doââ
Click.
âHello?â
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.
Itâs 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.
âYouâre such a freak, Justin, you know that?â a young male voice piped up.
âIâm so notâ¦â
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 hadnât 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 itâs safe. Call them again tomorrow. You donât even know if theyâll 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.
âSometime close, sometime open.â Maybe-Elenaâs 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 relativeâs 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 manâs 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.
âDammit,â 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.
âClosed now,â he said, his voice deep and raspy.
âPlease, I want to ask a few questions about something I bought the other day.â
âCome back tomorrow. Daytime.â
âIt will only take a minute. Please.â
âTomorrow. Not open now.â He gave her his back and disappeared into the shop.
Alisonâs 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 albumâs 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
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