Page 2 of No One But Me
It's nothing.
I forced my hand to move. Grabbed the paperback. Shelved it between Morrison and Murakami.
It's always nothing.
This town wasn't dangerous. Not really. You got bar fights on weekends. Domestics the cops pretended not to hear. The occasional smash-and-grab at the gas station when some kid needed drug money. But nothing that ever touched me. Nothing that came looking.
Just someone cutting through. Taking shelter from the rain.
I reached over and switched off the reading nook lamp. The warm glow died. Shadows claimed half the store, turned the shelves into dark monoliths. The second lamp stayed on—the one near the register, spilling harsh fluorescent light across the counter and front window.
I moved three steps left. Put my back to the mystery section. From here I could see both the storage room door and that warped window in my peripheral vision. The register sat within arm's reach. Under it, the aluminum bat I'd never needed.
Rain pattered. The fluorescent bulb hummed.
Outside, beyond that distorted glass, something waited.
I couldn't see him clearly—just the suggestion of shape. Broad. Still. Not pressed against the window like someone trying to peer inside. Not moving at all.
Just... there.
Watching.
My pulse knocked steady against my ribs. I kept my breathing even. Didn't look directly at the window. Pretended to straighten books on the nearest shelf while every nerve in my body tracked that motionless shadow.
People ran. Or they screamed. Or they called the cops.
I did none of those things.
I waited.
Because running meant he'd know I'd seen him. Screaming meant I was prey. And the cops? They'd show up in twenty minutes, find nothing, and I'd be the paranoid woman who wasted their time.
So I stood there in my bookstore, surrounded by stories about people braver than me, and I didn't move.
I moved to the display table. Straightened the stacked paperbacks—three copies of The Night Circus, two Mexican Gothic, one Piranesi with a cracked spine I should've pulled weeks ago. The covers aligned. Corners flush. My fingers trembled just enough to make the stack uneven on the first try.
I tried again. Got it right.
The "Staff Favorites" sign hung crooked on its tiny easel. I adjusted it. Once. Twice. The cardstock refused to sit level. The tremor in my hands made the task impossible, turned something simple into a test I kept failing.
You're being ridiculous.
I left it. Grabbed the chalk from behind the register and crossed to the sandwich board near the door. Tomorrow's quote. I always wrote them the night before—gave customers something to see first thing, made the store feel curated. Intentional.
The chalk felt slick between my damp fingers.
You're not sixteen anymore.
I wrote: "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."—Maya Angelou
The letters came out uneven. The 'a' in 'agony' wobbled. I steadied my wrist against the board and finished. Good enough. It would do.
This town doesn't produce monsters.
Monsters lived in books. In fairy tales my mother used to read before she got sick, when I still believed happy endings were something you could earn through goodness or patience or sheer stubborn hope. Beasts that turned into princes. Wolves that wore grandmothers' faces. Demons trapped in lamps.
This was Castle Rock. Population twelve thousand. We produced foreclosures and failed marriages. Alcoholics and factory workers. People who peaked in high school and never left. We had an NHL team that saved this place every year in terms of tourism and our economy. We didn't produce monsters.
