The Quill

His hands trembled as he held the letter from the Pegadon Publishing Company. This was not the first he had received from a publisher. He had submitted proposals for three novels, four short stories, and one novella to any and all companies he thought would give them a read. There were countless query letters and too many failed attempts to get an agent to remember. The number of magazines that had rejected his offerings was just as many if not more. Yet here he stood one more time filled with hope.

The miniscule number of publishers who even bothered to respond all sent a letter or e-mail saying basically the same thing. “We regret to inform you, but at this time we are not interested in publishing your work.” Blah, blah, blah….. The letter he held now would be different. This was the one. It would be the big break that he had worked so hard for. Today would be the greatest day of his life, he was sure of it.

Grayson T. Bachelder took a deep breath and tore open the top of the envelope. He hurriedly pulled out the documenat and unfolded it as quickly as possible. His excitement was palpable. His breathing was so rapid that he almost hyper-ventilated and the lack of air made his vision blurry. His eyes fought to focus and read the words on the paper. “Mr. Bachelder… read the work you submitted… at this time we would not be interested in publishing your novel.” There it was – the latest of many rejections.

Bachelder clenched his teeth so hard his jaws hurt. It was the only way to hold back the urge to scream with rage. Without realizing it, his hands ripped the latest evidence of his ineptitude in half. He crumpled each portion into tight little balls and threw the wads of paper to the floor. As the tears welled up in his eyes, he released the fury he could no longer keep inside.

“You idiots!” he yelled into the emptiness of the modest house his parents had helped him purchase. “You wouldn’t know a good piece of literature if it bit you on the nose! No matter what you say, Grayson T. Bachelder is a great writer. Even my name says bestselling author. I’m glad you didn’t want to publish my book. I wouldn’t want to sign with a second rate company like yours anyway.”

Grayson huffed and puffed and stomped to the kitchen cupboard to retrieve a glass and a bottle of cheap vodka that was three quarters full. He mumbled to himself as he made his way to the recliner in his small but tidy living room and slumped into it. He poured a couple ounces of liquor into the glass and downed it. He coughed as the alcohol burned its way down his throat to his stomach.

He usually mixed his vodka with orange juice so this sensation was a little unexpected but not completely unpleasant. When the fire in his belly died down he poured another drink and made short work of that one. In moments the booze began to work its magic and he felt warm and slightly numb. As he licked the wounds of his newest defeat he continued his rant.

“Oh sure, if I wanted to write another cookie cutter romantic vampire novel aimed at teen-aged girls they would be beating down my door. That’s not what I do. I am a pioneer in the horror genre. That’s it; I’m too original for these people. I won’t pander to the purveyors of substandard, counterfeit horror and I refuse to write a regurgitated piece of crap just to sell books. I won’t do that just so the blood suckers can make money off me. I’m too good for Pegadon Publishing and I will never quit. I’ll write the greatest horror novel of all time and then I’ll rub their stupid faces in it!”

For the rest of the evening the dejected future bestseller continued to drink and bash his detractors. He spouted off about the lack of integrity in the industry today and how in the end he would have the last laugh. All he had ever wanted was to be a successful author and he would do whatever it took to get what he deserved. He would pay any price to achieve his dream.

He had the talent; he just needed a break. He would lie, cheat, and steal if he had to. “I’ll sell my soul to the devil if that’s what I need to do.” He was only barely aware of those slurred words slipping quietly from his lips as the spirits he had consumed carried him to the land of the Sandman.

When He had awakened in his chair feeling like hell and soaked in urine, Grayson knew it would be a struggle to get to work on time this morning. He wasn’t a big drinker and now he knew why. A few weak cocktails to unwind had usually been his limit, and he figured it should probably stay that way.

With great effort, he dragged his pounding head and malodorous stiffened body from the comfortable chair that had served as his bed last night. He placed his hand on the cushion and was at least glad to find that his pants and undergarments had borne the brunt of his nighttime bladder evacuation. A light scrubbing and some fabric refresher should do the trick, but that would have to wait until later. Right now he had more important tasks that needed to be done.

He managed to get cleaned up and out the door so he wasn’t late. It was a good thing that the book store didn’t open until 10:00. It wasn’t as if it mattered anyway. With online ordering and e-books, and given the laziness that seemed to have consumed people today, the small bookstore kept just enough customers to stay afloat. It brought in just enough to cover the store’s rent, utilities on it and his house, his mortgage, and supported his simple lifestyle.

Even though he owned Bachelder Books he was a stickler for being on time. In the six years since his parents had financially helped him to open the small store, the doors had always opened at precisely 10:00 a.m. Monday through Saturday. He normally loved being here, but given his current condition he wished today was Sunday.

The small bell that hung above the door and always went off when a customer entered the store annoyed him on his way in this morning. He usually enjoyed the ding of the bell because it meant someone was here to spend money or at the very least to have a conversation. He just wasn’t himself today and he had even almost forgotten to flip the sign inside the door to read “open”.

He made sure there was sufficient cash in the register to make change and as always put his notebook and pen on the counter in case a new and brilliant idea for a story came to him. He doubted that would happen today given the fog that clouded his head. He sat on the small stool behind the counter and let his mind wander.

Even in his less than perky state he still was grateful for his small business. He did love books and was fortunate to spend six days a week surrounded by them. They were his friends, teachers, and on most days, welcome companions. Through the haze in his mind that lingered from last night’s pity party, he thought about the irony of being encompassed by books and not one with his name on the binder. It seemed particularly painful today, but he was thankful that he’d been able to pay the bills doing what he enjoyed since opening the shop.

Grayson had been smart enough to know he couldn’t compete with the big chain stores or the internet. The only way he had been able to make a living from his small book store was to offer what they didn’t. He specialized in hard to find literature and perhaps part of his selection was considered taboo in a family oriented market. In any case it was a large chunk of his business.

One section in particular in the back corner of the store housed such reading material. It was the place that attracted many of his younger customers. They usually wore crazy black clothes with even crazier hair and seemed to gravitate to that area. It was the part of the store in which Grayson spent the least amount of time.

Today he found himself standing unwittingly in front of that very section of books on the occult, wondering how he had gotten here. He didn’t remember walking to the ominous publications that sometimes gave him the creeps. He exclusively wrote and read horror novels, but this stuff was a little too real for him. Some people thought that these books were a door to the dark side and that scared him, but here he stood anyway.

He perused the titles on the paranormal, sorcery, witchcraft and the like. His eyes came to rest on one book in particular titled “The Novices Guide to Demonology; Summoning and Communicating with Fallen Angels”. A shiver went down his spine as his hand went against his will and snatched a seemingly old book from the shelf.

The cover made him uneasy. It looked like a painting from the dark ages depicting a hideous winged creature on a chain being held by a triumphant looking man wearing battle armor. The warrior seemed to be in control of the demon, which by all appearances seemed to be submissive to his master. The image was more than a little disturbing to Grayson. He intended to return the book to its spot, but instead he walked back to his usual post behind the counter at the front of the store. He deposited the book on a shelf beneath the register and tried to carry on with business as usual.

Throughout the day he would peek under the counter and the eerie publication peered back at him. Several times he wanted to put the unsettling writing back where he had gotten it from, but for some reason he just couldn’t seem to do it. He felt out of sorts all day and couldn’t put his finger on why he had even taken the book from its home.

A hazy thought, which may or may not have been an actual memory from the night before, slowly crept its way to the forefront of his brain. He had said he would sell his soul to the devil if that was what he needed to do to get what he wanted. That was more unnerving than his sinister companion under the register.

At the end of the day, business had been what it usually was. There had been enough customers making enough purchases to pay the bills. The patrons were the usual mix of older folks, bookworms, and the weird black clad kids who lingered at the back section that Grayson had visited this morning. With the exception of his acquisition of the item under the counter, it had been a day like any other.

At 7:00 p.m. Grayson turned the “open” sign to read “closed” and locked the door. He tallied the day’s take and put what cash there was along with the credit receipts in a small safe hidden beneath where the book rested. He did his normal cleaning for the day and prepared to leave. There was just one more order of business to take care of. It was time to put this foolishness to rest.

He went to his stool, pausing momentarily before retrieving the book on demonology. He snatched it up, and clutched the bound pages containing ancient words to his chest. After a few deep breaths he was ready to make his way to the rear of the store to return it to its rightful place. He never made it there. His legs submitted to an unknown influence and instead he exited the building and locked the door. With book in hand, he headed for home.