It was the summer of 1984, and I was a college student looking for a summer job to make some extra cash. I was thrilled when I found out that an old bookstore in town was hiring, as I had always loved books and the thought of spending my days surrounded by them was a dream come true.
The store was an old building, with creaky wooden floors and shelves stacked high with books of all genres. The owner, a man named Mr. Blackwood, was an eccentric old man who always seemed to be lost in thought. He had a habit of disappearing for hours at a time, leaving me alone in the store to tend to the customers.
At first, everything seemed normal. I spent my days shelving books, helping customers find what they were looking for, and even getting lost in a few good reads during my breaks. But then, I started to notice strange things happening.
One day, I was organizing the shelves in the back of the store when I heard a soft whispering sound. At first, I thought it was just the wind, but as the sound grew louder, I realized that it was coming from one of the books on the shelf. I reached for the book, and as I opened it, I felt a chill run down my spine. The words on the page seemed to be written in a language that I couldn’t understand, and the longer I looked at them, the more uneasy I felt.
I brushed it off as my imagination getting the best of me, but the strange occurrences didn’t stop there. Customers would come into the store and leave without buying anything, their eyes darting around the room as if they were searching for something that they couldn’t find. And every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of Mr. Blackwood in the corner of my eye, staring at me with a look that made me feel uneasy.
One day, I was closing up the store when I heard a knocking sound coming from the basement. I had never been down there before, as it was strictly off-limits, but the knocking was so persistent that I couldn’t ignore it. I slowly made my way down the creaky wooden stairs, feeling a sense of dread wash over me.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw something that made my blood run cold. The basement was filled with old books, stacked haphazardly on the shelves. But there was something different about these books. They seemed to glow with an eerie, otherworldly light, and the whispering sound that I had heard before was now a constant, low hum.
And then, I saw him. Mr. Blackwood, standing in the center of the room with his eyes closed, a look of serenity on his face. But as I approached him, he opened his eyes and turned to me, and I saw something that made me want to run as fast as I could.
His eyes were pitch-black, with no pupils or whites. They seemed to go on forever, drawing me in like a black hole. And then, he spoke. His voice was low and raspy, but it seemed to echo throughout the entire basement.
“You’ve seen too much,” he said. “You know too much.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I knew that I had to get out of there. I turned and ran up the stairs, the sound of Mr. Blackwood’s laughter echoing in my ears. When I got outside, I saw that the sun had set and the sky was dark. I looked back at the store, and I could see a faint glow coming from the basement windows.
I quit my job the next day, never wanting to set foot in that store again.
For years after that experience, I tried to put it out of my mind. I never spoke of it to anyone, not even my closest friends or family members. But despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about that old bookstore, and about Mr. Blackwood.
It wasn’t until years later, when I was visiting my hometown, that I found out what had happened to the store. I was walking down Main Street when I saw a new storefront where the old bookstore used to be. Curious, I walked inside and asked the owner about the previous business that had been there.
The owner looked at me with a sad expression and told me that the old bookstore had closed down years ago. Apparently, Mr. Blackwood had passed away suddenly and without any family to claim his belongings or the store. The owner of the new business had purchased the property from the estate and had opened up a new store in its place.
As I walked out of the store, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. Maybe it was all just a coincidence, and Mr. Blackwood was just a strange old man with some eccentric habits. But as I turned the corner, I saw something that made me stop dead in my tracks.
In the alleyway behind the old bookstore, I saw a faint glow emanating from the basement windows. It couldn’t be, I thought to myself. But as I got closer, I realized that the glow was real. And then, I heard it. The same low hum that I had heard in the basement years ago.
I knew that I should run, that I should get as far away from that alleyway as possible. But something inside me compelled me to investigate. I cautiously made my way to the basement window, peering inside.
What I saw made me want to scream. The basement was exactly as I remembered it, with stacks of old books and that eerie glow. But there was something new. In the center of the room, there was a figure. It was hunched over, its back to me, and I could hear it whispering something in a language that I didn’t understand.
I knew that I had to leave, that I couldn’t stay there any longer. As I turned to run, I heard a low, raspy voice behind me.
“Welcome back,” it said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I didn’t look back. I ran as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my chest. As I emerged from the alleyway, I could hear that same laughter, echoing through the night. And I knew that I would never truly escape the horrors of that old bookstore, or the darkness that lurked within it.
I couldn’t shake the terror that had gripped me since my encounter with Mr. Blackwood’s bookstore. I tried to keep myself occupied with work and hobbies, but the fear never left me. I even considered therapy, but I couldn’t bear the thought of reliving the trauma of that night.
One day, while visiting my parents in my hometown, I decided to tell them about my experience. As I began to recount the events of that night, my mother’s face grew pale. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I remember that bookstore. I used to walk past it every day on my way to work. I always felt like something was off about that place.”
My father nodded grimly. “I remember hearing about Mr. Blackwood’s death. It was all over the news. They never found any family members to claim his belongings or the store.”
As we talked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. I felt as though I was being suffocated by the darkness, as though I was back in that basement again. And then, I heard it. The low hum, coming from somewhere outside.
We all froze, listening intently. The hum grew louder and louder, until it was all I could hear. And then, I saw it. A faint glow, coming from the window of the spare bedroom.
My heart racing, I made my way to the window, peering inside. The room was empty, except for a stack of old books in the corner. But there was something different about these books. They were covered in a strange, shimmering substance, and I could feel their malevolent energy pulsing through the glass.
That’s when I heard the footsteps. Heavy, lumbering footsteps, coming from the hallway. I turned to run, but it was too late. The door to the spare bedroom burst open, and a figure stepped out. It was Mr. Blackwood, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.
He laughed that same horrible laugh, and I felt a cold hand close around my neck. “You can never escape me,” he whispered. “You and your family are mine, forever.”
I woke up screaming, drenched in sweat. It took me a moment to realize that it had all been a nightmare. But as I sat there, gasping for breath, I knew that the terror of that old bookstore would never truly leave me. And I wondered how many other people in my hometown had been affected by Mr. Blackwood’s malevolent influence.