Antiquities

We left the farm that night. It wasn’t just me and my sister, either. Uncle Phil got the whole family in the van, and we headed to a motel in town. We didn’t even bother packing. We’d come back in the morning to collect what we needed.

What had happened that evening was something new, an escalation.

In the past, the pale man had always kept to the woods, lurking out in the darkness. Its behavior had resulted in a sort of uneasy balance with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. As long as they were back behind the fences by nightfall, they were safe. The pale man wouldn’t come any closer. Even if someone was out a bit later than planned, it would always stop at the edge of the woods—at least, that’s what my cousins said. All in all, the pale man hadn’t been any more dangerous than the average wild animal.

Everything had changed that evening, though; and, my uncle was finally done with it. We left without even knowing what would become of Mystic Ranch. After all, it wasn’t exactly the kind of place Uncle Phil could just pass on to some other poor soul, like had been done to him.

Russet Mill, Idaho, was a tiny town which didn’t even show up on most maps. The only reason it was considered a town instead of a hamlet was the fact that it had a whole three parallel streets. The little motel was sort of at the edge, one of those stops for summer hikers who wanted to see Payette National Forest without having to camp in there. Since we hadn’t gotten out downtown much that summer, I decided it was a good time to explore the place.

So, I found myself wandering around the little town.

You may not believe it today, but there was a time not long ago when there was a life to even the tiniest of towns. It wasn’t too late, and it was summer, meaning that there were at least a few people about. Some of the little shops were still open, and one of those was a little antique store near the center of town. I found myself standing out in front of that little store, remembering what I’d overheard Kip saying earlier about an antique dealer in town. I stared at the old, wooden door with its oval glass window then checked the neon sign in the bay window next to it that said “OPEN.” For a moment, I doubted that this was the same antique dealer Kip was talking about. The items on the seat board and the nearby shelves all seemed more like nick-knacks than antiques. I sighed and stepped into the little place with a sign over the door that read WILSON’S ANTIQUITIES AND CURIOS, est. 1912, and a little bell in the foyer tinkled softly.

Whatever impression the bay windows at Wilson’s might give you is wrong. I couldn’t begin to guess where the owner got everything, but I doubted that there was much there made after the 1960. At the time, he had a variety show of downright archaic furniture, lamps, and household goods. There were a few things, of course, that stood out, especially to a teenager. One glass-fronted cabinet had a variety of very old revolvers, all but one of which were clearly the percussion-cap variety. Another set of shelves contained some old china of a style which must have gone out of fashion decades ago. In typical antique store fashion, everything got older and more expensive the deeper you went inside. The owner had a few vacuum tube radios, and even a turn-of-the-century style phonograph—you know, the ones with the horn-shaped speaker. He even had a bin nearby stocked with replacement tubes if one of the radios needed fixing. There was a feeling to the place of old things, of course, which was to be expected given the obvious age of everything, along with the various smells that went along with it; but, under it all there was…something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about the place that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

The owner certainly didn’t look like the type of person who would be able to hear the small bell by the door, much less meet me halfway on my way to the counter he’d been sitting at. Nonetheless, he pushed in the drawer to a small cash register, itself an antique, and stood. He came around the counter with a smile on his face while I’d stopped to gawk at the vacuum tube radios. “They’re both still in working condition, too,” he told me. “I’ve got a couple in the back I’m working on fixing.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to shake off the static feeling to the place. “I, uh,” I started hesitantly. “I didn’t really come to buy anything today. I’m sorry. I’m looking for someone and just got distracted.”

I expected to get kicked out, and was a little surprised when the shop owner just nodded. “Well, who are you expecting to find,” he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice. “And, are we sure it’s a whom you’re looking for and not a what? Or, perhaps, a why?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. I wasn’t sure, but I decided to speak up. “See, ol’ Kip said something about an antique dealer in town. I’m staying with my uncle up at Mythic Ranch and—”

The smile drained from the shop owner’s face and he held up a hand to stop me. “Say no more,” he said firmly.

I took an involuntary step back away from the shop owner. The sudden change of demeanor was…unsettling, to say the least. It was like I’d just told a cop that I’d found a dead body in the woods.

“Please, wait by the counter, young man,” the older man continued. “I’ll be right back.”

I swallowed hard. My gut told me to do as the man said, so I went to the counter while he went up a set of stairs in the back. I finally noticed that the shelves behind the counter were filled with books. Most of their leather bindings were dry, and cracked from use and age. A few seemed to be in pristine condition, though, like their previous owners spent less time reading them than talking about them. One shelf was covered by opaque glass, obscuring the age and condition of the books on it. A list of titles was (somewhat) conveniently provided, though I could barely make any of the writing out from across the counter. Something about that shelf made me want to scream and run out of the shop, but I managed to keep my cool and leaned on the counter while I waited.

It didn’t take long for the old shop owner to come back down the stairs. Once again, he seemed to have none of the troubles I would’ve expected to see in a man that age, but it didn’t really occur to me at the time. He moved easily down the stairs and walked to the counter with a large, hardcover book tucked under his arm. “There is ever one contest or another in this world, my boy,” he said as he set the book down on the counter. “This is but one of many of them, and one too long ignored!”

I stared down at the book. The hardcover was thick and covered tightly in thin leather which was dyed a green which had darkened with age. It was decorated with gilt and stamping that formed an intricate lattice along the borders of the front cover. Other than the darkening of the pigments which colored the leather, it showed no signs of age, even as the shop owner opened it and began turning the thick pages. The script was old, and vaguely resembled English.

I must have had an odd look on my face, because the shop owner looked back up at me with that same, gentle smile. “It’s Middle English,” he informed me. “This is among the oldest things I possess, written sometime around the thirteen-sixties.”

“Wait,” I said. “So this thing out in the woods came from Europe!?”

“Not as such,” the old man sighed as he continued flipping through tome in front of me. “It comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. It isn’t bound by coming from somewhere, as it exists outside of what we would normally consider reality.”

“It seemed real enough to me!”

“Yes, yes, of course it did because it is. Just as the place it comes from is real, though many today would deny it. Morning and evening are simply when the boundaries are weak, and it can move between our existence and its own. You’ve noticed it only comes out at night?”

I nodded slowly. “It doesn’t like the sun, I take it,” I guessed.

“No, it doesn’t. Nothing to do with anything we’d understand as natural, of course, but it doesn’t.”

“None of this is making sense,” I muttered before I could catch myself.

Again, I sort of expected the old man to kick me out. Instead, he turned the downright ancient book around so I could see the pages he’d found. He smiled as he did so. “Of course it doesn’t make sense,” he agreed. “They don’t exactly teach anything like this in school anymore, and even your preacher’s probably going into histrionics about how evil that stupid game is instead of teaching you about anything you actually face in this world.”

I grimaced at the old man.

“Most people prefer easy targets, boy. It doesn’t accomplish much, but it makes them feel like they’ve accomplished something while they live comfortably without having to fear any real retribution. It’s like that game, doesn’t even matter what it’s called. They can rant about it all they like. It’s an easy target, a safe target. Nobody will threaten them for doing so. Armed men won’t show up at their door, and demons won’t terrorize their children. No matter, it’s only important that truly confronting evil will always be a dangerous endeavor.”

The old man tapped on the book to draw my attention down to the page. The page on the left was covered with a print of a familiar scene. A featureless figure reached into its own chest as a woman stood stock-still in front of it while others fled. I stared aghast at what the old man was showing me. “Th—that’s,” I managed to stammer out.

“It’s what you saw around Mystic Ranch.”

I nodded slowly. “How do we, you know, ah,” I began, still struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know…you don’t really fight something like that. Do you?”

The old man smiled. “Of course you do,” he answered. “And, it’s high time you learned how, not only for your own sake but so you can teach others.”