Dear Diary - a short horror story by me
“I got the book around mid-April. Having always been a connoisseur of rare and antique tomes, I was overjoyed when a specialty bookstore dealing in just that opened within walking distance of my apartment. As soon as I got the chance, I stopped by on my way home from where I work — well, worked — at a newsroom for ***** Times.
“Obviously, book collecting is not a cheap hobby, and I had happened to be a bit short on cash at that point, so I wasn’t exactly in the financial position to make a large purchase, but I still wanted to pop in for a quick look at their stock.
“Before I even got the chance to touch the handle of the old wooden door, I could smell the dry, musty scent of dust so common in places like these. I found this a bit odd, considering the store had only been open for a short while, but excitement has a way of dulling your common sense. Upon entering, a small bell jingled, signaling my arrival to the owner, who seemed to be somewhere in the back of the store. From the inside, the building felt tall and claustrophobic, as well as being a good deal narrower than it seemed from the outside. The shelves had such a precarious tilt to them I was almost certain they would topple over.
“The little shop had the standard selection of rarities, which sounds like an oxymoron, but does come to make sense after you’ve been interested in antique books for long enough. There really didn’t seem to be anything special, at least not in the display cases or on the front shelves. At any rate, it had been getting late and I was going to make my partner’s favorite dinner to celebrate their promotion, so I didn’t have much time to linger. I left the store without a glimpse of the owner. Even now I don’t know what they may have looked like, and I have no way of knowing anymore. Maybe there was never anybody there in the first place.
“After saving up for a bit, I once again set foot in that horrible place. Like before, no one was at the counter or strolling the aisles. It continued this way for the entirety of two months. Every couple days I would enter to find it just as silent as my previous visit. What was especially odd was that I could have sworn the stock was changing, like people were buying and selling things on a regular basis. The only sounds I ever heard in that wretched place were the chiming of the bell above the door and the occasional, heavy sound of a shifting movement from the back of the shop, almost akin to dragging a heavy piece of furniture across a tile floor. That scraping sound still echoes in my mind. All this was off-putting, sure, but I had no reason to be legitimately scared. I managed to convince myself that maybe the time I got off work just happened to be less busy for whatever reason, maybe this was the time the owner did cataloguing in the back. A thousand little reassurances to shield myself from something I knew wasn’t quite right.
“Over time it became a small habit of mine to browse the little shop whenever I could, and I often found that I’d turned up there with no memory of the walk. Again, somehow, this didn’t quite worry me. It’s not like I could last in the wilderness or anything, but I’m not stupid. I do have some level of survival instincts. I guess that doesn’t really matter though. I never questioned how I was drawn to the store. All my memories of the walk on the day I found that — that thing are gone.
“To understand how this occurred you must know a shameful secret of mine: I never actually read the old books I buy. My real reason for purchasing them is their ornate appearances. It feels grounding to be surrounded by objects so ancient and beautiful. Plus, it makes you look like you’re a more interesting person than you actually are. As a child, I never really had any hobbies or special interests, so the second I had enough money to do so, I jumped at the chance to make myself a bit more interesting. This is why when I found that empty book, I took it. The cover was a dark, deep blue and the formal, gold lettering on the cover read “Memorias Diu Periit.” When I saw it, my immediate reaction was to steal... so I did. The store owner was never visible and there didn’t seem to be any security, so I just walked out with it, simple as that. I mean I’m not some kleptomaniac, and I definitely could have paid the price printed on the inside cover, but the impulse to steal was so overwhelming I felt practically compelled to take the thing.
“While walking uptown to my apartment and admiring the texture and look of the leather binding, I had the idea to use it as a diary of sorts. As you probably expected, I can’t speak Latin but I did however make the rather obvious connection that “Memorias” meant “memories,” so it seemed fitting.
“I began writing as soon as I got home, wanting to start before the excitement faded and I changed my mind. The entry was nothing special, just a short introduction to my current circumstances including my job, joys, struggles, and — and Adelaide. Adelaide, who deserved more than just a quick couple of sentences in a dusty, stolen journal. My poor, sweet Adelaide... I — I also included how I came across the book, the store.... everything. I went to bed feeling accomplished.
“When I woke nothing seemed off. I got ready as I normally did and passed the shop on my way to work... except for the fact that when I got there the big block of offices was simply... gone. I backtracked and double checked my route, but I was in the right place. But there was nothing there. Well, it wasn’t nothing, but there were definitely no offices. It was like they had never been there in the first place. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel panicked at this — I probably should have. I don’t know why I didn’t. I decided to go home. There was no thought behind the action, I just... did.
“On my way back I passed the shop, or what had been the shop, and that’s when I properly started to lose it. The shop, just like my office, no longer seemed to exist. Asking around, I found that the business owners nearby claimed that there hadn’t been a shop there in years. At this point my apartment seemed like the only safe place I could go to calm down and figure out what was happening. You can guess what I saw when I got there. Or rather, what I didn’t.
“Worst of all, they took Adelaide. They took her and now it’s like she never existed, but I know she did... she had to have. Memories of picnics, watching movies... they feel too real... too sharp to not have happened. I’m not crazy. I can’t prove any of this, of course, but I’m begging you to believe me. I need to get her back. The only thing I have left of her is the Polaroid I gave you. Please, please try to match it to someone. She was — no, is — real. I know it. You have to help me somehow. I can... I can already feel myself starting to fade.”
Attached is a Polaroid of one Lola Rimbaud and her supposed partner Adelaide Poe. There has never been an Adelaide Poe fitting this description as far as we can tell. A book titled “Memorias Diu Periit” has never existed. There are no records of the shop described.
Statement was taken on September 19, ****. Ms. Rimbaud is no longer with us, having been committed to a psychiatric ward shortly after providing her testimony, and, within a month, taking her own life.
****** Police Department, Detective Annabel Lee.
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