I've had an idea for a short story tumbling around in my head for a while now, and finally got around to putting into print form. I'd love some feedback from anyone who's interested in giving it. Creative criticism is appreciated.
Vellichor
vellichor
n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.
A bell chimed as the door swung open, a quiet, wistful echo off the panes of glass, that was quickly swallowed by the density of the books within. The sign in the window read "Vellichor - New & Used Books". A curious name, I thought. As the door swung shut behind me, the bell chimed once more, and a thin silence descended.
I glanced about. Towers of books filled the store, dense aisles of overladen shelves, many bowed and bent beneath the weight of so many volumes. The aisles themselves were filled with more books, stacked haphazardly about in towering spires. I hoped I didn't find a book I wanted on the bottom of such a stack.
The soft, vanilla like scents of old pages filled the air, mingling with the smells of ancient leather and old wood. A faint mustiness also lingered, just on the edges, barely there, but always present. Dust motes hung, suspended as if in the still atmosphere of space, glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows behind me.
I began to make my way into the store, carefully threading my way through the teetering towers that littered the aisles. As I rounded the first monolith, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and saw a withered, frail old man hunched over a desk in the corner. He looked up at me then, from the pages of a thick tome, his hand holding an old fountain pen, and smiled.
"Good morning my friend" he said, in a deep, quiet voice. "Not many visitors in here these days. Do you need any help finding something?"
"No," I replied, my own voice seeming muffled by the weight of the books around me. "I'm only browsing. Hoping to find some time to myself, I'm only in town for a funeral."
"Ah," he said, "a relative of old Hilda?"
"She was my great aunt, yes, on my mother's side." I answered. "But the house is full of noisy cousins and well-wishers, and so I needed to get away for a bit. Did you know her?"
"She brought many a niece and nephew to my shop. A very giving woman. A shame they had to bury any empty casket. But I understand the need for peace and quiet all too well." he said, with a thin smile on his lips. "I'll leave you to the books then. Just be careful you don't get lost." He chuckled dryly. And with that he turned his gaze back to the page before him, his pen scratching ink onto the parchment.
I turned back into the depths of the store, and walked into the first row. I passed shelves marked romance, and poetry. Plays and politics. And as I did, I thought I heard faint whispering. I turned and looked about, and saw no one in the aisle with me. As I came out of the aisle, I peered to the right, around one heavy shelf, and saw nothing but more books before me, and to the left, a worn brick wall.
I shrugged, chalking it up to the ringing in my ears, a gift from the screaming of my sister's baby, and made my way up the next row. I'd found the history section, and the smell of old leather was thicker here, and the dust a little heavier. No one's looked at these books in years I thought to myself. But who could blame them? Who wants to read about the treaty that marked the ending of the Peloponnesian War, as the spine of one volume read.
As I came to end if the aisle, back towards the storefront again, I thought I heard the whispering again. I looked towards the old shopkeep, thinking perhaps he was quietly reading aloud to himself, but no, his lips were still. Be looked up at me, and I suppose seeing the perplexed look of my face, asked if I was having any trouble finding anything.
"No, I just thought I heard someone talking is all, but it seems it's just the two of us here."
He squinted at me over his thin glasses, and I felt like he was taking my measure, looking into the very core of my being, the sort of look only the old and very wise possess.
"Must be the air ducts," he murmured, still peering at me. "They've been noisy this winter. Old building, you understand."
"That must be it," I replied, my curiosity satisfied for the moment, as I heard the faint rumble of a heater kick in from somewhere below.
The old man nodded, and turned back to his writing. His pen making scratching sounds across the page. I felt the weight of his gaze lift from my soul, and shook my head to clear it.
I turned back into the stacks, heading down the next row over, the one marked 'Science Fiction'. Countless paperbacks lined these shelves, many worn, spines cracked, pages yellowed. These books had been well loved, but now sat abandoned, lost to time and space. My eyes drifted across the spines and covers, and the names of such titans of science fiction as Asimov, Dick, Heinlein, and Clarke jumped out at me. I'd always loved sci-fi, the stories and themes, the wild, crazy universes and the rich philosophy. It always seemed that anything was possible in science fiction, and I loved the fantastical elements of the genre.
I continued down the row, into the biography section near the back of the shop. I stopped and looked up at the names on the covers. I didn't recognize any of them at first, and thought it a little odd not see the familiar names usually gracing the covers of biographies: Lincoln, Hendrix, Hepburn, Cobain. Movie stars, politicians, rock stars, those were the people who's lives usually resided here. The names here seemed more common, and yet, mysterious.
I picked one book, and turned it over in my hand. The Life of Walter Tinte: 1897-1964. The description on the back sounded like the life of a regular man, not someone who'd have a biography written about them. The same could be said of the next several books I picked up as well. They all bore the name of the same author as well, someone named Grant Schreiber. The faint whisper of the air ducts seemed louder here, and I almost thought I could make out words, like the murmur of a crowded space. I looked around, expecting to find an grate nearby, but couldn't see one. I saw a name that caught my eye on the shelf, The Story of Hilda Barnes: 1943-2016. The name of my great aunt. The dates were the same as those of her birth and death. Curious, I cracked open the pages of the biography, and suddenly screaming filled the air, raw and filled with terror. I dropped the book, and it shut with a dull thud on the worn wooden floor.
Panicked, I backed away from the shelf, and bumped into a stack of paperbacks, toppling them and myself to the floor. More screaming rang out through the shop, cries of fear and pain, as pages were thrown open across the floor. I scrambled on my hands and knees to slam them shut, to stop the noise, so loud and terrible. As I turned to reach for the last one, thankfully closed already, my hand landed on the cover, a strong, leathery old hand settled over mine, and I looked up into the eyes of the old shopkeeper.
"Looking for a biography? He asked, a sad, pained look crossing his face, as he sighed out the words.
"Did you hear that? The screaming?" I asked him, panic creeping into my voice, shrill and loud.
"I've heard them all my dear," The old man said gently. "After all, I wrote them. Rather hard to write a biography without hearing someone's life story beforehand. Perhaps you'd like to share yours?"
