, gasped. It was a bone. Picked clean and bleached by time, a thick leg bone pointed at him accusingly.
He was off running then, spade and bag forgotten. He had to get to a phone, had to get help. Now, they would believe him.
Charlie wandered about the bookstore, looking in corners and peering among shadows. All about him, policemen gathered things and whispered among themselves. When he thought that no one might notice, Charlie stole away to the back of the store.
“How many of you are there? Did he kill you all?” Not a single book moved. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”
Charlie felt heat rise into his face. His muscles ached and his head pounded. He had digested an enormous amount of fear in the past twelve hours. Now, he merely felt empty.
“Hey, kiddo!” The tight grip on his shoulder squeezed a yell from Charlie’s lips. “You did a good thing.”
“Sir?” The policeman’s face was a welcome relief. Mr. Standish had long since been carted off to jail, but somehow, in Charlie’s mind, the man possessed superhuman powers and might well have shown up for one last crack at him.
“You probably saved a lot of children’s lives today. But tell me, how did you know to look under the pier?”
Charlie dry-swallowed his morals and stuttered. “I was just...you know...messing around under there. And I ran across the bag while digging for pirate treasure.” Charlie hated to lie. His mother lied all the time and it made Charlie feel sick inside when she lied to him.
“You must have been very frightened.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What I still don’t understand is how you connected it all to Mr. Standish.” The officer stared at him, unblinking and steady.
Charlie tried to think of something to say, tried to come up with some plausible lie that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool.
“Oh well! Of course! He probably showed you what was in the back room. All those books. Written in blood and bound in human skin. He’s really an awful man. And you’re damn lucky he didn’t get his hands on you.” The officer poked Charlie in the stomach playfully. “From now on, you leave the sleuthing up to us professionals, okay, pardner?”
“You got it, sir.” Charlie nodded vehemently and crossed his fingers behind his back...just in case.
The policeman walked away, leaving Charlie alone with the books. He turned slowly, sighing as he gazed up at the shelves.
“So what will become of you now? Will you get to go free? Or are you stuck here?” He waited a reasonable amount of time, then shook his head sadly. “Well, I might have hallucinated the whole thing. Who knows? Maybe I am a little crazy.”
Slowly, Charlie wandered down the aisle of bookshelves, his legs a little weaker than they were that morning, his load a little lighter.
Then he heard a sound, something familiar in its tone, yet strange in its timing. Two books, hitting the floor, though not as they usually did. These books simply landed on the wood floor, falling gently as though dropped from only an inch or two.
Charlie froze for a moment, holding his breath and wondering what he would see. When he turned, the two books were directly in front of him, not more than six inches away. He smiled as he looked at them, nodding reverently as he read the titles.
THANK
YOU
“You’re welcome,” Charlie offered with a little mock salute. Then he turned and left the store, the books, and the bones.
Philip Robinson
HROUGH AN INTERNET message board, I once told Richard Laymon how my agent had rejected a novel manuscript because she was so disturbed by the content that she didn’t feel comfortable introducing such work to the reading public. The book had been heavily influenced by Richard Laymon. He replied, suggesting I frame that letter.