Based of something a friend said one day
You push the door open, and a heavy rich perfume fills your senses. It's dim, and you cannot see very far into the shop. You step in, away from the bright sunlight, and let the door close behind you. You look around, blinking a bit as your eyes adjust. You look around, and realize you are surrounded by a riot of textures and colors, textiles piled on every surface, hiding whatever furniture may be under them. You see two paths, snaking away to either kitty corner, faint golden light beckoning you further in. Left, you decide, and drift down that path, trailing your fingertips along the fabrics as you go. You mentally catalogue the sensations as you move, velvet, silk, lace, cashmere… You pause, and take the scarf you just touched between your forefinger and thumb. Its odd, almost slick in sensation, more like the juice of a ripe peach running down your wrist than a fabric. You shift it towards the faint light, admiring the gossamer translucence, then let it slide over the back of your hand to rest amongst its brethren on the table. You turn back to your path. The strange scarf is intriguing, but not what has called you here. The soft sound of wind chimes finds you, as you push a heavy tapestry aside, ducking under as a strange silvery dust falls on you.
The strange perfume is stronger, almost visible on the air currents dancing around you. You look up as warm light hits your face streaming from an open skylight. You see the source of the chimes, hanging around the opening, clinking softly in the slight breeze. You look around the room, and see stacks upon stacks of books. There are narrow pathways weaving around, some normal, person sized, some so narrow you wonder if a sure footed pussycat would be able to traverse them. You catch a slight movement to your right, low. You turn your head sharply, but nothing is there. You huff a laugh. You could have sworn there was a miniscule woman just standing there, scowling at you. You reach over and pick up the book at the top of the stack. You smile as you read the title. “Gulliver’s Travels.” You open it, and there is an inscription in a masculine hand.
“To my darling Arriety,
May the Liliputians
Inspire you to defy
Your limitations, and
Remind you that you
Are capable of great things.
Love,
Papa.”
You smile, running your fingers over the ink, faded to sepia with time. You close the book, and lay it back down where you found it. You wander down a path for a bit, searching for that odd sensation, that tug that guided you to the door of this strange place. You found a copy of your childhood favorite book on your wander. Alice in Wonderland, and you wanted to purchase it. You finally feel the tug again, and follow it, straight to a wardrobe. You reach out a hand, and tentatively grasp the handle. An ethereal giggle sounds in your ear, you jump and instantly back away from the wardrobe, bumping a tall stack of books. It wobbles, and the books start tumbling down around you. You duck, holding Alice and friends up to protect your head. A glancing blow from a large almanac swings the door of the wardrobe open in front of you, and the tower you bumped crashes sideways, taking out the even taller tower next to it. You drop the Alice book and dive for the wardrobe door, shoving the coats away, hoping to escape a possible head injury. You push through the first layer, then a second. The coats are fur, and soft to the touch, and as you push through, looking for the back wall, just to lean against until the books stop falling, the scent of pine and something crisp, almost cold, and earthy fills your nose. The heavy perfume from before has dissipated, and all you can smell is these coats. You can now see a light in the near distance, and the coats, or clothes, or whatever is hanging in here have transitioned to something scratchy, rough, as though you're shoving through pine branches made of wool. You brush aside something, and it feels round, and smooth, like the christmas baubles your Grandmother used to hang on her Yule tree when you were a small child. The ground under you has transitioned from smooth wood to what feels like a plush carpet underfoot. You push past the last branches, and stumble into an open room.
This room looks like every winter holiday you have ever heard of, vomited 30 years worth of decor into this one space. You turn and see that what you had pushed out of seems to be a host of yule and christmas trees, fully decorated, unlit lights, garlands, baubles and all. You cannot make out where exactly you pushed through, as they are packed so tightly, and nearly reach the ceiling. They are so dense that you can’t tell where the wardrobe and those treacherous stacks of books are. There is no door in sight, nor any sort of obvious opening. You spin in a slow circle, trying to figure out where you should go next. The riotous decor is bright, and harsh to your eyes. You feel that now omnipresent tug pull you towards the right. There! Under a table! Two menorahs form a gate, with gift wrapped boxes forming a tight tunnel off into the distance. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound you think. That tug is drawing you forward, towards what you do not know. You kneel, and tug on the makeshift gate, It creaks, much louder than the size would imply. You take a deep breath of the pine and cinnamon air, and crawl into the tunnel.
It's a long tunnel, and at some points you are reduced to belly crawling, something you haven't experienced since an ill-fated spelunking adventure in your teens. You still wore the scars. Holly still lay in her makeshift tomb. Her parents offered you no blame, but you blame yourself. It was your idea, and you were the experienced one, even at 16. You shake those dark thoughts from your head, and continue crawling. It has grown darker, and you struggle to see in front of you. You shuffle forward, one hand, one leg, one hand, one leg, when suddenly the ground drops out from under you. You fall, sliding down a sharp slope, reaching out, trying to slow yourself. The walls are out of reach, and the ground is smooth, plastic like. You put your hands out in front of you, hoping to stop your fall at the bottom before your face ends up smashing into something.