Read Online The Bones of You by Gary McMahon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gary McMahon
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there were very few hidden nooks and crannies, and hardly any atmosphere. The underground storage space was neat and tidy and had no walls separating it into creepy little compartments; it was just a big, clean, empty space underneath the house.
I stepped down the first few stairs, ducked and peered around the cellar. There was nothing down there. The previous tenants had either cleared it out or never used it in the first place, and I could see almost every inch of floor space. Only the very edges of the concrete floor were not visible, because the light bled out to shadow.
I went the rest of the way down, not feeling afraid, not feeling much of anything, if I’m honest, except confused about the situation with Carole. I didn’t know where I stood with her. One minute I wasn’t interested, and the next I wanted her. It seemed that her feelings were subject to similar swings, and none of it was conducive to a simple relationship.
Why did I always fall for the crazy women? And, more importantly, why did they always fall for me?
When I reached the bottom of the cellar stairs, I stopped and looked around. Now I could see into all the corners, and I noticed that the place was dirtier than I’d first thought. Cobwebs were strung like early Halloween decorations in the corners of the ceiling, the skirting boards were ragged and needed a lick of paint, the finished plaster walls had seen better days. There were various empty shelves, unused hooks, and other storage frames, but nothing much of interest down there.
Then I caught sight of the box.
It was a small cardboard box, like the ones used for shipping books. I walked over to the other side of the cellar where the box was standing against the wall, and squatted down to inspect it. On the side of the box there was a shipping ticket with a company name printed in black ink: CrimSlam Publications . Also printed there were details of what was inside the box.
Twenty copies of Little Miss Moffat and the Radiant Children by Robert Shingley.
At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing, so I reached out a hand and brushed away the light covering of dust from that part of the box. Yes, I’d read the shipping slip correctly. Inside this box were copies of Pru’s father’s book—an out-of-print book that was so rare even she didn’t have a copy.
Well , I thought, she does now…
I slid the box away from the wall, and when I did so, I noticed that it was light. Too light to contain twenty books, even if those books were very thin volumes. I inspected the top of the box and saw that the flaps had been opened up and then taped back down, as if someone had removed the contents and tried to hide the fact that they’d done so.
It looked like Pru wasn’t getting a copy after all.
But the box wasn’t completely empty. As I’d moved it, I felt something shifting inside.
I pushed my fingertips under the thick bands of packing tape and peeled them away, then lifted the flaps and looked inside the box. There was one book inside, half-covered in strips of brown packing paper.
I reached inside and took out the book.
The cover design was simple: no fancy illustration, just the title and the author’s name beneath a monochrome photograph of the house next door to mine, but as seen in better days: freshly painted, with a tended garden, and full of promise for the future.
I stood and walked back to the cellar stairs with the book. I stopped before I reached them, puzzled by a sound that came from behind me. I listened. Nothing. Then, slowly, I heard the sound of the box moving across the concrete cellar floor. Slowly, I began to turn around…the sound stopped…I continued to turn. The empty box had changed position. Instead of being near the far wall, it was now six inches behind me, as if it had slid across the floor and followed me like a trained animal.
“No,” I said. I didn’t want to accept this. It was weird, yes, but it was a pointless weirdness. Why would some
I stepped down the first few stairs, ducked and peered around the cellar. There was nothing down there. The previous tenants had either cleared it out or never used it in the first place, and I could see almost every inch of floor space. Only the very edges of the concrete floor were not visible, because the light bled out to shadow.
I went the rest of the way down, not feeling afraid, not feeling much of anything, if I’m honest, except confused about the situation with Carole. I didn’t know where I stood with her. One minute I wasn’t interested, and the next I wanted her. It seemed that her feelings were subject to similar swings, and none of it was conducive to a simple relationship.
Why did I always fall for the crazy women? And, more importantly, why did they always fall for me?
When I reached the bottom of the cellar stairs, I stopped and looked around. Now I could see into all the corners, and I noticed that the place was dirtier than I’d first thought. Cobwebs were strung like early Halloween decorations in the corners of the ceiling, the skirting boards were ragged and needed a lick of paint, the finished plaster walls had seen better days. There were various empty shelves, unused hooks, and other storage frames, but nothing much of interest down there.
Then I caught sight of the box.
It was a small cardboard box, like the ones used for shipping books. I walked over to the other side of the cellar where the box was standing against the wall, and squatted down to inspect it. On the side of the box there was a shipping ticket with a company name printed in black ink: CrimSlam Publications . Also printed there were details of what was inside the box.
Twenty copies of Little Miss Moffat and the Radiant Children by Robert Shingley.
At first I didn’t believe what I was seeing, so I reached out a hand and brushed away the light covering of dust from that part of the box. Yes, I’d read the shipping slip correctly. Inside this box were copies of Pru’s father’s book—an out-of-print book that was so rare even she didn’t have a copy.
Well , I thought, she does now…
I slid the box away from the wall, and when I did so, I noticed that it was light. Too light to contain twenty books, even if those books were very thin volumes. I inspected the top of the box and saw that the flaps had been opened up and then taped back down, as if someone had removed the contents and tried to hide the fact that they’d done so.
It looked like Pru wasn’t getting a copy after all.
But the box wasn’t completely empty. As I’d moved it, I felt something shifting inside.
I pushed my fingertips under the thick bands of packing tape and peeled them away, then lifted the flaps and looked inside the box. There was one book inside, half-covered in strips of brown packing paper.
I reached inside and took out the book.
The cover design was simple: no fancy illustration, just the title and the author’s name beneath a monochrome photograph of the house next door to mine, but as seen in better days: freshly painted, with a tended garden, and full of promise for the future.
I stood and walked back to the cellar stairs with the book. I stopped before I reached them, puzzled by a sound that came from behind me. I listened. Nothing. Then, slowly, I heard the sound of the box moving across the concrete cellar floor. Slowly, I began to turn around…the sound stopped…I continued to turn. The empty box had changed position. Instead of being near the far wall, it was now six inches behind me, as if it had slid across the floor and followed me like a trained animal.
“No,” I said. I didn’t want to accept this. It was weird, yes, but it was a pointless weirdness. Why would some
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