CHAPTER 1
A small group of drunks sat at the end of the bar in Jack’s Emerald Isle, staring up intently at an ancient 24-inch television set. It might have been Monday Night Football, where the Seattle somethings were playing the Arizona who cares. The game didn’t appear to matter to the group, whose eyes uniformly sported a dull, glaze that matched the dim flicker of the screen. Their captivation was as much the constant, repetitive dots of light as any actual outcome. That, and the ritual of raising, and then emptying their glasses, and then having them filled, and then beginning the ceremonies anew.
There were no hot wings here, no servers (attractive or attentive or otherwise), and no menu to be seen. If you were hungry, you had peanuts or pretzels if you weren’t too picky about “expiration dates.” Or, if you were really feeling lucky, there was always a pickled egg or two from the murky glass jar sitting at the center of the bar.
Jack’s Emerald Isle wasn’t really a “sports bar” type of a place: it was a for professional drinkers, plain and simple.
And that’s exactly what the newest member of the group, Jonothan Chance, had become.
He lived six blocks over and Jack’s had become his watering hole first out of necessity and eventually of choice. Every night, he would spill in from the bar’s scuffed and battered emerald green front door, already buzzed from the handful of mini bottles of vodka that were sold at the gas station closer to his apartment. Every night, much like Sisyphus forever fated to returning to the base of the hill to begin rolling a huge boulder uphill again and again, Jonothan returned to his barstool in Jack’s. Every night, his mind and memories would inevitably return to everything that had happened to him over the last few years, shards of memories seen through the haze of ongoing stupor: blurred medical parks, an endless parade of doctors’ office lobbies and those infernal couches; featureless specialists and the grey rooms that accompanied them; a darkened room at a hospice.
Every night inevitably arrived here: the skeletal figure of his wife, still, slipping from this world to wherever was after.
Every night, things played out from there; he had once heard somewhere that everyone was only two missed paychecks away from destitution, and he had proven that in short order. The fall from their once-lofty perch of upper middle-class comfort had been as sudden and immediate as the void created by her absence. It was a seemingly-endless downward spiral.
Every night, engaging in the vain attempt to simultaneously hold onto, and expunge, his memories. Every night, the two goals fighting to a standstill, again leaving him with “what if,” and “never”: What if he could change it all? What if he she hadn’t died? Never got sick? Never…?
Chance’s ruminations were interrupted, scattered by the smack of Jack’s palm on the dark wood in front of him.
“Closing time, Bucko.” The bartender was not a slight man, and thought nothing of leaning over, and in close; regular patron or not, it may have been their personal space, but it was his bar.
“How about just one more?” Jonothan looked across and saw the same dull, glazed look of the rest of his compatriots. But these eyes also burned with purpose.
“My friend, you’ve had one more and then some.” Chance’s feeble protest fell on deaf ears; Jack didn’t even bother pretending to stifle a laugh. “We closed almost an hour ago. I want to go home and you, well, you need to go home.”
Jonothan massaged his temples and tried to rub the haze from his eyes.
“I was this close to figuring it all out.” He struggled to focus on his unsteady hand in front of him, shaky thumb and forefinger a small distance apart.
The bartender moved behind Jonothan, betraying his size and their distance. He placed one hand on Jonothan’s shoulder, while the other helped him up and onto his feet.
“Well, you have no idea how happy that news makes me!” Jack continued to talk while deftly steering Jonothan to the door. “I tell you what, why don’t we reconvene this meeting tomorrow and we’ll figure this whole thing out.”
With an odd gleam in his eye, Jack gave him a final pat on the back, coupled with a gentle shove. Just like every night, Chance again found himself out the door and into the cold, clear dark.
Tonight’s cool, late-October air helped clear his head slightly, and as he turned the corner to head towards his building. A strong wind gusted down the street, blowing his too-long black hair back, and caused his unbuttoned black overcoat to billow out behind him as though he were wearing a cape.
Jonothan continued up the street, still against the wind, brown leaves skittering along the sidewalk. Reminded that Fall was pretty much in the rear view, he thought winter would be along much sooner than he wished. Not that this mattered much: his too-regular headache started to creep in at the edges of thought, and he noted how the passage of time now seemed to only be measurable by the passage of seasons.
Even then, it only barely registered, as there was a more pressing concern.
Every night, he walked this route home; so many times that he could, and probably had, walked it in his sleep. Every night, no matter how drunk he got, and he would get very drunk, Jonothan Chance could still find his way home.
But now when he looked up, he found himself lost.
He didn’t recognize the storefront he now stood in front of, or the nearby darkened brownstones and other handful of small neighborhood shops that walled in the surrounding area. Turning his attention to the storefront in front of him, he squinted through a window into a dimly-lit shop.
From what he could make out, it appeared to sell books, artifacts and a multitude of odds and ends. Not too much distinguishing it from a lot of places he had seen on Cherokee Street.
Was he on Cherokee Street?
He thought more on this to himself, and took a few steps back to see if there were any landmarks he might have missed? Was there an address anywhere on the storefront? An address would help clear this whole situation right up.
What did he miss?
All he was able to come up with was the name of the store. THINGS LOST & FOUND was written in cracked and flaking, gold paint on dark glass. Beneath it the words “Unusual collectibles for unusual people,” was also stenciled in aging, gilded letters.
He continued to examine the store for an address, and pondered exactly what “unusual collectibles” were, when a man opened the door and leaned out and spoke to him.
“Would you care to come in?” The man’s voice, while soft, visibly startled Jonothan; he had thought he was alone this entire time.
“I’m so very sorry,” the voice continued. “I did not mean to startle you.”
Jonothan collected himself and smiled, sheepishly.
“Sorry, I thought I was alone. Guess I was deeper in thought than I imagined.”
“Completely understandable, m’boy.” The man behind the soft voice stepped out of the shadows, but only a little. Overall, he remained obscured in darkness. “Especially for someone in your situation.”
The man smiled and opened the door wider as if a doorman at a most exclusive hotel. He extended his hand.
“Please come in and warm up,” he said. “Who knows, you might even find something inside that interests you.”
After a few seconds’ pause Jonothan stepped past the man, through the door, and into the shop. As he did, he was greeted with the smell of old books, dead flowers, dust, and…something else. He couldn’t quite identify it: some sort of incense? Jasmine?
His host again interrupted Jonothan’s ruminations, directing him to a stool by a counter at the front of the store, and encouraged him to sit.
“Your coat?” He extended his hand. Jonothan paused, initially questioning why he would relinquish his coat to a total stranger. But just as quickly, he draped the overcoat across his host’s extended forearm.
The man disappeared into a back room off to the side of the counter, then quickly returned without the coat.
“Now, since that is taken care of, would you care for some tea? Or cocoa?” The man peered down over spectacles, and smiled as he spoke. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything stronger.”
“Um, tea, I guess.” It took a few seconds to get the words out. He was still struggling with it all: his headache, his lingering inebriation, his disorientation, and, not the least of which, the strangeness of the situation.
“Excellent choice!” Jonothan’s host seemed to anticipate his answer. “And just the thing to clear some of that fog away, eh? I just put a pot on.
“Back in a wink.”
He disappeared again, this time returning with two cups of tea: they were China cups, whose rims were decorated with pale blue flowers and placed on matching saucers. As he placed the cups on the counter, Jonothan noticed the man’s fingernails were long and dirty.
Presently, the man stood across, and in front of Jonothan, watching him intently. For the first time Jonothan was able to really get a look at his host: he was short, stout with a headful of graying curls atop his head. His face was full, with heavy gray stubble covering jowls and a double chin. He wore eyeglasses, with thick, circular lenses; they were balanced precariously at the end of a sharp, downturned nose.
The man stared patiently at Jonothan, waiting for him to speak. After an uncomfortable amount of time, his guest spoke.
“I’ve never seen this place before.” Jonothan looked around. “Did you just open?”
The question hung in the air. It seemed foolish considering the amount of dust that had settled over the parts of the store that he could see. But something was…off.
“Well, I guess you could think of us a ‘pop up’ store.” There was an air of proprietorship in the way he said “us.” Must have been his shop. “So, yes, we are new in this location. But we have been in business for years and years and years...” His voice trailed off, and he smiled at Jonothan as if he had just told him a very funny joke.
“But enough about me.” The shopkeeper waved his hand with a flourish, and collegially tapped Jonothan on the arm. “What brings you to us tonight? And at this hour? Why, you must need something.”
“I didn’t really come here on purpose,” Chance demurred, a little embarrassed, and still somewhat disoriented. But it no longer bothered him as it initially had. “I just got lost on my way back to my apartment.”
The man smiled, and leaned in closer to his guest.
“Oh, my dear Jonothan,” he was conspiratorial. “You were lost a long time before tonight.”
It took a moment for that to permeate: through the layer of alcohol, and numbness in general, Jonothan had grokked that this guy just called him by his name. Had he told this guy his name? He didn’t think so. No, he was sure he had not.
“Hey!” Words still came slowly to him. What was going on? “How did you know my name? I didn’t tell you my name.”
“That is a very excellent question, friend!” The proprietor again smiled. It did not bring Jonothan comfort. “Let’s just say it’s a lucky guess at this point, so we can move forward with the much more important business at hand.”
Jonothan began to rise from his seat. Whatever this was, he felt that he needed to leave, immediately. As he stood, the shopkeeper’s tone turned considerably less jovial, and much more serious.
“Mister Chance,” his host began. “You have spent the last several years of your life paralyzed by despair, and ruminating on your now very dead wife Linda.”
“What do you,” Jonothan, shocked, started to interject.
“Your only movement during this time has been decidedly downward,” the shopkeeper continued, talking over him. “You spend your thoughts and energy on wishing for a different outcome to your life together. A world where she lives and is healthy and you are both happy.”
The proprietor pushed his glasses slightly further up his nose.
“Did I get that right, more or less?”
The words took Jonothan’s legs from under him, and he slumped back onto the stool. Whatever concerns he had about the oddness of his host were now extinguished by the familiar, and sudden, overwhelming wave of grief.
The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and placed his hand on Chance’s shoulder.
“Whether you believe it or not, the universe has a way of manifesting things into people’s lives.” There was a change in the proprietor’s complexion, something that Jonothan couldn’t quite place. “You spent years praying and wishing, your every thought consumed with your desire to return your wife to you.
“Well, you were heard.”
The words hung in the air. The shopkeeper continued.
“Now you have a chance to…rescue her.”
“Rescue?” Jonothan was incredulous. “Rescue?” he repeated. From where? From who?
“It will require some effort on your part,” if the proprietor heard Jonothan, he did not acknowledge him. “But I have every confidence you are up to the task.
“Now I need you to gather yourself and come with me.”
The shopkeeper let go of Jonothan’s shoulder and began to shuffle into the shadows, further into the shop. There was sound of a muted “whoosh, woosh,” as his feet lumbered across the floor. Just before he was about to dissolve into total darkness, lights in front of them flickered and hummed, before finally waking from their slumber and lighting the center aisle of the store.
“Wow, this place is a lot bigger than it looked before,” Jonothan mumbled to himself. Shelves lined the walls and floor, forming aisles as far as the light extended. Containing ephemera from throughout history, there were scrolls, books, and cannisters of film of all sizes. Old board games, vinyl recording albums, commercial Halloween costumes, and novelties of all types littered the shelves; and banners, posters, draperies emblazoned with the logos of every major musical act, television show, or movie in history lined the walls.
Or what could be seen of them, anyway.
There was something strangely unified about it all. A thought popped into Jonothan’s thoughts: “Totems.” He continued to trail behind the shopkeeper, if unsteadily.
‘Don’t dawdle now,” his host admonished. “Keep up. It’s easier to get lost in here than you might think.” The shopkeeper turned to look back at his visitor as he spoke, continuing to peer over top of his thick glasses, as they continued to balance at the tip of his nose.
They passed a large wooden wardrobe with images carved along its frame and large iron handles engraved with what appeared to be runes of some sort. Jonothan paused in front of the wardrobe and began to reach for the handles, inexplicably drawn to open it and look inside. As he placed his hands on the handles the shopkeeper’s raised voice shattered his attention.
“STOP!
“Do not open those doors, my inebriated friend,” the shopkeeper’s face appeared to glow. Jonothan dismissed this ridiculous thought as continued fallout from his evening’s pursuits at Jack’s. “History is littered with so many stories of the unintended consequences of opening boxes and other items not meant to be opened.
“As a matter of fact,” the proprietor continued, “let us agree that henceforth you will not touch anything else in my store, unless expressly told to do so.”
As he finished, the shopkeeper took a few steps back and placed a friendly but very firm hand on Jonothan’s left arm, guiding him forward.
“Just a little further now,” the diminutive man began to look around, as if attempting to find something he’d set aside, but couldn’t quite place. He stopped, abruptly, seizing on a section of shelves overfilled with books, crammed into every space possible, as well as several tall stacks balanced precariously on the top of the case and covering the immediately surrounding floorspace.
“Here we are,” the shopkeeper announced, triumphant. He turned to his guest to ensure Jonothan was still close-by.
“Now,” he continued. “Let’s see what we can find for your situation.”
Producing a small step-stool from the back of the aisle, the shopkeeper climbed atop it to reach the upper shelves. Standing on his on his tip toes, he began to shuffle through the books on the highest shelf, ultimately bringing a small stack of books of different sizes down with him as he stepped down from the makeshift ladder.
Studying a group of what appeared to be very old hardcover books, the shopkeeper blew the dust off the group with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old extinguishing the candles of a birthday cake; thus filling the air with the smell of aged paper, ancient ink, and dust. The thick cloud of motes of which floated and danced upward through the small circle of light above the shopkeeper, seeming to sparkle and glitter for an instant before fading and falling into the dark.
“Somewhere in here, my friend,” the proprietor was positively radiant, celebratory. “In here lies our answer.” He was now paging through the books, slowly. With his attention initially distracted by the proximity of his discovery, when the shopkeeper looked up to his guest, he found Jonothan swaying tremulously in the aisle next to him.
“Please have a seat,” the proprietor said, patient but firm. “This might take a little bit, and you, well you look more than a little unsteady there on your feet.”
Jonothan looked around him, still more than a little confused by all of it.
“Where?” he asked.
The shopkeeper looked up, and reluctantly motioned to the floor at the edge of the aisle.
“On the floor right there, so I can make sure you don’t wander off,” he said, with all the sad frustration of a disappointed parent. Returning to his search, and after the winnowing the stack to three books, he again looked over to his guest.
“Do you read Latin?”
The question startled Jonothan a little, as he had begun to nod off as he sat on the cold floor.
“Umm…Latin?” He tried the out the word, rolling it around in his mouth while he legitimately contemplated whether he was conversant. “No, I don’t read Latin.” His answer was from a half sleepy, half drunken tongue.
“Then I assume Lemurian is a ‘no,’ as well.” His host mumbled sarcastically as he placed two of the three books in his hands back on a stack on the floor.
“Okay that leaves us with this one, which, while not my favorite…” his words trailed off as he paused for a second, contemplative.
“It should do the trick.” He snapped the book shut. “Now, up, on your feet. I don’t have all night to spend with you. As with all things, dear friend Jonothan, my time is limited.”
Jonothan forced himself to stand, steadied his balance and closed the gap between him and the shopkeeper.
He was now slightly more sober and coherent, but still somewhat disoriented.
“Hey. Is there anybody else in the store?” The memory struck him as random. “I could have sworn I heard some noises when you were looking through those books.”
The shopkeeper, still three paces ahead of him, called back.
“I can assure you we are quite alone here,” he said through pursed lips. “This is not some kind of a Hurley Burley, where people just come as go as they please.
“Perhaps what you heard was a cat.”
“Do you have a cat?”
The shopkeeper finally arrived at the front counter. He turned, smiled, and pushed his glasses back up his nose with his index finger.
“Well I must, if you heard one, right?” His eyes narrowed with additional darkness. “Res Ipsa Loquitur et cetera, et cetera.
“Now, if we are done chatting about cats, I have the answer to your problem right here.” He tapped the cover of a small, leatherbound book: dark red, cracked with age, and held up for display. Placing the book on the counter, the proprietor slid it across to Jonothan.
“You are in luck, my friend,” the shopkeeper announced. “All Hallows Eve is less than a week away, when the barriers between this world and the next are at their most pliable.
“That will increase the power of your actions considerably!” With a sweep of his arm, he gestured at the tome now at the edge of the countertop in front of his skeptical guest. “I have marked the section you will need to use.”
Pausing for a moment, his host narrowed his gaze at Jonothan.
“Are you following this?“
Jonothan nodded.
“Very good,” the shopkeeper continued. “Now, you’ll need to gather a few sundry items to prepare. All very common and easy to procure. Then, you’ll go to the site of Linda’s grave on All Hallows Eve, and, precisely at the stroke of midnight follow the instructions in the book exactly.”
‘And then?” Jonothan slid the book deep in the pocket inside his coat, which was now inexplicably in front of him, next to the book on the counter.
The shopkeeper smiled broadly at the obvious confusion writ large on his guest’s face.
“And then you will have your reunion with Linda, my friend.”
Jonothan gathered up his overcoat, slowly put it on, and turned to leave. Deeply puzzled, he was somehow, strangely, buoyed by this visit. His hand on the doorhandle, the proprietor called out, after him.
“In the coming days, remember this, m’boy,” his voice boomed, and seemed to echo. “We are a short time here and a long time gone!”
With the shopkeeper’s parting words, and, laughter...? reverberating in his mind, Jonothan stepped out of the THINGS LOST & FOUND, and found himself now stepping onto the sidewalk directly in front of his apartment. The shop, the darkened brownstones, the other small neighborhood stores were all gone now, just as dawn was breaking, just as if none of it had happened, just as if waking from a dream.
Because every night, no matter how drunk he got, and he would get very drunk, Jonothan Chance could still find his way home.
Until now.