Chapter Text
Old books and aged leather. Bitter coffee and dust. That’s what your childhood smelt like. You’d spent hours, days even, lurking in between the shelves of your uncle’s odd little book shop. Walls lined with shelves of dusty books, rare books, antiques. Stacks upon stacks of books, narrow pathways carefully measured out to ease navigation through the chaos. As a girl, the place had felt like a relic of time gone by. The dimmed lighting designed to emulate gas lamps, the ever dreary weather outside, the deliberate lack of technology. It had always felt as if you’d fallen into one of those old books and woken up a hundred or so years in the past. You’d loved it there. You’d not been there in years.
Or, at least, you’d not been back until now. The weather is grey and gloomy as you navigate the cobblestone streets, relying purely on muscle memory to take you back there. It had been a little over a decade, but you still remember. Take the fourth alley off Main Street, follow all the way to the end, turn left onto Convent Close, walk a little further. And there it is. The sign still reads Reginald's . The windows are still lined with books. You’re once more stuck by how both everything and nothing has changed. Fumbling with the keys, you unlock the door and step inside. Old books and leather. Bitter coffee and dust. It smells exactly the same. The memories come rushing back. Dear old Uncle Reggie, lover of the arcane and hater of the modern era. A man with a wealth of knowledge about books and literature — you’d thought him the smartest man in the world during your girlhood years — who knew seemingly nothing about the popular culture. He’d taught you to read with books your mother would never approve of, with tales of the obscure and the esoteric. Uncle Reggie had always been your favourite family member.
Now, he’s simply another body buried six feet under in a cemetery across the city. And you’ve inherited his beloved book shop. It’s changed very little since the last time you’d set foot in the place. Same cluttered layout, simply with different books. Or perhaps some of them are the same. It’s hard to say; you aren’t sure how successful the place has ever been. Clearly, your uncle was doing well enough to keep the doors open, to keep buying new books to fill the place. Wandering through to the back office, making a note that dusting would have to be a priority, you’re dismayed to find that your uncle had stayed a technophobe until his death. It’s appalling, really, how much dust can accumulate in barely over a week. There’s a computer on the desk — you don’t need more than a glance in its direction to know that it’s old and in dire need of an update — but there’s also a stack of ledgers, and you know exactly which of the two stores the shop’s records. It’s definitely not the computer. Wonderful. Utterly wonderful. At least there is less dust in here, you suppose. Thank god for small miracles, right?
The door at the back of the office leads upstairs, to the flat your uncle lives in. Lived in. It was yours now. You had very few possessions with — a singular suitcase and a carryall or two, left back in your hotel room. It wasn’t as if your uncle had planned his death, but it was fortuitous that he’d left you a job and a home at the exact time your lease and job were coming to an end. It had been easy enough to leave slightly earlier than planned and fly back to the small city you’d once called home. It had been easy enough to accept the keys to the little shop you’d once loved. You aren’t sure if it will be so easy to just… move in, to live here, to work here. After all, you’ve spent so much time running away from this part of the world. Can you cope with living here again? With being surrounded by memories of days passed?
Another key is needed to unlock the door to the flat. There’s another staircase, another door. The attic. You’ve never been up there and you don’t plan on doing so, or at least, not today. No, you need to keep things manageable. The book shop needs to be reopened, the flat needs to be moved into. Fiddling with the lock, you finally get the door open. The flat is a little smaller than you remember it being, although considering you were a child the last time you’d seen it, perhaps that makes sense. It’s clean, to your relief. And weirdly, it’s relatively empty. Sure, there’s furniture, books on the shelf, paintings hung on the walls. But as you poke around the living area and the kitchen, before heading back to the bedroom and bathroom, it strikes you. There’s nothing particularly… personal. It’s as if the place has been cleared out ahead of your arrival. But… no one could’ve done that. It was a sudden death. And the lawyer who had given you the keys mentioned that no one had been in there since your uncle's passing. And yet. The cupboards are mostly empty, save for a few non-perishables or bottles of fine whiskey. His clothes are gone, the clutter you remember being ever present has disappeared. The place is a clean slate, no longer your uncle’s but yours.
No. There is something left. On the kitchen counter. There’s a piece of paper, folded in half. You pick it up, noting that the words scrawled over the page is your uncle’s odd handwriting.
Scamp,
Sorry we didn’t get to reconnect. I thought about reaching out to you, so many times. But considering… well, I’m sure you understand. Regardless, don’t think I ever forgot about you. I was always watching from afar, know that. I’m proud of you.
You always wanted to work at the book shop when you were a girl. I wonder if reality will live up to those daydreams you held onto so tightly? You were the only one to ever love this place as much as I did. I hope you decide to keep it, to keep it going.
A small smile graces your lips. You miss him. It’s been years, you’d basically resigned yourself to the fact that you’d probably never see him again, but reading his words on the page makes you miss him. Of course you are keeping the store; there’s not exactly much else going on in your life and your career has pretty much hit a dead end. A change of pace is necessary, and the book shop will be a good challenge. You’ve both deeply missed and dreaded returning to the city you grew up in. It will be hard, living here once more. But as soon as you saw the shop again, as soon as you entered its maze of books, you knew that there was no way you’d be selling the place off. It’s your weird little bookstore, filled to the brim with arcane knowledge, now. Breathing deeply, you read on.
A few things to note.
- The clientele can be… a little odd. They’re harmless, mostly. Or at least, they won’t mean you any harm. The Cardinal should be able to help, if any problems arise.
- It’s best to avoid reading anything in Latin aloud — especially during the witching hour.
- Every so often, some of the more… shall we say, traditionally spiritual, folk will show up, asking if you’d like the place to be blessed or cleansed. DO NOT ACCEPT.
- The ghoul that sometimes haunts the attic does not like Mozart. Do not play Mozart. Don’t go up there — but leave him an offering outside the door, every so often. I’ve found he rather likes raw red meat.
I know, I know. You must think this note is ridiculous. Your hare-brained, occultist uncle has lost his mind completely.
Perhaps he has. Or, perhaps he has not. Perhaps intrigue lays ahead.
With love,
Your Uncle Reg
… What?
You read the latter part of the note, once, twice, three times. God, perhaps you should crack open one of those bottles of whisky, even if it is really a little too early in the day for a drink. Walking over to the sofa, you kick off your boots and slump down onto it. You read the note again. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t make any more sense the fourth time around. Reg was always an eccentric character. Your mother, his younger sister, has always made it clear that she finds his idiosyncrasies infuriating. Growing up, you’d found it enthralling, his interest in bizarre and outlandish oddities that felt so at odds with the rest of your life. Had you totally believed in the rituals he spoke of, in the world of demons and the preternatural? It depended on the day. You had wanted to, for it had all sounded unearthly and fantastical and so different to everything else you’d heard of at school or from your mother.
But you aren’t a girl anymore. You’re an adult woman. An adult woman who has to make a living, who shouldn’t be wasting time on the unfathomable.
Certain points make more sense than others, you think. The odd clientele… well, that surely is a given, considering the nature of the literature for sale. Most people buying expensive and rare books of a darker, esoteric nature, tend to be a little unorthodox. You remember it from your younger days, the individuals who’d enter the store in odd clothing and painted faces that sent shivers down your spine. Yes, a peculiar sort of clientele was only to be expected. It would be different from your student days, the time you spent working in your university’s book shop, but you couldn’t help looking forward to meeting some of Reginald’s customers. You wonder if the person he’s referred to as ‘the Cardinal’ is an actual member of the clergy. Did religious leaders really read the sort of books sold downstairs? From your brief glances at titles, they seem to focus on topics that seem as if they’d be verboten in the eyes of the Catholic Church. Perhaps it was a nickname, a sort of inside joke. As far as you’re aware, there has always been — and still is — a rather large Catholic presence in the area. The idea of your Uncle Reg being so at odds with them makes sense to you, for he’d never been the most amicable towards them in your youth.
But the other two points have you reeling. Sure, you could read enough Latin to get by in a pinch, he’d taught you the basics all those years ago, and you’d taken a class or two during your studies years after. But why would he specifically ask you to avoid reading Latin aloud in the middle of the night? Did he think your late night readings of whatever books of magick he kept downstairs would somehow conjure up something a little too real? Magic, as far as you know, is not real. Of course, your knowledge is not endless and your own area of expertise lies well outside of the occult. It’s an offbeat request, but there’s no harm in following it, you suppose. After all, you had no plans to be reading aloud in Latin in the first place. The last point is the one that makes the whole thing seem so… outlandish. It feels like a prank, a joke you don’t quite understand. A… ghoul. In the attic. Who likes raw meat and hates Mozart. There’s a part of you that considers playing Don Giovanni or something just to see what happens. But another part, a larger part, is cautious. You’ve always been taught that some things are beyond comprehension. Reginald taught you that. And while you’re sceptical these days about the magick and the occult and and rituals… well, if anyone was going to have a ghoul haunting their attic, it would be your uncle.
“Only Uncle Reg, huh.” You snort quietly, shaking your head and running a hand through your hair.
God, what a weird situation you’ve found yourself in. At least the flat’s liveable, a minor miracle. You can move in tonight, instead of wasting more money on the overpriced hotel a few streets away. You’d checked in the day before, giving yourself some time to recover from the jet lag before dealing with your new property. But, clearly, the place was already set for your move in. Someone — you didn’t want to think about it all too closely, in all honesty — had anticipated your move in. Groaning, you haul yourself off the sofa. It’s still early, early enough for you to grab your things from the hotel and hit the supermarket for some essentials, without having to stay up to the middle of the night.
You were desperately in need of a good night’s sleep. After all, come morning, you’re opening up your very own book shop.
Morning comes too soon, as it always does. Your anticipatory nerves are tempered only by a lingering sleepiness, left behind by a night’s sleep on a too hard mattress in an unfamiliar room. The oddity of being back in the bookshop on Convent Close will wear off soon, but you doubt your body will ever grow to find that bed comfortable. As you wander down to the shop floor, stretching your tense muscles, you decide a new mattress topper will be your first major purchase. That is, if you can afford one. Your meagre savings won’t last long, you are painfully aware of that fact, and you aren’t exactly sure how financially successful Reginald’s is. Perhaps checking the ledgers is in order.
Returning to the shop floor reminds you so much of your youth. Shelves towering high, stacked to the point of collapse with books, a few overstuffed armchairs crammed in a few corners. Seriously, you aren’t sure how your uncle managed to fit so many books into the place. You wander around the shelves with a duster in hand, taking in the titles around you as you wipe away the worst of the dust. From odd little religious texts to demonology guides, alchemical treatises to astrological manuals, grimoires to the bizarre volumes that were beyond categorisation. Diverse in language, varying states of well being, from pocket sized to table sized. Walking through it all once more, this time as a fully grown woman, is strange. That sense of wonder from your girlhood is still present. The magic of the place still remains. Only now, it’s coupled with a concern of sales and profit. Your uncle, admittedly, had never seemed too worried about such things. But you were no veteran book salesman.
Retreating to the back office, you begin your more detailed exploration of the space. You hadn’t noticed the night before, but there was a smaller notebook placed on top of the bookshop ledgers. It was titled with your uncle’s scrawl, How to Run a Bookshop, for Beginners . Flipping through the pages, you see he’s written pages and pages of instructions for you. Relief floods your veins. You aren’t going to question how he possibly knew his death was so swiftly approaching, to the point of leaving notes and notebooks and empty housing for your arrival. That question will bring no answers, for dead men do not speak from beyond the grave. Or at least, they aren’t supposed to. Besides, attempting to get metaphysical so early on in the day will give you hives. Setting the notebook aside, you turn to the ledgers. The pages are detailed accounts of sales, purchases, useful tidbits on repeat customers. Once more, you’re deeply thankful at how organised your uncle’s business had been in the time leading up to his death. A part of you is pleasantly surprised at the volume of sales; you’d expected the occasional scholar interested in the darker arts to stop by and make a purchase now and again, but your uncle shifts a surprising amount of rare texts. Perhaps there is a larger market for the occult than you’d thought. His most frequent customer seems to be the Cardinal his note had mentioned — in fact, next to the ledgers was a book seemingly designated for the man, his name scrawled on the post-it pressed to the ancient tome.
A noise distracts you from your reading. Glancing at the door, you suddenly hear an accented voice from the shop floor. You hurry out, ledger in hand, wondering if this is to be your first customer as the official owner of your uncle’s shop.
“Amico mio, it is good to see your doors open once more.” You walk out into the store and the man speaking trails off, confusion clouding his face.
You come to a stop at the counter, placing down the ledger. The man standing in front of you is not what you’d expected. Or perhaps he’s exactly what you should’ve expected. You’re not well versed on the fashion choices of the church, but his dark robes are full in length, an odd looking crucifix adorns his neck, a square cap upon his head. But then, he doesn’t look like the Catholic clergymen you’ve seen from afar or in images. His eyes are ringed with dark circles, there is just something… uncanny, about him. Perhaps this is the Cardinal, who seems as if he may be an actual man of the cloth rather than a man with a funny nickname. He looks unsure as he watches you, clearly expecting your presence as little as you were expecting his. A twinge of sadness strikes you as you realise that he is anticipating your uncle’s arrival, as you realise that he clearly does not know your uncle has passed on.
“Ah, my apologies, Signorina . I — is Reginald present?” He finally asks politely, quieter this time; you pay closer attention to his accent, Italian in origin. You wonder what brought him here to this quiet corner of the historic district, in a small and oft overlooked city.
“He’s… Reg died, last week. That’s why the shop was closed for a bit.” You tell him apologetically, still coming to terms with the situation yourself.
“Dead…” The man murmurs softly, more to himself than to you. “My apologies, for your loss. Are you — will — is the shop yours, now?” He seems genuinely sorry for your loss, but you sense that a hint of anxiety seeping into tone as he mentions the future of the shop.
“Oh, um, yes, it is. Reg was my uncle. I spent a lot of time here growing up, so he left the place to me.” You smile gently at him, memories flickering in your mind’s eye.
“Not recently though, no?” He asks inquisitively, moving slightly closer to your position at the counter.
Now that he's moved closer, you can see that his eyes are indeed ringed with some kind of dark kohl or paint. Your breath hitches when you realise that his eyes do not match. One is an easy green, soft and natural. The other is a stark white, piercing and intense. And yet, even with such a distinct quirk in his appearance, one you can imagine most find intimidating, you find him rather distinguished. He’s older than you, probably near twice your age, yet there’s something appealing about him.
“No. You know how life can be, I suppose. But I always loved this place, more than anyone else did. The plan is to keep the doors open, of course. I mean, I’m no expert, not in small business ownership nor the occult, but Reg left some instructions. I guess we’ll see how things go.” You laugh humourlessly, a fretful edge to your tone as you think of all the issues that come with running a business you really do know very little about.
“I’m sure your business will be well. After all, Reginald had many regular customers. I do not doubt they’ll stay visiting here.” He tells you, and you find yourself reassured. The man is soft spoken with his smooth accented tone, but his words feel weighted, as if there is some great authority behind them.
“Thank you. I hope so.” You flash him a proper smile, and you hear his breath stutter; despite your sense that he is a man of some influence, he seems rather reserved, almost shy. “Are, uh, are you the Cardinal he mentioned in his notes?”
“Sì, sì, that would be me.” He nods quickly, and you wait to see if he will introduce himself further — you’re becoming increasingly sure you’ll be seeing him often. After an expectant pause, he realises. “Ah, I am Cardinal Copia.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cardinal.” You offer your own name in response, wondering if you should reach your hand out for him to shake, but he stays still, continuing to observe you with those striking eyes of his.
There is a beat of silence, before you open your mouth to speak again. “You know, I actually have a book for you in the back office.”
He hums softly, and you take that as a sign of approval to disappear for a moment. You slip back into the office, heading for the desk where the book had been left. Pulling off the post-it with his name, you finally take a look at what exactly the good Cardinal is here for. Your eyebrows raise immediately — you wouldn’t describe yourself as fluent in Latin by any means, but you definitely know what Daemonum translates to. The book is visibly old, and now that you’re finally paying attention to it, seems to radiate an ominous sort of energy. Perhaps you’re just tired. Perhaps it’s just that your mind cannot reconcile a devout Cardinal reading a book on the hierarchy of demons in between his daily prayers. You pick up the book carefully, making your way back to the counter. The Cardinal has moved closer in your absence, now inches away from the counter, his eyes trained on your face. You place the book down in front of him and look up.
“Demonology, huh? No offence, truly — I’m pretty uninformed when it comes to the Church — but aren’t you Catholics like… not into that kind of thing?” You regret the words as soon as they escape your mouth, really, you didn't even mean to say them aloud. God, why would you say that? It’s as if you want the business to fail, as if you want to scare away customers with your judgements.
He says nothing in response, continuing to gaze curiously at you; you wonder if he can see the embarrassment and shock at your own words clear upon your face. You tear your eyes away, looking down at your hands, still on the book in front of you.
“Shit, I’m — I’m sorry, Cardinal. That’s really none of my business. I didn’t mean to offend or anything —” You begin rapidly, hoping to do as much damage control as possible, but he cuts you off.
“I’m not with the Catholic Church, Signorina.” Cardinal Copia’s voice is soft, and as you look up you see his unending, unnerving stare is still trained on your face. He looks vaguely discomfited, as if he’s waiting for you to have some kind of realisation.
Not with the — oh. Oh. Your eyes widen.
The Catholic Church isn’t the only prominent religious movement present in the historic district. No, a few streets away from your little shop is the headquarters for a very, very different church.
It seems as if the good Cardinal is in fact a Satanist.
“Oh! That makes a lot more sense, I guess. I forgot you guys were, uh, around here.” You chuckle awkwardly, absolutely mortified. Upon reflecting, it seems slightly ridiculous that you didn't pick that up immediately, what with his upside down crucifix and face paint.
“We are.” He looks slightly wary of you, as if he’s trying to piece together your opinion on his church; you can’t blame him, not really, when most of the historic district tends to fall on the anti-Lucifer side of the argument.
“It’s a relief, honestly. I was a little concerned with the whole occult thing being bad for business — it’s kind of a specific vibe, right?” You say, keeping your tone light in an attempt to convey to him that you really, truly, are not about to get all judgemental and preachy on him.
The whole worshipping the Dark One thing really doesn't bother you; your uncle had been a member of the Church, you’d spent your formative years hearing about their beliefs and rituals. The fact that they had their headquarters nearby means that you’d likely find a good number of people in the area with an interest in esoteric literature, and that most definitely works in your favour.
“Indeed. You shouldn’t worry. The library at our Church here is… merda, to say the least. Your uncle was very helpful in finding texts for many of our members.” The Cardinal reassures once more. He gives you a barely there smile, before sliding the book towards himself. “How much do I owe you?”
“Ah, let me check.” You flip open the ledger, scanning the pages to see if your uncle had been so organised as to note the amount owed. “Um… the ledger says £87, does that sound correct to you?”
“ Si, si. Here. Welcome back, Signorina.” He hands you two fifty pound notes as he slides the book off the counter.
You mess around pressing what you assume are the correct buttons on the till, hoping that your uncle had left money in there — you’d not gotten that far ahead with your preparations for opening, in all honesty. You hadn’t expected to make any sales so quickly either. However, as the draw finally sprang open, you glanced up to see the door of the shop swing shut. He’s gone. You didn’t even hear him walk away from you. And he’s left you with a pretty decent amount over what he owed, which is rather strange in your opinion. Tipping culture isn’t big in your home city, and you’ve never been anywhere on your travels where not collecting your change at a bookshop is considered usual behaviour.
The rest of your day goes by slowly, with no other customers showing up. Which, in all honesty, is fine by you. It means you can spend the time cleaning up a little, checking the stock, nosing around the corners and drawers. The lack of customers allows you to go back into the office and to boot up your uncle’s old computer — which in itself takes about half an hour to turn on and configure — in an attempt to find more shop records. But the effort is worth it, for you are met with a database your uncle must have spent hours compiling. It details all the books currently in stock, their locations around the shop. At least if a customer comes in with a request for a specific book, you’ll be able to give a better answer than ‘no clue.’ You continue to be deliberately oblivious to the fact that this is all a little too easy, a little too smooth a transition, continuing to familiarise yourself with the details you need to know. But all the while, as you attempt to focus on the ledgers and the databases, you find that your mind is continually straying back to the Cardinal.
There is just something… indescribable, about him. He's said so little to you, really. All you know is that he’s a Lucifer-worshipping Cardinal, who seemingly loves books and has an Italian accent. But still, there's something strangely seductive about him. Perhaps it’s his refined stature, his neatly groomed hair and sideburns and little pencil moustache. Perhaps it’s those eyes of his, mismatched and mysterious and penetrating in their stare. Or maybe you’re just deeply lonely, back in a city you’ve been away from for thirteen years, an ocean away from everyone you know.
Later that night, you crack open one of the finely aged whisky bottles left behind by your uncle. As you sip at your generous tumbler, your thoughts creep back to the note you’d been left. Specifically, the part about the attic ghoul. Your eyes drift up to the ceiling, wondering if some ghoul is up there at this very moment. Are ghouls even real? Or is it the ghoul simply an old and lonely man's delusional creation? You aren't sure. But during your shopping trip the night before, on a complete and total whim, you’d bought a cut of sirloin. You don’t eat red meat.
But… the ghoul upstairs does.
The decision comes easily enough, in the end. This silly little act will be the litmus test for how invested you’ll be in all this occult and Satanic business. You grab the cut of meat from the fridge, dropping it onto a small plate. Swallowing deeply, an odd feeling of apprehension slowly drawing up your spine, you leave the small flat. The staircase and attic door are right in front of you. This isn’t a big deal. You’ll ascend the steps, leave the plate, and go back inside. It couldn’t be easier.
The silence is perhaps the worst part of it. The deafening nothingness coming from the attic. Now that you’re paying it attention, there is a distinct sense of foreboding, as if the space is emitting some sort of signal telling your body to stay away. But you climb the steps, wincing at their creaks and groans. You reach the top. The plate is set down quickly. You pause. Nothing happens. But then, why would something happen with you standing there? You shouldn’t stand there much longer.
You’re back within the comfort of your little flat in mere seconds. The test is in progress. If the meat is there in the morning, then you can brush off some of the more… out there, aspects of running an occult shop. Disregard some of the weirder notes left by your uncle as an old man’s fantasy world. And, of course, you’ll lose a good part of your day to trying to get rid of the smell of rotting meat. But if the sirloin is gone… well, if the sirloin is gone, then you’ll have hard proof that the magicks you grew up learning of, the arcane religious teachings you’d studied with your uncle are undeniably real.
You just had to wait to find out. Sleep comes easily enough, and you dream of mismatched eyes.