Salmagundi

I manage an occult bookstore. I only met the owner, a small grizzled man with a deep gravelly voice and cataracts, once. His beautiful daughter, Melinda, comes by the store a couple of times a month to empty the cash box. Other than that, I’m on my own, ordering new materials, cataloging them with the new software I bought to finally bring the store into the digital era, and selling. Before the new system, purchases and sales were recorded by hand in thick ledgers that fill one of the supply closets. Some of them are so old that the ink has browned and the pages have yellowed.

We’ve extended our hours from 6 p.m. to 1 a.m. It works because I’m a bit of a night owl, and the bulk of our customers come in around midnight.

Some ask questions about where to find a book, to decipher the instructions to a spell, or where to obtain ingredients, which we also stock in the back. I’ve learned that most spells revolve around love: spells to make people fall in love, spells to forget, and everything in between. Revenge comes in second, which I guess is intertwined with jealousy.

There’s a regular customer, a girl, who comes in once a week. She looks anywhere from fifteen to thirty. She carries a beat up knapsack with holes in its corners where pens, lint, and loose change slip out as she wanders through the store. I’m amused when I watch some of the other customers pick up her litter and hand it back to her politely or stuff it into their bags and pockets. Once I saw a twenty-dollar bill slip through and I grabbed it before a mousy looking guy could. I gave it back to her and she smiled, asking where she could find a book on African shamans.

“What type of African shaman?” I asked.

“Any type. You see, I have this book. Here, let me show you.” She pulled out a large leather bound book. The front cover featured gilded curlicues on its corners and faded lettering. She flipped the book open to page 103 and pointed out a symbol.

“It was drawn by an African shaman but the book doesn’t provide much more information. I was just curious.”

“Well, we have an African section over there, divided by country, but that’s a lot of books to sort through for one symbol.”

“That’s okay. I come here a lot.”

“Are you a student?”

“I guess I kind of am,” she said, then abruptly turned away to pull the first book from the shelf.

I returned to my counter but occasionally glanced at the girl sitting cross-legged in front of the bookshelves. Her dark, curly red hair swept the pages in front of her and I could just imagine running my hands through its silkiness. She gradually skimmed one book after another, and by the time I had to close, she was down to the middle of the first bookshelf.

“Any luck?” I asked, approaching her.

She shook her head and smiled cheerfully. “That just means I have to come in again.” She glanced around the store and noticed its emptiness. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize the time. Well, thanks again and have a good night.” I followed her out and locked the door. I got into my car and had just started the engine when I heard a knock on the passenger window—it was her.

I rolled down the window and asked if anything was wrong.

“My bike’s been stolen. Do you think you could give me a ride home? I don’t live too far.”

“Sure, get in.”

She slid inside and placed her bag on her lap. “Thanks. Turn left at the light, and then keep going for a while.”

“Do you live near the university?”

She shook her head. It began raining and my windshield wipers squeaked painfully.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name’s Nancy.” Our eyes met briefly.

“I’m Kevin,” I said. “So where’d you get that big old book?”

“This?” she asked, spreading her hands over her bag. “It’s just something I found.”

“How long have you had it?”

“A couple of months.”

“I know the store would be interested in something like that.”

“It’s not for sale. Turn right at the stop sign, and then turn left at the next light. There, to the right. You can let me out here.”

I slowed down in front of a gray apartment complex. She darted out of the car before I had fully stopped, and disappeared up a staircase. I searched for a sign of her, noticing the cracks on the exterior of the ugly building and the rusty handrails that resembled blood spots in the dim lighting. She never showed, and I eventually drove away.

She came into the store about a week later, never acknowledging me, and avoiding eye contact as she walked to the African section, leaving a trail of gum wrappers and pennies behind her. She slipped out before closing time, and I did not see her for a couple of weeks. In the meantime, I acquired more African books, and when she came into the store again, she must have noticed because she approached my counter.

“I don’t need any more books on African shamans,” she said.

“Hi, Nancy. How’re you doing?”

“I’ve moved on to Romania now.” She pulled out her tome and flipped it open to page 123, which featured an intricate window display opening to a snow-covered landscape. “I’ve already gone through some of the regular suspects: Germany, France, Russia. It might be Transylvanian. I’m not too sure.” She suddenly slammed the book shut and turned to glare at a teenage boy with thick greasy blue hair wearing an oversized black hoodie who had crept up behind her to steal a better view of her book. “Go away.”

The boy wiped his nose and backed away, stumbling into a chubby girl who dropped a book she was holding. “Now look what you’ve done!” the chubby girl said. The boy picked up the book and handed it back to her. The chubby girl scowled before gingerly grabbing the book. Nancy retreated to her bookshelves.

“Do I have to buy this?” the chubby girl asked, showing me the bent book cover. “He should be the one who should pay.”

The boy had already turned away and was browsing through the medicinal section. The chubby girl placed the book on the counter and left the store. It was a book on familiars, and a crease ran through the large black cat on the cover. I removed the book sleeve and pressed my fingertips along the edge of the crease.

“I can pay for that,” the boy said, suddenly appearing in front of me. “How much is it?”

“Ten dollars,” I said, glancing at the clock. It was 12:45 a.m. and Nancy had already left. The boy hung around after buying the book and helped me close the store.

“Are you hiring?” he asked, as I locked the front door.

“No, not right now. It’s a small shop.”

“I could help out sometimes. You don’t have to pay me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The boy nodded. “Well, all right then,” he said.

I watched him walk down the street, hunched over, his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. He looked so thin and lonely, especially when he slipped his hood on as it started raining.

I jogged over to my car and stepped into a pothole filled with water, soaking my entire right shoe. Someone laughed and I saw Nancy waiting by my car.

“Can you give me a ride?” she asked.

“Did your bike get stolen again?”

She shrugged and we got into the car. I tried to think of something witty or interesting to say; but instead, we listened to the pleasant swish of my new windshield wipers.

“You remember,” she said, as I automatically took the turns to her apartment.

“Oh, uh. It’s really easy.” I pulled over by her apartment complex.

“Aren’t you going to turn off the engine?”

“I thought I was just dropping you off.”

“Come in. I want to show you something.”

I followed her up two flights of stairs, falling behind after the first story. I tried to hush my heavy breathing as she unlocked the door.

“You’re red,” she said. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and stepped into her apartment. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, including the kitchen. The bookshelf nearest to the front door was neatly arranged in alphabetical order and labeled. I circled the living room, glancing from one label to another, and realized that she had recreated the bookstore. Every book I had ever ordered for the catalog was there. Some had taken years to find. Others I had found at garage sales and in dumpsters.

“How?” I asked. “Why?”

“Why what?” she said, handing me a glass of yellow liquid.

“What is it?”

“Try it. It’s good.”

I held the glass up to my nose, and I didn’t smell anything, so I took a tentative sip. It tasted sweet and fizzy.

“Let me show you something.”

I followed her down a thin hallway lined with bookshelves on one side. My shirt brushed the pages of the books as I squeezed through. There were three doors at the end of the hall. The one directly in front was ajar and led to a bathroom. She opened the door to the left.

The room was almost bare, with only a circular table in the middle, holding the tome, and a singlewide window opened halfway. She opened the book to page 203, which featured a fox with a bloodied mouth in a chicken coop.

“This is my favorite story,” she said, then turned the page. The next scene showed an Asian couple facing each other and holding hands. The text below the figures was Japanese.

I heard something bounce against the window but it was too dark to see anything. Nancy continued showing me various odd scenes, within what looked to be the same story. I approached the window and tried to look out. Something hit the window again and I retreated. I turned around and saw Nancy staring at the window.

“Nancy?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

She had grown pale. She pointed at the window and started moaning. Her eyes rolled upwards and she collapsed. Her body shook as she lay on the ground, and foam seeped out of her mouth. She grew still. I called the paramedics. I stayed by her side initially, but her skin felt so cold and clammy that I went outside and watched for the ambulance.

When it finally arrived, the paramedics bounded up the stairs and into the apartment. They quickly strapped Nancy onto a stretcher and carried her out. I rode in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand as we jolted down the street. Nancy opened her eyes and stared at me for a few minutes before closing them again. I waited in an empty lounge at the hospital until a nurse came out.

“You can see your girlfriend now.”

“How is she?”

“She’ll be fine. She forgot to take her medication. She just needs to rest now.” She was sleeping when I entered the room. I settled into a chair by the corner and watched her for a bit before falling asleep. When I woke up, she was gone. I stopped a few passing nurses but they had just arrived for their shifts, and the night crew had already left.

My car was at her place, and I had to take three buses to get back there. I knocked on the door to her apartment and waited but she never came. I sat in my car for a while, not sure what to do, and went home after pasting a note on her door.

She did not come into the store that night or the next. During the day, I would knock on her door. When I saw the note still hanging there on the third day, I tore it off. I was about to leave when her neighbor’s door opened and a man stepped out.

“Are you looking for that girl?” he asked. “I can hear you knocking on her door every day. I think she moved out.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No. I haven’t heard anything through the walls in days. You should ask the landlady downstairs. She might know.”

I waited until he walked away before knocking on her door again.

“Are you Kevin?” A middle-aged woman had appeared on the landing.

“She left a few days ago. Paid for the rest of her lease but left her books behind for you. Said that you run a bookstore?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Do you think you could empty the apartment by Monday? I have to get it cleaned.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Sure, sure,” the landlady said. She unlocked the door and let me in.

The air was musty and the apartment appeared unchanged. The book collection was intact. A few pieces of furniture remained. A cockroach skittered away as I turned on the kitchen light.

“Actually, my lease is running out soon,” I said. “How about I rent this place from you? It looks like it’s in good shape.”

“Could you? Oh that would be great. Let’s go back to my office to fill out some paperwork.”

My lease was not ending for six months but I knew I would find something in that apartment that would indicate what happened to Nancy. I was certain she was trying to send me a message by leaving all her books for me. I was worried that she had suffered a mental blow from whatever had terrified her. I waited restlessly while the landlady prepared the lease agreement, and reviewed the terms. I signed and initialed a stack of papers before she finally handed me a set of keys.

When I returned to the apartment, I immediately went to the room where Nancy had collapsed. It was completely empty. The window overlooked a broken parking lot. The opposite door opened to the bedroom. A bare mattress lay in the corner with a pile of books leaning precariously against it. The closet door was slightly ajar. Inside, a mound of clothes covered the floor, and three unmarked white boxes lined a small shelf.

I spent the entire weekend sorting through Nancy’s possessions. I washed her clothes and set them aside neatly. I rummaged through the white boxes in the closet and found a strange collection of papers and newspaper clippings. I discovered nothing that would help me find her. No legal papers, nothing with her full name, no correspondence. Her mailbox only contained flyers and letters to “Current Resident.” I tried to obtain more information from the landlady, but she immediately grew suspicious and refused to tell me, despite assurances that I was Nancy’s friend.

Within her book collection, I slowly found books that were not duplicates of the ones in the bookstore. I set them aside and counted fourteen brand new books devoid of any markings or hidden scraps of paper. I started reading them, taking notes on the general theme, the names of characters, and any odd fluctuations in the storyline. I raced through the novels and enjoyed them, plodding through the nonfiction texts on subjects like tikis and aboriginal witchcraft. By the end of the year, I finished all of them without being any closer to finding Nancy or learning more about her.

I considered the months I spent reading and realized how isolated I had become. I no longer looked forward to Melinda’s visits as I used to. I started to notice her flaws and her annoying penchant for laughing at my serious comments. The customers bored me more than usual. I started to avoid the counter unless someone was actually purchasing something. I became so used to silence that my voice cracked when I spoke.

Then it hit me. I had placed all fourteen books on the floor and was staring at them again to try to find a connecting theme when I saw the message. Looking at the first letter of each title, I read, “I love you Kevin.” The extra book was an anthology of ghost stories from Savannah.

I immediately took leave from the store for the first time in years and started driving. It would take a few days for me to reach Savannah. The hours on the road passed quickly as my mind rushed through various tangents. She loved me after such a short time? She must’ve known and I was relieved.

I reached Savannah just after sunset and started walking. I passed a couple of empty blocks deeply shrouded in shadows and reached a crowded street by a river. I checked into a hotel and marked the sights mentioned in the book on a map I had picked up at a bar. The next day, I visited each spot and saving the cemetery for last. I read a few of the tombstones and spent the rest of the day sitting on a bench beneath a weeping willow scanning people’s faces.

I did not realize how late it was when a guard asked me to leave. As the sun set and the lampposts lit up, I became aware of how alone I was, in an unfamiliar city, spending what little savings I had. I felt pained and defeated—like I had failed. Perhaps I had misread the message. It was possible that the letters had merely lined up into that sentence. She was gone and I was going home.

A group of people huddled near the street corner, chatting noisily and laughing. I passed them indifferently, waiting for the crosswalk sign to change. When I glanced at the group, I saw her. She had dyed her hair black, and she wore makeup and a costume, but I still recognized the face I had fallen in love with.

“All right everyone,” she said. “It’s 7:00 and it looks like everyone’s here.” The group drew nearer to her. “Welcome to Savannah’s best ghost tour! If everyone could pay for their tour now, I’d really appreciate it. This should only take about an hour, and tips are more than welcome at the end. We’re going to start at this cemetery—but before I begin, did you know that you are all walking on the dead?”

I quietly asked someone how much the tour cost, and passed along my cash.

I followed at the back of the group and listened to Nancy prattle on about the sights. She had chosen the lighthearted ghost stories from the anthology. One was about a ghost who stole women’s undergarments and moved jewelry. Another was a child who snuggled next to any female sleeper that resembled its mother. The more horrific ghost stories were delicately unmentioned. She only added a few embellishments. We clustered in unlit sections of sidewalks, gazing at one haunted place after another. Every once in a while our eyes met but she failed to recognize me in the darkness. I could barely distinguish the features of some of the people walking beside me.

We wound back to the cemetery at the end of the tour. I waited until everyone had given her tips and dispersed before I approached her.

“Nancy?”

“Yes? How may I help you?”

“It’s me. Kevin. Don’t you remember?”

“Kevin…no, I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I work at the bookstore. I was there when you collapsed in your apartment. At the hospital?”

Her eyes widened and she backed away from me. “You! What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“I got your message. I found you.”

“You just stay away from me.” She ran off before I had a chance to respond. I was too shocked and tired to follow her.

I waited at the corner the next couple of nights but the tour guide was always different. I asked each one about Nancy but none of them had ever heard of her before. I went on competing ghost tours but never saw her again. I had to leave the city at the end of the week to avoid losing my job. Melinda had already called a few times to nag me about the impossible store hours she was keeping. I left Savannah in temporary defeat, already planning to return once I settled my affairs back home.

When I unlocked the door to Nancy’s apartment, I immediately noticed that the thirteen books I had left on the floor were missing. In their place someone had written, “You invoke evil,” in large red letters. I shuddered to think who could have been in the apartment while I was gone. I checked for signs of a break in but found none. Everything else was untouched, until I walked into the bedroom. The mattress was missing. My bed sheets were crumpled in a corner. The stack of Nancy’s clothes had disappeared. I opened the closet and noted the absent white boxes.

I asked the neighbors and the landlady if they had seen Nancy or heard anything in the apartment while I was gone but they all said no. Yet I knew that while I had lingered in Savannah, Nancy had returned.

All I had left were her books and that message. I tried to erase the message but whatever she used to write it stubbornly clung to the carpet fibers. I had been wrong. I was foolish to think that she could love me after such a short time together. She was clearly frightened, but in time, I was certain that I could convince her otherwise. I would eventually transform “You invoke evil” to “I love you Kevin.”