999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [283]
Grabbing the ring of keys from the shelf beneath the register, he hurried around the counter to the front door. He fumbled for the right key, found it, and slipped it into the slot, turning until there was an audible click. He flipped the window sign over, from “Yes We’re OPEN” to “Sorry We’re CLOSED,” then ran as quickly as he could to the bathroom at the back of the store.
He made it just in time.
It was with a welcome unhurried sense of relief that Putnam walked back out into the little utility alcove at the rear of the store. Glancing up as he finished buckling his belt, he found himself looking at the narrow wooden door directly across from the bathroom. He frowned. He’d been working at the bookstore for nearly a month now, since school had gotten out, and while he knew he had seen the door before, he had never really taken notice of it.
Something about that bothered him.
He reached out and attempted to turn the faded metal knob, but the door was locked. He rattled the knob and considered trying some of the other keys on the ring to see if one of them would open the door, but then thought he’d better ask Mr. Carr first. It was probably just a closet, but there might be a storage room for rare books or something back there, and he didn’t want to get into any trouble.
Pocketing the keys, he walked back out to the front of the store.
He asked Mr. Carr about the door the next morning, while taking inventory. He’d expected the old man to simply tell him what was back there, to explain, in the same bored, slightly condescending voice in which he explained everything else, what was in the room. He was not prepared for the reaction he received.
Fear.
Terror.
It was like something out of a movie. Mr. Carr grew visibly pale, the color draining from his cheeks and lips, and his eyes widened comically. He reached out, grabbed Putnam’s arm and squeezed, bony fingers digging painfully into muscle. “You didn’t go up there, did you?
“Up where? I just asked what was behind the door.”
Mr. Carr licked his lips. “It’s my fault. I should’ve told you before.” He loosened his grip, his hand dropping, but his voice remained frightened. “There’s a stairway behind the door. It leads up to a theater. These shops here"—he gestured toward the wall and, presumably, the boutique and dress store beyond—“used to be connected. Upstairs was a theater. The first opera theater in this part of the state, and the only one ever in this county. For a while, in the early 1900s, before the owners went bankrupt, they attracted top talent. Caruso performed here. A lot of big stars did. But there weren’t enough people around here at that time to support such a theater, and they went out of business. The building was empty for a while, then someone else bought it and divided the bottom floor into these shops. The top floor and the theater were sealed off.”
Putnam waited, expecting more, but the old man turned away, bending down to examine the stack of books at his feet. Putnam remained unmoving. He stared down at Mr. Carr’s hands as the old man picked up a dusty leatherbound volume. The book wavered in the shop owner’s trembling grasp. Why was Mr. Carr so frightened? He thought of asking, but as he gazed down at the shiny bald spot nestled in the middle of the old man’s thin white hair, he decided against it.
He knelt down to help with the inventory.
On Sundays, Putnam worked alone. Mr. Carr always did his book buying on Sunday, hitting the swap meets, estate sales and thrift shops, leaving Putnam to manage the store by himself. Like most small businesses in the older downtown area, the bookstore closed at six on this day, and Putnam was usually home in time to catch 60 Minutes.
But tonight he had other plans.
He locked up at five