It was a chilly evening near the end of October that I wandered my way through the shadowy streets. Walking home at night always left me a little on the edge, perhaps all the horror stories I had read over the course of my life had encouraged this particular apprehension. It happened to be one of those frightfully foggy nights where every sound induces a skittish flinch and the hairs on the back of ones neck stand on end without any explanation. My black peep toes echoed menacingly as they clicked on the pavement, creating just the right sound to mimic a stalker. I pushed the unfounded trepidations from my mind and hastened the swiftness of my walk, mentally re-examining the aspects of my life in hopes of distracting myself.

This was not the first night I had resorted to this technique to prevent my imagination from wandering off and creating unsubstantiated fears. It was not that I needed to rationalize my life and the choices I had made to myself; I was quite content, in fact, I appeared happier than ninety-nine per cent of the people I came in contact with. Unfortunately, the rest of society did not consent with my lifestyle and considered me to be a loner bordering on reclusive. The few acquaintances that had managed to form a reoccurring part in my life were quite worried about me and tried to force me out into their world.

The small efficiency apartment I leased was not impressive, a kitchenette, a combined living room and bedroom, but I was so very found of it. I did not really require much else and it was furnished perfectly to my liking. It was located in a crumbling brick hotel building that at the height of its career was alluring and enchanting, but that era had passed on. Crown molding, bead board trim, hardwood floors and picturesque window seats were only the remnants of its grand Victorian nature.

Now, age had only strengthened its grasp on me and its previous disposition only piqued my curiosity. Quite certainly, it never saw the grand life I envisioned for it but I rather enjoyed fabricating it anyways. I could tell a tantalizing tale of unrequited love, betrayal and murder regarding a certain gouge one came to as they crossed the threshold of the third floor landing, as well as, an equally engrossing saga of the secret love of a solider who went away to war whose setting began at the second window seat to the right, in the lobby, where the sun shines in perfectly at a quarter past ten in the morning illuminating its occupants with an ethereal glow.

Nevertheless my apartment was to be favored above all else in that astonishing building, my possessions hailed from the Victorian period. My world was satiated with jacquards and baroques, burgundies, ivories and emeralds. I had continually been attracted to the old; old books, old furniture, even old clothing. There was something romantic about their past, a secret hidden existence that had worn away the edges leaving only mysteries of the events it had succumb to. There is such character in an antique; its decades of use have formed such individuality and character.

Though my belongings and the very nature of my life had such deep seeded roots in the hopelessly romantic genre, I myself had never ventured into that domain. It was not due to any defect in my appearance or personality, the culprit tended to be my slightly askew views on the whole subject. I believed in true love and Mr. Right, but I found it unnecessary to pursue love, searching for it and dwelling upon it. If one was truly to be the perfect fit for me, would he not cross my path on his own accord. It just did not make sense to me to waste all that time searching for the inevitable.

I like to think I used the time wisely, instead of pursuing men I pursued knowledge with an unquenchable thirst. I was fortunate enough to be the daughter of a college professor, my mother worked as a professor in the fine arts department of the local community college. From a very young age, my time was spent invading college classes, debating with professors and reading. There was nothing as revered as that library was to me, it was the first place I truly found myself at home.

I had finally made my way up to the top floor and slowly opened my door preventing Vivian Le Chat from escaping into the hallway. My only roommate came in the form of a very spoiled black cat with ravishingly long fur and a very haughty nature and this was one of the games we played. Well it is more accurate to say she played, because she and I both knew she had no interest on leaving the apartment other than the fun of hiding and watching me seek her. She had become quite profound in the art of hiding.

Tonight, luckily, I had impeded her attempts and there would be no need to ferret her out. I made my way to the kitchen to serve her a dish of her expensive kitty cuisine, while she entwined herself amongst my legs purring, anticipating her dinner. The price was a bit steep but it had done wonders for Vivian Le Chat, who had found her way into the world as a very tiny, somewhat mangy stray. She had transformed into a massive sturdy beast, who was the epitome of health.

My nightly routine seldom varied, come home, bolt the door, feed Vivian Le Chat, Light some candles, fill the bath and soak. The ancient claw-foot tub, with its aged porcelain, was my hideaway, as I submerged myself in the hot water and semi darkness. The water would scald most but I liked it that way. It was as if it melted everything away and what was left was raw and pure, and oddly comforting. The claw-foot was the one place my mind would relax and cease in its continuous train of never ending thought.

Emerging from the tub into the hot steamy air, I donned a silky vintage black robe and curled up in the armchair to brush Vivian Le Chat’s hair. After she had tired of this, I poured myself a glass of red wine and delved into the wonderful world George RR Martin had created for me in A Clash of Kings. There was not a genre that I favored over any other but one had to appreciate all the hard work an author put into creating a fantasy world, especially a good fantasy world that seems so flawless. I had read the four books in the Song of Ice and Fire anthology several times and always found them a delight, but I have to admit waiting for the fifth was antagonizing.

The next morning was as average as a morning could be. I jogged through the brisk fall air, my feet soaked with dew, following the same route as always. I stopped for a cup of tea at the local café and then made my way home. After briskly showering, I threw my hair into a ponytail and slipped into a simple black a-line skirt, ivory blouse and a double-breasted suit coat that was fitted at the waist, it was simple and elegant paired with a strand of pearls and some black pointy-toed flats.

I had a good job at the library, and as a benefit, I was able to read as much as I wanted. It did not pay the best but was more than efficient to survive on. I worked the circulation desk until close, then stayed on a few extra hours cleaning up, returning books and other duties what might find typical to a library. My favorite part of the day was when I had the whole library to myself; I would walk through the echoing isle ways engulfed in shelves of books. My favorite place would have to be The Cage; this was where all the rare books, antiques and first editions, were housed.

Only a few people had admittance to The Cage, and I was one of the privileged few. The musty old smell of the brittle pages weighed heavy in the air, it was suffocating to some but comforting to me. Many of the books had survived by mere chance as they found a home on The Index Librorum Prohibitorum and their brethren had suffered a fiery death at the hands of the Catholic Church. The subjects ranged from a wide variety of topics, philosophy, politics, history and religion, there was even quite a large section devoted to witchcraft and the dark arts. Those books where the most recent additions to The Cage, being acquired within the first few months I had worked there, about seven years ago or so.

A fancy graced us with his presence, well that is what I call them anyways, the kind of person that struts around with an air of self-valued importance. One that ignores the pleasant casualties and gets straight to business and their business required a lot of work on your part because they never knew what they were doing, one could get the impression that for the most part their lives had consisted of telling people what they wanted done and someone else doing it for them. They always carried the same attitude, as if by you being allowed to help they were doing you a favor. I always wore my little smile, did what they asked all the while I was secretly vomiting in my mouth.

This particular fancy, dubbed Mr. Donlohov was a lawyer responsible for executing the wills of the wealthy. Making my fortune from the deaths of others might put a damper on ones spirit, but not Mr. Donlohov. He smiled and even attempted a flirt or two to know avail. He was here on a different type of business than the library typically saw. A wealthy client of his, Mr. Demetrius Mortenson who resided in the Salem region of Massachusetts, had left the library the rare collection of books on the supernatural. The books had been in his family for several generations and he was the last of his line. I had found it quite odd that he had donated them to the public library in Framingham, but followed Mr. Donlohov out to his overly large SUV anyways. Mr. Donlohov waited as impatiently as possible while I unloaded the heavy boxes than sped off before I had even carted them inside, chivalry really is dead.

The sun shone down in cheerful little rays as I absentmindedly walked, my mind still absorbed in the world of Ice and Fire. The commute had been engraved into me so I could navigate unintentionally. I greeted sweet elderly Mrs. Baxter, who worked first shift, as I entered the old building. The library was not the largest but was welcoming and inviting, the perfect environment for one to cozy down and delve into a good book. Just being here, hearing the merry click of my heels on the smooth tile, made me smile.

“Good morning Emmeline, there is quite a gentlemen waiting at the desk. He said his father was a friend of Mr. Mortenson’s and he would like to go down to the cage and look at the books Mr. Mortenson left us.” She said with a mischievous smile. That particular smile always meant it was an attractive gentleman that she had saved just for me to wait on. Mrs. Baxter did not think it right for me to spend so much time alone. Despite protests, she tried to fix me up with every semi-attractive man that walked through the door.

She was right; he was very attractive, but a fancy too still there was something dark and mysterious about him. He was tall and slender but still well built. Long dark hair hung haphazardly over a pair of piercing dark eyes that carried a sense of sadness. I could not tell his age but I would put him around his thirties. He was dressed in a sleek black suit with barley noticeable silver pinstripes running through it that were brought out by a silver tie over a black silk dress shirt. He carried a black and silver cane though he did not appear to have any maladies that would entail its use. Our eyes met for the tiniest fraction of a second and in that time I felt he had read me like I had read so many novels, a deep focused reading, where you ponder the sentences, absorbing them, etching them to memory. He gave a small innocuous smile, one that convinced you to trust him even when you knew better. It may have been the most perfect smile ever given to me.

I could feel his eyes as traced their way over my delicate frame. It was as if he was engraving every detail into his memory, from my porcelain complexion, thick waist length dark chestnut hair, to the peculiar gold flecks that could be found throughout my green cat-like eyes and the quirky way the corner of my mouth turned in giving me a slightly elfish appearance. For a moment I was tempted to cover my ears, which in my youth had been the subject of many jests due to the way the slightly stuck out. His eyes flicked to my ears as if they had been following my train of thought. Finally, he broke the awkward silence.

“Hello, are you Miss Emmeline, my name is Phineas Alexander and that sweet old lady said you would be able to help me. She seems quite found of you.“ Though he seemed older he had a very boyish face and his voice was smooth and mellow, it didn’t carry the harshness and urgency that most carried in theirs.

“Mrs. Baxter said you were interested in Mr. Mortenson’s collection, they are located downstairs, if you would follow me please.” I responded politely and led him down the darkened stairwell. The basement was like most basements, damp and gloomy, shadows danced in the dimness. I unlocked the door that led into the only finished room down there. Being exposed to the bright light after the darkness was harsh and glaring. After ones eyes adjusted, one could see it was quite a cozy room. Tall oak bookshelves covered the walls, two black leather chairs with oak trim sat around a matching coffee table. It was only called The Cage after a high school boy that worked the summers had dubbed it that. It had no real name so it more or less stuck.

“They look exactly as they did when I was growing up,” he said with that boyish excitement most likely seen in an over dramatic five year old as he walked over to the shelf that housed Mr. Mortenson’s collection.

“Feel free to look them over at your leisure Mr. Alexander, I will be right over here if you have any questions.” I said as I slid a delicate first edition Henry V off the shelf and sat down in one of the chairs. I had read this particular copy several times and knew its every imperfection.

One of the few memories I had of my father was him reading Shakespeare to me and one could scarcely call it reading. Perhaps reliving would be a more accurate term. I was too young to comprehend the verses but he found no difficulty portraying the emotions to me. It may have just been a book, but to be holding it always sent chills down my spine. Soon I was so enraptured by my reading that I was mentally preparing to go off to battle after being so riveted by the St. Crispin’s Day Speech that I had completely forgotten where I was, let alone remembered my patron.

Everything happened so very fast, the lights extinguished dousing the room in darkness. I was left momentarily helpless, unable to see and a bit disoriented from being so harshly forced back to reality. With an inhuman swiftness he had crossed the room and held me in his arms. For a mere split second I felt as if I had yearned for this my entire life, like I had finally found myself at home. His teeth sunk into the soft flesh of my neck and I was frozen, paralyzed by an indefinite force. I spun dizzily inside my own mind as memories swirled around bleeding into darkness, a silent scream hung frozen in my throat. Numbness passed over me as a tingling crept through my extremities, relaxing all the muscles as I drifted into unconsciousness.


~FIN~

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...