Sam unlocked The Dusty Gnome at 7:29 a.m., one minute before the posted hours. The street outside was damp and hush, glassy puddles reflecting the sunrise that bled up from the river. The “open” sign still hung on the inside of the glass, where she’d left it last night-no, not last night, three nights ago. It was just morning now, in a world where the sun rose and the sidewalks needed sweeping and there were no shadows waiting to eat her spine.
The bell over the door made its familiar double-clink as she entered. The threshold was cool on her face, the store always seemed to be cooler than it should be. She looked up, and there it was: the faint afterimage of the runes her mother had carved, still glowing in the lintel like a bruise. They’d faded back to regular almost hidden markings now, but the memory of how bright they can glow in the when there is trouble nearby was still very much a vivid memory.
“Good morning, Jill,” she said, voice rough with sleep. Sam reached up and brushed her fingers along the carved letters, feeling the grooves and the residue of last night’s blue fire. She left the door ajar for the morning air, then made her slow circuit of the store: the horror and mystery displays, the battered children’s section, the tangle of potted ferns in the back that had, somehow, survived the past week without water or sunlight.
She took her time arranging the front table, face-down hardcovers next to whatever battered mass-market paperbacks Hank had marked as “staff picks.” Every third book still reeked of burnt paraffin from the night the shelves caught fire, but Sam left them there. Nobody who came to The Dusty Gnome wanted a fresh start; they wanted a story that already had the stains of someone else’s disaster baked in.
By 7:40 she’d started coffee—two scoops of the cheapest beans, same as always—and took her first cup standing in the window. The world outside looked nothing like the one she’d inherited, but the muscle memory of mornings was a comfort. The only evidence of that night’s chaos was a fresh scar on the sidewalk, just beneath the mailbox, where the mob had dragged metal poles or what else they could find to attack others.
Sam sipped and watched her breath rise, every exhale proof that the world had not, in fact, ended.
The bell jangled again. Hank arrived, five minutes early, but looking ten years older than the last time she’d seen him conscious. His hands shook as he fumbled his keys into the register drawer, and the skin around his eyes was the color of old rainwater. Tyrone had taken him to the hospital and for the most part he was ok. After a day there though Hank was itching to leave.
“Morning,” he croaked, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Hey, Hank.” She tried to keep her voice normal. It was impossible. “How are you…feeling?”
He leaned on the counter, massaging his forehead like he was trying to press out a headache with sheer will. “Like I lost a week of my life, but kept all the hangovers.” He gave her a sidelong glance, then looked away. “I remember bits. Not much after the second black-out. Is everyone…”
He left the question hanging. Sam’s mind filled in the missing pieces. “Most people are okay,” she said. “A few are… confused. Some don’t remember anything.”
“And the other ones?” He let the word hang there.
Sam looked down, her thumb rubbing the edge of the countertop until the skin blanched white. “We lost some,” she said, voice barely audible. “But less than I thought. I guess the wards worked.”
Hank snorted, something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You’re just like your mother,” he said. “She always took credit for things that broke and none for what she fixed.”
Sam wanted to say something sharp in response, but there was no edge to her this morning. Instead she just shrugged and asked, “You want coffee?”
He nodded, then caught himself. “No, not yet. Need to sweep the stoop first, clear my head.”
“So, are you going back to packing everything up?” Hank asked while retrieving the broom.
“No, at least I am not sure. I need time to think.” Sam stared at her coffee as if it would come alive and give her the answers she needed.
Hank grunted in acknowledgement and picked up the broom. Sam watched him limp to the front door, his back bent as if he carried the weight of every lost hour. She knew he’d never talk about it—not the possession, not the terror, not the world inside his skull where the entity had rooted itself for a week. He’d just sweep and restock and let the silence fill in the blanks.
While Hank fussed with the broom, Sam turned her attention to the store proper. There were already a few regulars out front in the street walking: an old woman in a beret who always bought crossword books, a grad student she recognized from the university, and a pair of high schoolers who should have been in first period but she didn’t know if classes had resumed yet. They loitered on the sidewalk, trading stories, but when Sam opened the door and called for them to come inside, the group fell silent. They turned and walked away, afraid to even make eye contact.
Sam could sense the unease—the way they avoided others, how they never let their shoulders brush even against each other.
She watched them, feeling something like guilt. Had she made it worse? Had her victory come at the cost of their peace? The entity was gone, Nyxalloth banished or dormant or wherever things like that went, but it had left a bruise on the town as visible as the scars on her own hands. Nobody wanted to talk about it, but everyone sort of remembered.
A young woman approached the front door and came in, the applicant.
She’d emailed at midnight, as if she’d only worked up the courage after several hours of frantic revision. Her name was Amelia. She wore fingerless gloves and a red beanie, and her backpack looked like it was swallowing her entire upper body. She tripped on the threshold, caught herself, then offered a weirdly formal bow.
“Hi, you must be Sam,” Amelia said, blinking up at her with a kind of anxious hope that made Sam want to buy every cookie she’d ever tried to sell for a school fundraiser.
“That’s me. You’re Amelia?”
“Yes,” Amelia said. “I mean, yes, that’s my name. You said to come at eight sharp but I was nervous so I got here early. I’m just—” She blushed, already flustered.
Sam grinned. “You’re good. Come in. Want coffee?”
Amelia nodded, then seemed to regret the answer. “Wait, no, actually. If I drink coffee I won’t stop talking.”
“That’s kind of a prerequisite,” Sam said, leading her to the front counter. “We sell more conversation than books some days.”
Amelia visibly relaxed at that. She looked around the store with a kind of reverence, like she’d always wanted to see the place at dawn, with nobody but the ghosts and the boss to witness it. “It’s bigger than I thought,” she said, craning her neck to see the top of the bookcases. “How do you clean up there?”
“With a ladder. But you’ll need to know the layout for shelving. We get a lot of donations and sometimes they come with… interesting backstories.” Sam hesitated, then decided: why not. “Follow me, I’ll give you the tour.”
Amelia followed her through the aisles, past the genre shelves and the wall of local history. Sam pointed out the staff break room (“just a closet, but we call it that to make ourselves feel better”) and the rare books cage, a wire-mesh vault with a padlock that looked ornamental but was actually three times more secure than the front door.
“Whoa,” said Amelia, face pressed to the mesh. “Is that a Gutenberg Bible?”
“No, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a really good fake, though. My mom used to keep her Christmas money in there, told people it was the original so nobody would steal it.” Sam realized she was talking about her mother and had to catch her breath for a second.
Amelia either didn’t notice or was too polite to comment. “There’s a weird smell back here,” she said, sniffing. “Like a thunderstorm. Ozone?”
Sam looked up. She hadn’t mentioned the runes to anyone, not even to Hank. But the air really did carry a charge, the residue of power that had saved them all. “Yeah,” she said, “we had an electrical fire last week. It’s not dangerous, but if you ever smell smoke, let Hank know right away. He’s the fire marshal in this building.”
Amelia nodded, making a note on her phone. “Got it. Where do you keep the occult stuff?”
Sam blinked. “Occult?”
“Yeah, my thesis is on American folk magic, so I was hoping you’d have some regional grimoires or, like, weird local histories? Especially the ones with the hand-written notes. There’s a blog that documents them, but I figured if anyone in Georgia had the good stuff, it’d be you.”
Sam started laughing before she could stop herself. “You have no idea,” she said, and led Amelia to the back corner of the store. There, next to a display of first-edition horror novels, was a shelf with a new paper sign overhead: “Ravencrest Collection.”
She’d written the sign this morning and arranged the books, just before opening. The lettering was almost gothic, and already the shelf seemed to glow with an energy all its own.
Amelia stared at it, awestruck. “You have a whole collection?” She ran her fingers across the shelf as if sizing up how much work she would be putting into studying the books. “Is it safe to touch?”
Sam handed over a battered leather-bound volume. “Careful with that one. It bites.”
Amelia didn’t even blink, just clutched the book to her chest and inhaled deeply. “God, this is amazing.” She turned to Sam, beaming. “You have no idea how hard it is to find stuff like this, even at college libraries.”
“I plan on expanding this collection and making it a full display in a new cabinet behind glass and a lock.” Sam said with a wistful smile.
Sam watched her, unable to suppress the sense of relief—or pride—bubbling up in her chest. The world was still broken, but the store was whole. The air was charged, but nobody was screaming. Amelia, the first true customer of the new era, might just be weird enough to keep it that way.
The front door bell rang again. Sam left Amelia with the book and went to the window.
The sun was fully up now, flooding Market Street with gold and making the runes above the door almost invisible. The regulars shuffled in, heading to their stores to open them, old injuries covered with fresh bandages, coffee in hand, ready to forget or remember as needed. Hank had already swept the stoop twice.
“Let’s see what this day brings,” she whispered, and let the day begin.
The week before the semester started, Lilly showed up at the bookshop with two cardboard boxes and a duffel bag she could barely lift. She thumped them down just inside the door and let out a huff of breath, then immediately tried to flatten her hair back into some semblance of order. She’d dyed it again, this time a light blue that made her look about fifteen, but the way she carried herself was all business.
Sam watched from the register as her sister marched past the regulars—Amelia stacking the new arrivals, Hank at his post by the espresso machine—head high, chin out. If anyone noticed the fading scar on her left palm, they said nothing.
“Hey, stranger,” Sam called, waving her over.
“Hey yourself.” Lilly’s voice was steadier than Sam remembered, less giggly, more deliberate. “Is there a safe place I can put some of my stuff? I don’t trust taking it to school. Some of it’s… sentimental.”
“Back room’s unlocked,” Sam said. “Just push aside the mop bucket, it’s all yours.”
Lilly wrangled her boxes down the narrow aisle, nearly taking out the entire poetry section with an elbow. She reappeared two minutes later, breathless and a little red in the cheeks, and leaned against the counter. “This place looks different,” she said, eyes darting to the Ravencrest Collection at the back of the store.
Sam just shrugged. “People change. Why not the furniture?”
Lilly smiled, but her eyes didn’t leave the cabinet. “Is that the real thing?”
Sam nodded, lowering her voice. “It’s safer here than anywhere else. If the town’s going to survive, someone has to remember.”
Lilly traced her fingers across the countertop, picking at a spot where the old varnish had worn through. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about that night. I don’t remember everything, but there are flashes—voices, light, your face. The smell of ozone. I think I was more scared for you than for myself.”
Sam blinked. She hadn’t expected honesty from her sister, not today, not ever. “You hid it well,” she said. “I thought I was the only one losing it.”
“I’m not the same person who came here last month.” Lilly flexed her left hand, then curled it into a loose fist. “There’s something in me now. Not a voice, exactly. Just… like a warning system.” She met Sam’s eyes, dead serious. “You feel it, too, right?”
Sam considered her answer, then decided there was no point in lying. “Yeah. I don’t think it ever really goes away. I just try to keep busy.”
“Good plan,” said Lilly. She straightened, scanning the nearest book display. “Help me pick some stuff out? I want to look smart in front of my advisor.”
“Does your advisor believe in ghosts?”
“He’s a medievalist. He’ll believe anything if it’s written in Latin.”
Sam snorted and led her down the aisle. Lilly looked over at Sam, “I am glad you decided to keep the bookstore open. It would have made mom very happy.”
Sam paused for a second, grabbed some books off the shelf, and then responded without looking at Lilly. “I want to stay in town, you know, to keep an eye on things. Plus this feels right, I feel like I belong here now.”
Sam didn’t look forward to having to find a new place or the relocation costs. Her dad also did not understand why she needed to be here. They continued down the aisle with Lilly suggesting a few books as well to grab.
“So what’s the plan,” Sam asked as they sorted books on the floor, “with school, I mean. Still going to double in history and pre-med?”
“Not after what happened,” said Lilly, voice soft. “I dropped the pre-med. Too much death. But I kept the history.” She hesitated, then, with a flash of the old mischief: “There’s a new minor in folklore and esoterica. Apparently, it’s trendy now.”
Sam laughed, a sound that surprised her with its warmth. “You’ll ace it. You lived through the ultimate fieldwork.”
They packed the books into one of the boxes, then sat together on the old bench beneath the window. The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, and for a long time neither said anything.
Sam broke the silence first. “I have something for you,” she said. She fished in her pocket and produced a heavy, rectangular bookmark—copper, engraved with curling symbols, and set with a single blue stone. She slid it across the bench.
“It’s a charm,” said Sam. “Keeps out nightmares. Or, if you’re not superstitious, at least it’s pretty.”
Lilly turned it over in her hand, face unreadable. “Is it really magic?”
Sam shrugged. “I hope so. I did all the right things: salt, silver, a drop of blood. You know. Traditional southern hospitality.”
Lilly laughed. It was a clear, bright sound, the laugh Sam remembered from when they were both too young to know better. “Thank you,” she said, tucking the charm into her jacket. “I’ll use it every day.”
A dark sedan pulled up outside, tires crunching on the gravel. Alan—Lilly’s dad, Sam’s sometimes-dad—sat behind the wheel, sunglasses hiding his eyes, one hand drumming the steering wheel. He didn’t honk, but the message was clear.
“Time to go,” Lilly said, rising to her feet. She gathered the boxes and, after a moment’s hesitation, set them down again and wrapped both arms around Sam’s neck.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Lilly whispered, voice muffled by Sam’s hair. “Even if I’m in Atlanta. Even if it gets weird again.”
“Especially if it gets weird,” Sam said, squeezing her tight.
They let go. Lilly hoisted the boxes and, with a backwards glance, made her way out to the car.
Sam watched from the doorway. The wind had picked up, fluttering the edge of the old “open” sign, but the air was still cooler than it should have been for August. She saw Alan get out, help Lilly with the boxes, exchange a few words she couldn’t hear. Then the trunk slammed shut, and the car rolled away, slow and steady, until it disappeared over the hill.
Sam stood there for a long time, letting the wind tangle her hair, letting the silence fill in the empty spaces her sister left behind. She touched her own scar, then the Ravencrest Heart under her shirt, the blue stone cool against her skin.
She wondered if Lilly could feel it, even now, so far away.
She hoped so.
It was the middle of November when the next storm rolled through, black clouds stacked over the hills like artillery waiting for a signal. Sam flicked on the porch light at The Dusty Gnome and watched the sky go from bruise-purple to dead gray, the old streetlamps stuttering as the wind pressed in on the square.
She’d started arriving an hour early, just in case. It gave her time to walk the perimeter, checking the chalk and silver lines hidden in the doorframe and along the foundation. Every other week, she’d repaint the wards by hand, using a mixture of salt and blue pigment that made her think of the sea. It was half ritual, half insurance policy. The old wounds in the town had scabbed over, but nobody knew what was festering underneath.
Inside, she ran her fingers along the shelves, feeling for any change in temperature or that particular static buzz that meant something was off. The rare book cabinet was padlocked; the Codex rested where it always did, wrapped in velvet, weighted with a brick of hematite and her mother’s favorite bookmark. She logged the new entries in the catalog, then made herself a cup of the darkest coffee she could stomach.
The morning regulars filed in just before seven, all of them on first-name basis now. The crossword lady (her name was Frances, but she preferred “Miss F.”) bee-lined for her usual perch and winked at Sam as she passed. The grad student, Amellia, had dyed her hair green and came in with a tote bag overflowing with interlibrary loans. Even the high schoolers were back, though they came in pairs instead of mobs, and never lingered past eight.
Sam greeted each one with a nod or a joke, sometimes both. She let them browse, but kept one eye on the Ravencrest Collection at all times. It was an old habit, but one she doubted she’d ever shake.
At ten sharp, Hank arrived, this time carrying a plate of still-warm biscuits. “Wife’s making up for lost time,” he said, offering the plate. “She says you look too skinny.”
Sam grinned. “I told you, carbs are a gateway drug. Next thing you know, I’ll be eating grits out of the pot.”
Hank grunted and made his rounds, dusting the displays and swapping out the weekend specials. He moved better now, no limp, but still kept a hand on the counter when the shop was empty. Every so often, he’d pause and stare into space, lips moving as if reciting a list only he could see.
The morning blurred into afternoon, and Sam used the lull to catch up on her real work: translating the Codex into something that made sense for humans with jobs and deadlines. She kept a leather-bound journal under the counter, each page filled with notes, diagrams, and—thanks to her mother’s cryptic marginalia—jokes in the margins that only made sense if you’d spent your formative years reading death rituals over a bowl of cereal.
A few of the warnings were laughably simple. “Do not cross a running river with a mirror in your pocket,” read one. Another: “Never let a stranger inside after sunset, even if they are your kin.” The third one, which Sam had circled in red ink: “In the absence of the binder, the burden falls to the blood.”
She closed the journal and leaned back, letting her eyes adjust to the flat fall light that leaked through the large windows. The day felt normal. Boring, even.
The first drops of rain pinged off the tin roof just as the bell over the door rang out. Sam looked up, expecting Hank or Amellia, but instead found Tyrone on the threshold, the top of his uniform dark with rain.
He shook off the wet and stomped in, two coffees in hand. “Brought you the good stuff,” he said, setting one on the counter. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
Sam took the cup, inhaled the steam. “Thanks, Sheriff. You on patrol or just hiding from the storm?”
“Little of both,” he said. He looked around, then leaned in, voice low. “Trial’s next month. Patricia’s defense team is already asking for leniency. Temporary insanity, mass hysteria, you know the drill.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Do they even know what she did?”
Tyrone shrugged. “Not the real version. The official record reads like a bad cult documentary. Nobody mentions Nyxalloth by name, or what almost crawled out of that basement. The files got… redacted, I guess.”
“Convenient,” said Sam, and sipped her coffee. It was good. Tyrone always brought the good stuff.
He tapped the counter. “But you’re still watching the store, right? The wards and whatever else you’ve got going?”
“Every day,” she said. “Nothing’s gotten past the blue line since.”
Tyrone smiled, but his eyes were tired. “You think that’s enough?”
“Ask me in five years.”
He laughed—a soft, relieved sound. “I will. That’s a promise.”
They talked for a while, about nothing and everything. About the town council, and the weird rash of disappearances over in Pine Ridge, and how the local kids had started carving runes into the picnic tables at the park. Sam told him about the new hires (Amellia was getting her own section, devoted to paranormal romance), and how Hank was thinking of retiring “for real this time.” Tyrone said he’d believe it when he saw it.
He lingered longer than usual, but Sam didn’t mind. She liked the company, especially when the rain made the whole shop feel like a fortress.
Before he left, he paused at the door, one hand on the glass. “Hey,” he said, “if you ever need backup—real backup, not just me and my bad jokes—just call. You’re not in this alone, Sam.”
She smiled, genuinely this time. “I know.”
He left, and the shop felt quiet again, but not empty.
By six, the storm had passed, leaving everything outside scrubbed clean and silver. Sam locked the front door, checked the wards one last time, and swept the main aisle. She turned off the lights, then circled to the back room, where the last traces of dusk bled through the narrow window.
She stood there for a long time, watching the blue fade from the horizon. She touched the Ravencrest Heart under her shirt, fingers warm against the stone. It hummed with a power she was finally getting used to. Maybe even enjoying.
She picked up her journal, thumbed to a blank page, and wrote:
“In the absence of the binder, the burden falls to the blood. But the blood is ready.”
She smiled, clicked her pen closed, and let herself out the back door.
Outside, the air was cold and full of the smell of wet asphalt and old paper. Sam breathed it in, then traced a new ward above the door, just for good measure.
She walked out onto the street, her breath a ribbon in the air, her eyes—just for a moment—glowing blue.
The world was waiting. But this time, she was ready for it.