Cati Porter

The *real* cheese, part deux.

Here is the second of three stories I wrote for Ghostwalk last year. For locals, this story was told at Downtown Books, a cool used book shop down a dark corridor that you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t looking for it. For non-locals, all of these stories were part of a walking tour that occurs annually for Halloween, and is sponsored and put on by the California Riverside Ballet. This one is actually somewhat poetry-related, in that it makes use of the William Carlos Williams poem, “The Term.”

~

Term Life

(as told by the shopkeeper)

I love books. I’ve always loved books. I love the smell of old books, the way the bindings crack when you open them. That’s why I took over this bookstore. I’ve been in here for years now. I really can’t imagine doing anything else. But there was a time when I almost gave it all up….

There was a morning early last October. I knew it was going to be a strange day when I tripped over a large piece of brown Kraft paper, the kind that you wrap packages in to mail, that was laying across the parking lot as I crossed. My arms were full of books so I didn’t see it until it was too late. One of my knees was scraped and bleeding. I hurriedly picked up my things and dusted myself off.

And then a gust of wind picked that paper up – just like that – and blew it down the street.

When I got to the shop, I slipped my key into the lock — and found the place was a wreck! It looked like it’d been ransacked – books were all over the floor.

I ran to the register. Strangely, everything was still in place – not a penny was missing. I went back and checked the door, but it didn’t look tampered with. Nothing else appeared to be damaged. I thought maybe it was earthquake, though that didn’t really make sense. I knew something wasn’t right.

I taped a sign to the front door that said “closed for maintenance” and went to work putting all of the books back. It took me all day! I was SO angry — and confused!

It was dark by the time I went home. I still didn’t understand how that could have happened, but I was certain there had to be a rational explanation. So I fell into bed and tried to get some sleep.

By the next morning, I had forgotten all about it. I got up, had my coffee, read the paper, and then headed downtown to open up the shop for the day. I slipped my key into the lock — and found that the same thing had happened – again!

I could hardly believe it! I was fuming. Who had gotten in here? HOW had they gotten in here?

I spent that whole day cleaning up again, but this time I knew it was no fluke. Whoever had done this did it purposefully. I couldn’t afford to keep the shop closed for one more day, so I came up with a plan. This time when I locked up and walked out, I made it look as if I was going home, but when I was sure no was around I snuck back in.

I settled down on the floor behind the counter with a flashlight and my cell phone. I stayed awake for as long as I could but after a couple of hours I let myself close my eyes. I thought to myself, maybe they had found what they were looking for and wouldn’t be back tonight after all.

But then around three a.m. I heard something….

It wasn’t exactly footsteps. It sounded more like a heaving, a dragging…

And… whispering.

I couldn’t make out what was being said at first, but as I listened it seemed to get closer and then farther away and then closer and then farther away, like someone or something was going up and down the aisles. As it came close to the counter I could feel the air moving… I could hear the air moving, like a fan set to low. And I could finally make out the whispered phrase: Where isss it?

I held very still and hoped they wouldn’t see me.

As the sound grew fainter, more distant, I could make out what seemed to be the sound of things falling to the floor. My books! I peered up over the counter’s ledge but all could see were the books piling up.

I pulled out my phone to call 911. An operator came on the line.

I was about to speak — but my phone suddenly went off.

I sensed someone was watching me….

And then the whispering again: Where isss it? Where isss it?

“Where is what?” I asked, hoping that if I just gave them what they wanted whoever it was would go away.

My thumb on the switch, I stood to face – whoever it was – and I clicked the flashlight on.

What I saw I can hardly describe – it was as though the air were smeared with grease. I couldn’t see; it was like looking into the fog.

I frantically reached out my hands, trying to feel my way around and make it to the front door – I had to get out of there!

The whispering continued… closer … closer… until I could feel air on my neck, and a chill; the whispering was right in my ear…!

I bumped my shin against the table, somehow managed to find the knob on the door….

But I just had to look, so as I opened the door, I turned to look behind me – and what I saw was shocking: it almost looked like… like… a severely disfigured young man, limping up and down the aisle …

I got into my car and drove home. I didn’t know who to call…. Who would believe me?

The next day I came back to the shop. This time, there were fewer books on the floor. In fact, it looked as though this time the mess was confined to the center aisle. I walked over and began to stack up the books and put them back up on the shelf. They seemed to all come from the same section….

I remembered those whispered words: Where isss it?

And I remembered something.

I hurried behind the counter and pulled out a box that had been brought in by a young man the week before.

I had an idea….

Before I closed up that night I lay those books out across the counter.

At first light, I went back to the shop and found the books I had left spread out stacked up neatly. All but one.

It was opened flat, face down. I picked it up and flipped through to see if there was anything special about it. On the inside cover I found a name and address.

It was only a few blocks away!

I put the books back into their box and jumped in my car. I crossed the front lawn to the door and rang the bell, worried that no one would answer – or worse, that someone would and I’d have to explain why I was there.

As I stood there, I tried to recall the details of the day those books came into my possession. It was early in the evening, close to closing time. A young man had come in carrying a box of books – judging by their covers they were all well-loved.

He seemed very pleasant, and we got to talking about the books. He told me a little something about each of them. Then he reached into the box and opened one to a random page, and he read me a poem….

I couldn’t understand why he wanted to give up all of these books; he seemed to care so much about them. So I asked.

At first he told me that he was just trying to get rid of some clutter around the house. But I could tell he was holding something back….

That’s when he confessed that he was a writer, but he was giving it up. He said he had a wife, and now that they were expecting a baby he wanted to try to be a good provider; he said that he knew his writing would never pay the bills; that after he had gotten a letter that afternoon telling him that his manuscript had been rejected – again – he made up his mind.

I told him I’d take the books off his hands, but as soon as he walked out the door I stashed the box under the counter hopefully, thinking maybe he’d change his mind. If he did, I wanted them to be there when he came back….

And now here I was, at his door.

A pregnant woman answered.

I explained who I was, and how her husband had brought these books to me. I opened the top flaps of the box. When she saw them she started to cry.

After a moment, she apologized, then told me what had happened.  The week before, while walking home from his job late one night, he had been run down by a car.

And that’s when I knew for sure…. The apparition in the store was him.

I pulled out the book – and it fell open to a page where a post-it was stuck. On it was a name and phone number, and another string of numbers….

I left her my phone number, and gave her my condolences. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened in the bookstore.

*

A few weeks later she called. She wanted to thank me, and to tell me that the number on the post-it it was for an insurance agency; apparently he had taken out a life insurance policy that she didn’t know about.  And that she had had the baby.

*

As the months went by without any more appearances from him, things settled back into their usual routine.

Then one morning I arrived and found another book mysteriously open on the counter.

It was the poem that the young man had read to me the day he had dropped off his books, it was titled, “The Term”:

A rumpled sheet
of brown paper
about the length

and apparent bulk
of a man was
rolling with the

wind slowly over
and over in
the street as

a car drove down
upon it and
crushed it to

the ground. Unlike
a man it rose
again rolling

with the wind over
and over to be as
it was before.

Occasionally, I’ll come into work and find a book laid out for me.

It doesn’t frighten me anymore, though. I know it was him.