One of my favorite indie bookstores——Split Rock Books up in Cold Spring, NY——hosted a spooky short story contest this year. Stories had to be 1500 words or less, and had to feature the bookstore in some way. Of course, I immediately knew I had to enter. And that my story would heavily feature Buster, their bookstore cat.
I’m sharing here my entry, “Bookworm,” which was named a runner-up in the contest! (And don’t worry: Buster lives, of course.) I won a gift card for my efforts, and I very much look forward to spending it someday soon.
Bookworm
By Katie McGuire
It wasn’t the prettiest day for a jaunt up to Cold Spring. It rained the entire trip, droplets streaking down the windows of our Metro-North train until we got to town. But our first stop was hot drinks and pastries at the coffee shop on Main Street, so I was in better spirits as we crossed the street to head to Split Rock Books.
My friend Kelsey immediately started sifting through fiction new releases on the front table, but I stepped a bit deeper into the store. To my left was the counter and register, though there was no one behind it——only Buster, the shop cat I recognized from Kelsey showing me the shop’s Instagram, unbothered as he licked his paw and ran it over his face.
It was a Sunday in early December, definitely no longer the “season” to be in Upstate New York. But the train had expelled a number of other day-trippers along with us. Where had they all gone?
As if in answer, a few choice raindrops slapped against the bookstore’s front windows, and I glanced outside to see that the clouds had grown darker and heavier, promising storms. Maybe the other tourists had just found another indoor spot to hole up in.
“Hey, isn’t it——” I began, but cut myself off with a laugh when I turned to Kelsey and saw that she already had two books in hand.
She narrowed her eyes at me, but a few titters broke through. “What?” she demanded.
“How did you already find something to buy?” I replied, shaking my head.
“I like books,” she shot back, holding up one of her treasures in each hand. “Sue me.”
Still laughing, I turned away and began picking through a table of nonfiction titles. Buster decided to join me, hopping down from the counter and popping up to settle comfortably across new releases from a few big-name authors.
“Is it always this quiet in here?” I asked, while reading the summary on a back cover.
“Pretty quiet, I guess,” Kelsey replied. “But there are usually a couple of people wandering around whenever I come in.”
“I guess the bookseller’s on . . . break?” I suggested.
When Kelsey didn’t reply, I looked over at her. Her eyes were cast down, now entranced by something in the horror section. I walked over to join her, and once I’d rounded the short, free-standing shelves, gave a huff of amusement and exasperation. She’d added three new books to her collection, holding all five absently against her hip like she might hold a baby.
“Kels,” I said, a slight note of admonishment in my tone.
She didn’t look at me, her fingers pacing slowly down the top shelf.
“I thought you were trying to watch your spending,” I said. I looked pointedly at the books again. “And that you were running out of room in your apartment.”
She reached the end of the shelf, paused for a beat, and then her fingers began dancing back the way they’d come, occasionally tapping the spines of books I assumed were of interest.
“Not to be an ungrateful houseguest,” I went on, “but your place does kind of feel like a fire hazard as it is.”
Her fingers paused at the opposite end of the shelf, then slid gracefully down the side of the bookcase and began dancing down the next shelf.
“Kelsey,” I said firmly. “I’m talking to you.”
Her fingers paused partway down the shelf, and spasmed. But then they picked up their rhythm again, gallivanting toward the opposite end of the shelf.
“Do you really need all of these?” I asked, reaching out for the top book on her stack.
Immediately, Kelsey pulled away from my outstretched hand and wrapped both arms protectively around her books. I noticed that she had also managed to snatch a sixth from the shelf.
“I like books,” she hissed.
“Jesus, fine,” I said, putting my hands up and taking a step away. “It’s your money.”
She stared at me, teeth bared, but when I didn’t make another move, she returned her attention to the bookshelves.
“Are you . . . okay, Kels?” I asked.
Her fingers paused, but she didn’t look up. “I’m fine,” she replied dully.
“Sure. All right.” We could talk about it over lunch.
I wandered off, looking at a few fiction picks and then moving to the graphic novels in the back room. I heard the rain drumming steadily against the ground outside. Then I felt eyes on my face and turned to my right, where Buster sat on the floor a few feet away, tail curled politely over his front paws.
“What’s up, buddy?” I squatted down and held out a hand, and after a beat, Buster came over and sniffed at it tentatively.
And then there was a crash and a groan from somewhere deep in the store.
Buster sprinted away and I stood abruptly. “What the hell was that?” I said, loud enough for Kelsey to hear me. When she didn’t respond, I turned toward where I’d left her.
At first, I thought an entire case of books had lurched toward me. When I looked closer, I saw Kelsey’s familiar face peering out from the stacks of books that she held. And it wasn’t just that she had somehow collected dozens more books in her arms; they clung to her, to her back, her legs, her torso.
My brain had filled with the dull roar of racing thoughts, as Kelsey lumbered toward me. Behind me, another door burst open and stacks of books, about level with my knees, rushed out. I stumbled back and tripped over the leg of the nonfiction table, hitting the ground hard. From my new vantage point, I saw that the emerging creature wasn’t just a series of book stacks, but was, like the book creature that had once been Kelsey, a person covered in books. Though, no, not one person——multiple people, crawling on their hands on knees, an endless, skittering line of books crawling toward me.
I pushed myself to my feet, breathing too ragged to allow the horrified scream building in my chest to escape my lips. I turned my head to keep my eyes on Kelsey——or what had once been her——and dodged as she launched herself at me with a rustling of pages. She hit the floor, and as I watched, horrified, her bookish body was absorbed into the bookworm scrambling toward me.
“Kelsey . . . ?” I said, my voice a harsh whisper, frozen to the spot.
A stack of children’s books tumbled off a table in the back room, and both the creature and I turned sharply to see Buster, one front paw still poised for mischief, standing atop the stacks.
The bookworm slithered around and moved quickly toward its new prey. I was no athlete, but I was determined to get there first——Buster had saved me, and I was going to get my new little friend out safe. I threw myself forward, hurdling over the worm, and snatched Buster from the table. He gave an indignant squawk as I caught him under the arms and then pressed him close to my chest.
I turned briefly to gauge how close the worm was, then turned and ran to the back of the store. The bookworm followed, its heavy hardcover feet clomping on the wooden floors, and as it paused to rear back and devour us, I lunged left and sprinted around the displays and tables in the children’s section. The bookworm screeched in rage and doubled in on itself, then straightened out and clambered after me. I hit the front door and yanked it open, nearly crying in relief to find it unlocked, the little bell above the door tinkling merrily to herald my exit.
I sprinted down the middle of Main Street, feeling the stares of the few tourists who were out in the rain, clutching Buster hard to my heaving chest. My feet slipped on the slick asphalt and I skidded to a halt and turned, to see if the monster had grown closer.
Instead of the bookworm, all I saw were stacks of soggy books running down Main Street, from the bookstore’s front door to just behind me. Pages turned to pulp in the unforgiving rain, leaving behind only the ruined books and no sign of the people——of my friend——who had been taken into the worm.
Shivering, I took shelter under the Pretty Good Pub’s awning and ran a hand absently over Buster’s sodden head, assuring him that we were going to be okay.
In the street, a few pages stirred. I told myself they were only being moved by the winds of the storm.
