The cosmic bookshop

The book shop felt oppressively narrow, a feeling that wasn't helped by the fact that air hung thick with dust and the scent of musty old books. The shop consisted of two parallel corridors flanked with bookshelves that disappeared back into darkness; each bookshelf bowed under its heavy load. The man behind the battered wooden counter seemed almost catatonic, despite his stupor he sat bolt upright on a three legged wooden stool, no mean feat considering his obviously advanced age. Peter moved further into the shop, past the old man, down one of the aisles, noticing immediately how the book lined walls deadened all sound from outside. He sauntered down the book lined passage, eyes sliding over the typical assortment of second hand books- entire shelfs of unread biographies and walls of literary classics studied in every school up and down the country. However he noticed as he continued that only one copy of each book appeared on the shelves, no duplicates. Determined to find a double he delved deeper into the shop. Passing countless alcoves containing old threadbear armchairs with a reading light above them, he continued. The books seemed to become older and less distinctive; the faded fabric covers with paling gilt titles on their spines seemed to blur into one monotone shelf.

Gleaning little satisfaction from his game, he decided he had come far enough and turned around to start making his way back. Only then did he realise how far he had come. He couldn't even see the shop front where he had begun. Slightly confused, he started making his way back down the aisle,checking his watch, maybe it had been longer than he thought. Helpfully his watch had stopped working, apparently soon after he had entered the shop. He pulled his phone out and found it dead. Frustrated, he stopped, took a deep breath and realised that he had made no progress. He was exactly the same distance from the alcove with the pale pink armchair as when he had started to leave. He started forwards again, feeling the uneven floorboards pass beneath his feet but watched the armchair come no closer towards him. Walking backwards, he watched the distance grow. Then starting forwards again, watched it stay the same. Starting to panic, he began to sprint trying to outrun this unnaturalness but watched himself make no progress.

“It’s no use,” a weary voice said from right behind him.

Turning he saw a boy about his own age, whose exhausted, pale face looked somewhat familiar.

“You can only move in the direction you came in.” He said all this without breaking step and was past Peter as quickly as he had arrived.

“Wait,” called Peter, “how long have you been in here”?

No response came from the boy whose back was slowly shrinking. Peter stood there thinking for a while. If it was true you could only move the way you came in then whoever had just passed him must have entered from somewhere else. Which means he should be able to leave that way. Trying not to think about how tired the other boy looked, he set off again further into the bookshop.

After walking on for what felt like a day, but could easily have been only a few hours, the books lining the walls started to change again. They grew in size, getting taller and thicker. Their covers went from faded fabric covers to thick leather ones. This transition seemed to coincide with a darkening of the light and the alcoves now contained nothing but brick walls as if someone had bricked up a doorway. Something about these alcoves sent a shiver down Peter's spine. He started to imagine that bricked up in every alcove was a poor soul who, like him, had wandered aimlessly into this dreaded place. These disconcerting thoughts were accompanied by whisperings. Whisperings that seemed to be coming from the books themselves. Peter kept telling himself he was just imagining it but the deeper he walked the louder the whisperings seemed to become.

Eventually the whispering stopped. He looked about trying to figure out what had changed. The books here were chained shut. Thick heavy chains that seemed overkill for just some books. Continuing more slowly now, he saw that there were two alcoves next to each other, set into the shelves deeper than the other alcoves had been and containing doors. The doors were dark, wooden, arched with thick metal handles and oversized key holes. He approached the doors slowly, his stomach writhed with excitement and fear. Could this be his way out? As he got closer, he felt the cold air seeping underneath the door. Steeling himself, he reached for the handle finding the metal to be bitterly cold he turned it and to his surprise the door swung open silently despite the ancient hinges.

Stepping through the door, he found himself in unfathomable darkness. He couldn't see the floor on which he stood or the size of the place in which he stood. Turning to the doorway, he found it gone. Not as if the door had closed but as if it had never existed.