Paper Tigers by Damien Angelica Walters

do—”
    Click.
    â€œHello?”
    Alison sat down on a kitchen chair and rested her head on her forearms. Which was worse, crazy or afraid?

    The second time she called the shop, several hours later, the phone simply rang. Alison lost count after fifteen. After the sun set, she slipped out of the house, walking with her head down. A car roared by, its speakers pushing out loud bass-heavy music, its engine trailing a stink of burning oil.
    It’s too early, too early.
    She approached a group of teenagers smoking cigarettes next to a darkened window; laughter, high and derisive, pierced the night.Her heart beat a chaotic tattoo and she turned her face away. One, two, three steps, and she was past.
    â€œYou’re such a freak, Justin, you know that?” a young male voice piped up.
    â€œI’m so not…”
    Alison rounded the corner, and a light gust of wind gathered their voices and carried them away. She exhaled and a weight on her shoulders lifted. She hadn’t been trying to hide. Not completely.
    A solitary set of footsteps clicked on the pavement to her right. She stiffened. Too many people, despite the dark sky. She pressed closer to the buildings, into the shadows created by the awnings.
    Go home where it’s safe. Call them again tomorrow. You don’t even know if they’ll be open.
    She shoved the voice down and away, and forced her feet into a short, clipped rhythm. Maybe she was pushing herself too hard. Maybe this counted as too big of a step, but she wanted, needed, to take it. As she drew close to the shop, where golden light spilled from the front window onto the pavement, she smiled.
    â€œSometime close, sometime open.” Maybe-Elena’s words.
    She tugged on the door, met resistance, and her smile fell into a flat, compressed line. The interior of the shop gleamed bright, cluttered with even more items. Old furniture, several large cardboard boxes with the top flaps hanging open, and several large black plastic bags with their tops tied into knots. Cast-offs, no doubt, delivered by people going through their attics or a deceased relative’s home. Neither too valuable, nor too sentimental.
    Alison knocked on the front door. The lamp and tricycle no longer sat in the front window, but the small dragon statues had been joined by a larger stone gargoyle, a creature half-cat and half-monkey perched atop a small brass-banded trunk. After a minute or two, she knocked again.
    Through the glass she heard a thunk, a low curse (a man’s voice,not in English), the slam of an unseen door, and then two voices (one male, one female, neither in English) raised in argument. Alison knocked a third time, and the lights in the shop went out. The voices lowered in tone but not ferocity, and a face appeared, a quick, pallid flash in the gloom.
    â€œDammit,” Alison muttered, knocking louder.
    The voices fell silent, and a figure advanced through the shadows of the shop. A man with a prominent nose and thick, unruly hair brought his face close to the glass.
    â€œClosed now,” he said, his voice deep and raspy.
    â€œPlease, I want to ask a few questions about something I bought the other day.”
    â€œCome back tomorrow. Daytime.”
    â€œIt will only take a minute. Please.”
    â€œTomorrow. Not open now.” He gave her his back and disappeared into the shop.

    Alison’s fingers trembled as she opened her front door. She nudged the album with the tip of her shoe and took a quick step back. No smoke. No laughter. No nursery rhymes. She left it on the floor, went upstairs with her laptop tucked under her arm, and closed her bedroom door behind her. Searching for online classes was a far better and healthier pursuit.
    But she felt the album’s presence in her mind, a dark little purr she knew she should ignore, although she suspected it was already too late for that.

CHAPTER 7
    Come back tomorrow.
    After a restless night spent tossing and