CHAPTER II

At once I was spat out into a familiar space, although still swimming in darkness. As I slowly adjusted to the dark, I realized I was sitting in my room at home. I was surrounded by large, vacant, white walls and a sturdy black bedside table. Crested on top of the sturdy black table was the same familiar dodgy lamp that never seemed to work particularly well. My whole world was spinning as I sat up in my bed, scanning the room for outlines and shapes to ensure I was in fact back home. Back home and not caught in another hellish fantasy.
My bed linen had been kicked off my bed during what I imagined was another nightmarish spasm, leaving me drenched in cold sweat and shivering. I lifted my hand to my brow to quickly swipe away some of the salted perspiration that had gathered in the corner of my eye.
I spread my hands out beside me, feeling the bed beneath me to ground myself.
I wasn't in danger, I was safe, I had to keep telling myself that it was just a dream to try and stay sane.
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I picked myself off the bed until I was standing upright in the center of the room, still surveying every nook and space, places where things could hide. Nothing, there was nothing in this room but me, standing in the room sweating and spinning around like a madman. I pulled on a shirt and went to the bathroom. White tiles, a shower, toilet and sink. Everything in there was normal and safe. I was relieved, switching on the light as I entered. I stood in front of the mirror gazing into my reflection, I was older and I wasn't surprised. The events of the nightmare had actually happened, not five minutes ago but six years ago. And ever since then, this nightmare had been somewhat of a regular occurrence. Recently however, it has been getting worse, more lucid, every time, closer.
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My father did in fact vanish six years ago, police found me cowering in the cabin three days afterwards, bruised, cut up and mumbling, they only came looking because dad stopped turning up to work without warning. And after the events of that night I’d struggled somewhat to maintain a normal life, having my parents stripped from me at sixteen. Growing up in foster care was hard; my foster parents were kind enough. But the system moved me around a lot, making school very hard to commit to.
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Looking in the mirror I saw myself staring back, eyes slightly reddened and itchy, and my skin dry and flaky. I turned a faucet and splashed my face with some cold water, ice cold from sitting in the taps in the dead of the night. The cool was extremely grounding, it felt sharp and real. The nightmare had faded to shadows of thought, I felt human again. Quickly drying my face with a clean hand towel and moving back to my room. The room didn't feel so sinister now, probably because I was getting so used to these nightmares. I climbed back into bed, glancing the time on my alarm clock before getting under the covers. 3:25 Am. I moaned at the image, 3:25 Am means four and half hours until I had to go to work. Another disrupted sleep meant another day at work where I was in a state zombification. I turned off the dodgy lamp, instantly flooding the room with darkness once more, Only, I don't remember turning the lamp on. ‘Don't be an idiot’, I thought, before rolling over and falling into a quick, shallow sleep.
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The next morning I got up, showered, brushed my teeth as usual and caught the express bus to work. I stood in front of 'Bayside Books', my place of employment. I enjoyed it there; it wasn't too demanding and paid for my rent and whatever little I ate. It was a warm little shop that stood unique amongst its surroundings, tall concrete hives of advertising and production on every side. ‘Bayside Books’ was little mahogany box on the bottom floor of some non-descript scraper.
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As I entered the bookstore the greeting bell chimed, filling the shop with simple song. Just as the bell stopped a rotund man with a sky blue button down shirt almost bursting at the seams, emerged from behind a bookshelf.
“Coulter!” he called cheerfully, “Coulter! You’re late buddy, miss the bus?”
He asked harmlessly, now standing before me with an armful of old books. Assorted popular horror books like ‘Dracula’, ‘Frankenstein’ among some more obscure works I’d never seen.
“I slept through my alarm, I’m sorry Mr. Dupas.” I replied.
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Mr. Dupas was a large man, although not much taller than me, he was far wider.
Dark, greasy, curly hair seemingly glued onto the top of his round head. Protruding cheeks and a chin that was almost just a button perched in front of a larger chin. He maintained an interesting standard of hygiene, fresh pressed clothes on an almost un-showered man. Perhaps he was just an extremely perspiring person, but I didn't have the courage to ask any time soon.
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I did sleep through my alarm that morning. I didn't exactly have a habit of getting into work late, but it seemed that with all the sleep I had been losing and the fact I hadn't been blessed with a full nights rest for two weeks now. It was really starting to catch up to me.
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“Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us” He smiled.
Mr. Dupas moved behind the shop counter just beside the doorway, piling the stack of books into a small, neat cardboard box on the counter. I could see clearly scrawled on its side in block letters, ‘TO CLIFFORD’. I removed my thick black coat and hung it behind the desk squeezing past Mr. Dupas as I did. Dupas grabbed his coffee mug and drew it to his lips as he moved towards the back of the shop, taking a large gulp of his almost noxiously caffeinated drink.
“Put away the new arrivals then clean the shelves and when you get a chance, go take that box to Clifford!” He called from behind several bookcases. “The invoice for the box is in the second drawer!” as he followed I could hear each stride in his voice.
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I spent most of the morning stacking the newly arrived books onto the ‘New Release’ shelves. The same old crime stories, successful underdog sportspersons biography and feel goods. I finished putting them in their respective places before quickly dusting the shelves. At about noon I’d finished my jobs, grabbed the cardboard box from atop the counter and hurried out the door, letting Mr. Dupas know that I’d gone.
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‘Clifford’s’ was only a short walk from ‘Bayside Books’ and it was a journey to and from the store I’d have to make at least twice in any normal week. Mr. Dupas and Mr. Clifford had a little partnership, Dupas would send the odd box of all the supernatural, paranormal, grim dark stories, biographies and spell books of such to Mr. Clifford, where Clifford would pay a paltry price for these books that had been left unsold and gathering dust at ‘Bayside Books’.
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As I made my way down the street towards ‘Clifford’s, I spotted a few people watching a news report as it was broadcasted through the gaps between security bars, guarding the window of a small electronics store. The images displayed across the several monitors within were of soldier, armored vehicles and unruly citizens in some nondescript middle-eastern country. American flags burning in the middle of busy streets, and giant dolls with paper heads that from a distance, looked uncannily like our American president. The only difference being, that the life-size doll on the monitor seemed as if it was created by an angry eight-year-old student as some twisted school project.
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I passed the electronic store a ways down the street until I arrived in front of the familiar poorly-lit arcade. Neatly nested at entrance to the arcade was the dark and foreboding storefront. A wood paneled exterior, crowned with five large dusty windows, inside each window stood displays of everything creepy you could imagine, voodoo dolls, satanic bibles, pendants, candles,  statues of vague deities, dried pelts and skulls, and indistinguishable skins and teeth. Not to mention the books, there were hundreds of books. Unlike at ‘Bayside, where our books were categorized and organized by alphabetically author. These books were stacked and scattered in no inherent order. Every now and then I'd spot a group of vampire stories in close proximity and then the order would be disturbed by the odd ‘Cooking: How to prepare human flesh. ‘ followed by the uncommon Serial killer biography. This store, this little jewel of the unnatural and the unfathomable, this was ‘Clifford’s’’
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‘Clifford’s’ Collectibles; oddities and curiosities.’

N.H.

I got used to broken mirrors
they show me different perspectives
from all angles

Favorite shows became classics
New music from teenage years
Now considered oldies on the radio
Discontinued toys now collectibles
Clothes from the 90s seen as retro
Change always forgets the old
Replaced by new left with memories
Originals get a reboot never the same
Altered for modern generations

A private room
Let's entertain and,
provide our guests,
with Antiques
Vintage collectibles that teach
In the parlour knowledge speaks
with a relaxed theme,
where all can convene

© 2023 Carol Natasha Diviney