The Bookshop Where Stories Escape

My grandmother left me a bookstore, an apartment, three thousand four hundred and seventeen dollars in unpaid property taxes, and one handwritten instruction that made me wonder whether death had somehow made her even more dramatic.

Never open an unfinished book after sunset.

That was it.

No explanation.

No Love you, Anna.

No Sorry I died while you were still pretending you’d visit next Christmas.

No instructions about the ancient plumbing, the leaking roof, or why the upstairs bathroom faucet screamed like someone was being murdered every time I turned on the hot water.

Just seven words written in Evelyn Brooks’s sharp, slanted handwriting on the back of an old Brooks & Bindings receipt.

I read them twice before looking at the attorney across from me.

“Is this a joke?”

Mr. Parker adjusted his glasses. “Your grandmother was very specific.”

“About books after dark?”

“Among other things.”

“That sentence somehow made this worse.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but had spent too many years billing people by the hour to risk showing human emotion.

We sat inside Evelyn’s office at the back of the bookstore while rain tapped against the windows and dust floated through narrow beams of afternoon light. Brooks & Bindings looked exactly the way I remembered it and completely different at the same time. The same overcrowded shelves leaned toward one another like elderly women sharing gossip. The same brass bell hung over the front door. The same green reading chair sat beneath the staircase with stuffing coming out of one arm.

But Evelyn wasn’t behind the counter.

That changed everything.

She should’ve been somewhere nearby complaining about customers who cracked book spines, arguing with the radio, or insisting that any child who said they hated reading had simply been given the wrong book.

Instead, there was an empty mug beside her desk.

A thin layer of dust had settled inside it.

I looked away.

“So what exactly did she leave me?”

Mr. Parker opened another folder. “The building itself. The retail business. Everything inside Brooks & Bindings unless otherwise designated. The apartment above the store. The contents of that apartment. Her personal vehicle.”

“She still had that Buick?”

“She did.”

“That thing survived her?”

“It appears so.”

“Impressive.”

“The estate also includes approximately eleven thousand dollars in a savings account.”

I sat up a little straighter.

Then he continued.

“However, there are outstanding taxes, utility balances, vendor invoices, and maintenance expenses.”

Of course there were.

I sank back into the chair.

“How bad?”

Mr. Parker slid a page toward me.

I stared at the number.

Then stared at him.

Then stared at the number again like perhaps money changed if you looked disappointed enough.

“Twenty-eight thousand?”

“Approximately.”

“My grandmother left me negative seventeen thousand dollars.”

“She left you a commercial property that has appreciated considerably.”

“That sounds nicer when you say it.”

“I’m an attorney.”

“Right. Professional lying.”

He gave me that almost-smile again.

I looked around the office.

Evelyn had owned Brooks & Bindings for more than fifty years. According to my mother, the bookstore had survived recessions, floods, chain bookstores, online shopping, e-readers, and one unfortunate year when Evelyn attempted to host weekly poetry readings despite openly admitting she didn’t particularly like poetry.

As a child, I thought the place was enormous.

I used to crawl beneath the tables and disappear between shelves until Grandma threatened to attach a bell to my ankle.

Now, at thirty-two, it looked smaller.

Warmer.

More worn.

And far more expensive to repair.

“How quickly can I sell it?”

Mr. Parker hesitated.

There it was.

The hesitation adults used right before saying something annoying.

“Your grandmother anticipated that question.”

I closed my eyes.

“Of course she did.”

He reached into the folder and removed another sheet.

“She requested that you retain ownership for thirty days before listing the property.”

My eyes opened.

“Requested?”

“Required.”

“That’s not the same word.”

“No.”

“She legally trapped me in a bookstore for a month?”

“You aren’t required to remain physically inside it.”

“Wonderful. I’ll enjoy my freedom while paying the electric bill.”

Mr. Parker finally smiled.

I hated him a little.

Not personally.

Professionally.

I picked up the handwritten note again.

Never open an unfinished book after sunset.

“Was she like this with you too?”

“I represented your grandmother for nineteen years.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

He gathered his folders while I stared at the tiny piece of paper.

Grandma had always loved rules.

No food near first editions.

No folding corners.

No dog-earing pages.

No discussing movie adaptations while she was eating because she considered that a hostile act.

When I was eight, she made me apologize to a copy of Little Women after I dropped it in the bathtub.

So an oddly specific rule about books wasn’t entirely outside the range of Evelyn Brooks behavior.

Still.

“Did she explain why?”

Mr. Parker stood.

“No.”

“Did you ask?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She told me that people who ask questions about everything eventually discover answers they don’t enjoy.”

I stared at him.

“That sounds like her.”

“She also said you’d ignore the instruction.”

“That also sounds like her.”

He slipped his briefcase closed.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Anna.”

The joke drained out of me before I could stop it.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once and left through the front of the store.

The little brass bell rang behind him.

Then I was alone.

Actually alone.

For the first time since I came back.

The funeral had been that morning.

Small.

Quiet.

Very Evelyn.

She’d specifically requested no open casket, no long speeches, and no hymns performed by anyone who couldn’t carry a tune.

Margaret Davis from the bakery next door cried through the entire service.

Two elderly women from Evelyn’s book club argued quietly about where she should’ve been buried.

A man I didn’t recognize left an old paperback on the grave instead of flowers.

Half the town seemed to know my grandmother better than I did.

That realization had been sitting somewhere under my ribs all day.

I hadn’t been home in fifteen years.

Not really.

There had been a few short visits when I was younger. Christmas once. A weekend after college. A rushed afternoon when Mom and I passed through town on the way to somewhere else.

But Brooks & Bindings belonged to the part of my childhood I had folded shut and placed on a shelf.

Apparently Evelyn had decided to hand me the entire shelf after dying.

“Thanks, Grandma.”

The bookstore didn’t answer.

Good.

I wasn’t ready for that level of grief.

I stood and walked into the main shop.

There were books everywhere.

Not just on shelves.

Books on tables.

Books under tables.

Books stacked on the floor.

Books inside baskets.

Books piled across the stairs.

A handwritten sign above one section read:

MYSTERIES THAT PROBABLY WON’T RUIN YOUR WEEK

Another said:

ROMANCE FOR PEOPLE WHO CLAIM THEY DON’T LIKE ROMANCE

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Evelyn.

She’d hated traditional genre signs.

Apparently Science Fiction was too boring.

Her version read:

THINGS THAT HAVEN’T HAPPENED YET BUT PROBABLY WILL

I ran my fingers over the edge of one shelf.

Dust came away on my skin.

“Okay.”

My voice sounded strange in the empty store.

“We clean.”

That was manageable.

Cleaning didn’t require emotional processing.

Cleaning had rules.

Trash.

Dust.

Sort.

Repeat.

I tied my hair up, found a box of garbage bags beneath the counter, and started with the front windows.

Three hours later, I’d discovered four dead plants, seven missing price stickers, twenty-two empty coffee cups, a collection of buttons inside the register drawer, and one extremely judgmental cat.

The cat appeared while I was sorting old receipts.

I looked up.

He sat on the checkout counter.

Large.

Gray.

Unimpressed.

I froze.

He stared at me.

“Hello.”

Nothing.

“Do you live here?”

His expression suggested the question was offensive.

I vaguely remembered Evelyn mentioning a cat on the phone years ago.

Or perhaps several cats.

With her, there was always a possibility she’d simply acquired another animal and forgotten to mention it.

“You’re not included in the estate documents.”

He blinked.

“Good talk.”

He jumped down and disappeared behind a shelf marked:

BOOKS THAT WILL MAKE YOU CRY IN PUBLIC

I decided we could negotiate ownership later.

By six, my back hurt.

By seven, I’d found the fuse box.

By eight, I discovered the upstairs refrigerator contained one jar of mustard, half a bottle of wine, and something wrapped in foil that had achieved enough independence to qualify for voting rights.

I threw it away without opening it.

Some mysteries deserved respect.

The apartment above the store was smaller than I remembered.

One bedroom.

One bathroom.

Living room.

Kitchen.

Books in every available space.

Grandma’s sweater still hung over the back of the couch.

That stopped me.

I stood in the doorway for a long time.

Dark green wool.

One sleeve hanging lower than the other.

She’d worn it every winter.

I remembered sitting beside her when I was little, my head against that exact sweater while she read aloud.

My throat tightened.

“Nope.”

I turned around.

Grief could wait until I had wine.

I carried the bottle downstairs.

The shop looked different after sunset.

Not scary.

Just older.

The warm lamps cast golden pools across the floor while the spaces between shelves became deeper and quieter.

Rain still tapped against the front windows.

The street outside had nearly emptied.

Across the road, a florist had switched off its lights.

Margaret’s Bakery remained open next door.

Someone had drawn a smiley face in the fogged glass.

For the first time all day, Brooks & Bindings felt almost peaceful.

I poured wine into Evelyn’s old coffee mug because I couldn’t find a wineglass.

Then I sat behind the counter and opened the notebook where I’d started making lists.

SELL BOOKSTORE

Under that:

Repair roof.

Call electrician.

Review inventory.

Meet realtor.

Figure out cat.

Thirty days.

That was all.

Thirty days, then I could return to Chicago.

My apartment.

My job.

My normal life.

A life where books stayed inside covers and nobody left strange rules behind after funerals.

The lights flickered.

I looked up.

Once.

Twice.

Then steady.

“Perfect.”

Another repair.

I wrote ELECTRICAL? beneath the roof.

Something fell in the back of the store.

A heavy thump.

I froze.

The cat?

Probably.

I took a drink.

Another sound.

This one softer.

Like pages turning.

I waited.

Nothing.

“Cat?”

Silence.

I got up.

The shop suddenly seemed much larger than it had during daylight.

Of course it did.

Every horror movie began with some idiot walking toward a strange noise instead of leaving the building.

Fortunately, horror-movie idiots were usually twenty-two and hot.

I was thirty-two with lower back pain and enough sense to grab the heavy metal flashlight from beneath the counter.

“Whatever you broke, you’re paying rent.”

I moved between the shelves.

Mystery.

History.

Fantasy.

The fantasy aisle was the messiest section in the store.

Naturally.

Half the books were stacked sideways because Evelyn apparently believed alphabetical order was oppressive.

The noise had stopped.

I aimed the flashlight toward the floor.

Nothing.

Then I noticed a book lying near my shoe.

Old.

Brown leather.

No title on the cover.

I crouched.

It looked handmade.

The pages were yellowed and uneven.

A strip of faded red ribbon marked a place somewhere near the end.

I picked it up.

The cover felt strangely warm.

I almost dropped it.

“What the hell?”

The heating system barely worked.

The floor was cold.

Yet the book felt like it had been sitting beneath sunlight.

I carried it toward the nearest lamp.

There was writing inside the cover.

Small.

Black ink.

The Knight of Bellhaven

Below that:

Author Unknown

I flipped through several pages.

The story seemed ordinary enough.

A kingdom.

A prince.

A missing princess.

A knight sent to rescue her.

There were handwritten corrections in the margins that looked suspiciously like Evelyn’s handwriting.

I smiled despite myself.

“Couldn’t even let strangers write badly in peace, huh?”

I flipped farther.

Chapter twelve.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Then nothing.

The story stopped halfway down a page.

One sentence ended with:

Sir Henry entered the forest knowing that somewhere beyond the trees, Princess Catherine was waiting.

The next page was blank.

So was the next.

And every page after it.

Unfinished.

My smile faded.

I looked toward the front windows.

Night.

Then toward Evelyn’s office.

Her note sat on the desk.

Never open an unfinished book after sunset.

I stared at the book in my hands.

Then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The cat appeared at the end of the aisle.

He stopped.

His ears flattened.

That was slightly less funny.

“What?”

He stared at the book.

I looked down.

“Seriously?”

The cat backed away.

Every horror movie idiot apparently had a cat now.

I should’ve closed it.

I knew that.

Even without believing in anything supernatural, there was something disrespectful about deliberately breaking the only strange request Evelyn had left me less than twelve hours after burying her.

Maybe that was exactly why I didn’t close it.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of missed birthdays, short calls, Christmas cards, and promises to visit later.

Then she died and left me a building full of pieces of herself.

And a rule.

Of course she had.

Evelyn Brooks had apparently found one final way to tell me what to do.

“Sorry, Grandma.”

I turned the page.

Nothing happened.

I waited.

Still nothing.

The cat disappeared.

I smiled.

“See?”

Then the lights went out.

Every single one.

The bookstore dropped into darkness.

I stopped breathing.

“Very funny.”

Obviously, nobody answered.

Lightning flashed outside.

For half a second, the store lit blue-white.

Something moved near the end of the aisle.

Tall.

I aimed the flashlight.

It flickered.

“Don’t.”

The flashlight died.

“Oh, come on.”

A sound came from the open book.

Not pages.

Metal.

Scraping metal.

The book suddenly became so hot I cried out and dropped it.

It hit the floor open.

Golden light spilled from between the pages.

Not reflected light.

Not electricity.

Light.

Actual light poured upward like someone had trapped a sunrise inside a paperback.

I backed into the shelf.

The entire bookstore shook.

Books tumbled around me.

The brass bell over the front door rang violently even though nobody had touched it.

Then something enormous pushed upward from the glowing pages.

An armored hand hit the floor.

I screamed.

Another hand appeared.

Then a head.

Shoulders.

Steel.

A man in full armor dragged himself out of a book that was approximately nine inches wide.

Physics resigned immediately.

He collapsed onto the floor.

Then rolled directly into the romance display.

The entire table crashed.

Paperback couples scattered everywhere.

Silence returned.

I stood there holding a dead flashlight.

The man groaned.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

A metal helmet hid most of his face.

He looked around the bookstore.

Then at me.

Then at the shelves.

Then back at me.

His hand moved toward the sword strapped at his side.

I raised the flashlight like it could somehow protect me.

“Don’t.”

He drew the sword.

I reconsidered my strategy.

The armored stranger staggered to his feet.

“Where am I?”

His voice echoed through the helmet.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

Behind him, the open book continued glowing.

Somewhere above us, the cat hissed.

The knight raised his sword.

“Are you the witch?”

I swallowed.

“No.”

His grip tightened.

I looked at the ruined romance display, the impossible glowing book, and the fully armored man standing where no fully armored man had been approximately thirty seconds earlier.

Then I remembered Evelyn’s note.

Never open an unfinished book after sunset.

“Although,” I said carefully, “I’m beginning to think my grandmother might’ve been one.”