A Stormy Night: Stories to Read by Candlelight

Liber

It had been exactly one year since Herman lost his memory; one year since his life had fallen apart before him. He'd lost his job, his wife and his child, but couldn't remember having had them in the first place. Now, Herman worked for a small, used book store in Raven, Michigan, selling and buying vintage copies of original manuscripts and books to stock his shelves. He had a new name, a new job, and a new apartment across the street from the bookstore, one that looked down upon the face of the building eerily, making him shiver when he walked by the display window.

"Okay, I'm heading out for the day," a voice said from behind Herman, causing him to jump around to see his manager, Ralph, standing behind him.

"Alright sir," Herman replied, clutching a book in his hands and shaking.

"Easy, Herman," Ralph replied, "you gonna be okay with me gone?" Herman took a deep breath and nodded,

"I should be alright," he said as he turned and set the book down neatly in the window sill, "just have some organizing to do." Ralph nodded and tipped his hat,

"Call me at the house if there are any problems," he said, and without further conversation or a reply from Herman, he stepped out into the crisp, fall air and vanished around the corner of the building. Herman nodded and turned to face the rest of the store.

To his right, there was a small counter, harboring a stack of books to the right of an old cash register that was rarely used. Underneath it was a small stool that Herman liked to sit and read on when the days were slow, and under it, was another pile of books. In front of him were three ceiling high shelves, all double sided and stacked un-neatly with books of various color, genre and category. Some sat at angles, other on their bindings, but most were in piles on the floor awaiting cataloging. He stepped forward and picked up a hard bound copy of Edgar Allan Poe and cracked it open to 'The Raven', a poem that supposedly gave the town its name, when suddenly, the bell above the door chimed and a customer stepped in. Herman dropped the book back onto the stack and spun around with one hand on his chest,

"How may I help you today?" He faced a tall gentleman wearing a coat and loose slacks that fell over his dress shoes, who looked at Herman and said,

"Yes, I'm here to sell this book." He handed Herman and unmarked hardcover whose pages were yellowed with age and whose binding had begun to fall apart. Herman cracked open the cover and looked inside at the text.

"What genre is it?" He asked the man.

"Call it...Non-fiction," the man said as he smiled slightly.

"There's no author." Herman looked around through the book, but no name was provided for the writer of the text.

"That's er, uh, because I wrote it," the man said sheepishly. Herman looked at him strangely,

"I see," Herman said, "was it kept near a window?" The man nodded,

"I didn't take the best care of it over the years," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I can really only give you around ten bucks for it," Herman said, looking up and handing the man the money, "it's in really bad shape." The man nodded and bit the upper half of his lip,

"That makes sense," he said, grabbing the money and shoving it into his rear pocket, "thank you." He nodded and walked out the door, letting it shut loudly behind him as he vanished into the alley behind the store.

"What a strange man," Herman said aloud as he sat down behind the counter with the book and opened it to the first page. The text was mostly handwritten, and read:

This is the story of a man, a lonely man named Clarke Michaels. He was once a great man, but he sinned. You see, this man was an adulterer. He slept with another woman behind his wife's back, my wife.

"Interesting," Herman said as he leaned back and read on.

I found out one day when I arrived home, but neither of them knew that I saw them. I made sure to keep quiet as I watched from a distance, and I knew the man. He was my friend, my best man. Now, all he was going to be was dead.

Herman leaned forward, tempted to reach for the phone,

"This is describing a murder..." He thought as he thumbed through to the next page.

So, I went looking for something...I needed revenge, I needed Clarke to pay for what he did to me. I found a shop in an alleyway, and someone there gave me this book. You see, anything I write in here, it comes true. I could have so much more, but I don't need it; I need my revenge, and so, this is what I will write:

Clarke Larson Michaels, you, from this moment on, will never remember anything about yourself. You will cease to know who your wife is, who you are, where you were born, anything that you can think of now is gone. All of it.

"Oh, my," Herman said as he read on, "this isn't non fiction..."

Recently found out that Clarke is still around Raven, I don't know where he's living, but I know where he works, and it's all perfect. See, Clarke, I didn't want to kill you, not at first. But now, being able to watch the look on your face as you read this, which you will because it's in this book, is priceless. Then, you'll burn to the ground.

Herman looked up from the book as the memories came pouring back into his mind; his wedding, his best friend, the affair, all of it came rushing back to him and his head throbbed as someone stepped back into the store and grabbed the book from his hands and bolted back out the door. Somewhere in the room, Clarke could smell smoke, and when he looked up, his head still throbbing as he remembered who he was, he could see it coming from the back corner and quickly engulf the wall of dry paperbacks. He stood, gripping at his head in pain, and stumbled toward the fire in an attempt to extinguish it, but stumbled over a stack of hardcovers and fell onto his back as the smoke fumes filled the room and he strained for breath. In the window that looked out onto the street, he could see his old friend peering in, watching as the bookstore, the books on their shelves, and Clarke, were swallowed by the flames.