An Antiquarian's Race Against Time

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, or so I thought…

As a book collector and antiquarian, I treasured history, storytelling, and artifacts. I was on my way to a new antiques shop in the Valley that I’d heard about, searching for a specific book of world history that I hoped would complete my collection. Other bookstores in town seemed at a loss for my request. I'd searched every bookstore and antiques specialty shop in town for this treasure and my last hope of finding it was at the latest antiques shop downtown. The shop had no name — only an address. I drove my car down some cobblestone roads, swerved into an alleyway and parked.

As I approached the store, it occurred to me that, oddly, this antiques shop seemed far from new. After living in the Valley my entire life, I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of or stumbled across this place — it was ancient. The entrance to the establishment almost stole the youth of those who breached it. It seemed as if time was first paused and then began reversing with extraordinary inertia. The wrinkling of the walls and roof tiles extended forwards into unknown space. An aura of antiquity cloaked the infinite room. Perfectly symmetrical clocks seemed to ooze down the flesh of the walls in disfigured shambles. The lamps that decorated each granite desk and mahogany cabinet dimmed and shone a dusky glow. Rapidly yellowing linen hung sullenly over the windows and sunlight no longer breached them. The drooping, golden bulbs in the ceiling lights were snuffed out. A doll, once perky and bright, became tattered and hunched. It cowered, terrorized by an expanse of time, fearing entropy, in the corner of the room. Glass cases were stuffed with instruments that seemed to revert to their rudimentary forms. Wrist watches into Pomander watches. Wall clocks into sundials. Plastic models of the solar system became Orreys. Ceramic tea sets blossomed into handpainted china. Cabinets, cupboards, containers, and cases wove themselves into narrow, winding passages through the shop, pulling customers further into the past.

The shopkeeper’s head swung low on his stout neck. He dourly grumbled to his incompetent assistant, “Help yer customer, ingrate.” I walked over to the assistant asking him for the book of world history I’d been searching for. It was a rare, three-thousand-page, vintage piece, I explained to him. I added that I wanted to purchase it as a final addition to my collection of antique history books. The assistant seemed confused at first and then, he lit up as if he had just remembered something. The assistant promptly left and returned a few minutes later with the only leather-bound, three-thousand-page work in the shop. The title read: A Historical Account of the World.

When I finally opened the book I’d been searching for, it turned out to be a deeply unsettling read. It was a book that seemed to spell out the years of history precisely, yet it contained fantastical dreams of fairytales, dragons, and creatures that were decisively unreal. Everything in the book was dated in “Engles”. It included anecdotal stories and photographs of bizarre artifacts. There were surrealistically accurate depictions of scaly, treasure-hoarding, mischievous things that, according to the book, would soar the skies with wings that blacked out the sun. And one of the most striking aspects of the book was that it said it had been published in the Valley 4000 Engles ago. On one of the pages, there was even an eerily accurate depiction of my home. Upon seeing my house in the book, visceral alarm spread through my body. Though unsettling, it would be an astonishing addition to my collection.

Deciding to purchase the book, I walked over to the shopkeeper. He waved his hand at me aggressively, “Take it, boy,” he grumbled. As I began to leave the shop, I noticed that something was strange. There was something odd beneath the book’s monumental mystery and depth. Darkness and ominosity lay underneath the dream book that grappled with my eyes. My feeling of unease didn’t stop at the antique shop doors either. As I exited, I realized my reality had shifted entirely. Antiquity had settled on the roads outside, which had reverted from paved to dirt. The city before me melted into an antiquated village. The shops were the same but they had aged. Had I fallen into a dream? Perhaps I’d become part of the book — lost in its penetrating reality...

Suddenly, the sky went black, as if the sun was blocked by something overhead. A screech came from above: “My little slave of contempt,” it hissed.