THE PHONE WAS ANSWERED ON the seventh ring.
“Ballyhoo Curiosities.”
“Carl Pugliese?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Allison Moore.”
Carl didn’t respond.
“Are you there?” she asked.
“Yes.” He coughed. “We’re not open yet.”
“I thought you opened at ten.”
“We do.”
“It’s ten.”
“So it is.” The mumble that followed could have been an apology. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to show you something. My brother, Parker, said you might be able to help me with an unusual item.”
“Ah, Parker.” Carl’s voice grew a few degrees warmer. “Yes, a good man, your brother. How is he?”
“He’s fine.”
“Good, good.”
She glanced at the office lobby and saw Linda looking her direction. Allison went to her door and shut it. She didn’t need Linda, or anyone else for that matter, overhearing the conversation.
“Now,” Carl said, “what, pray tell, is the item you’d like to talk to me about?”
“A journal.”
“Journals are not unusual.”
“This one is.”
“How so?”
“I’d rather discuss that in person.” She pictured the journal tucked away safely in her desk drawer at home.
“Fine. Do you have the store hours?”
“I’d like to show you the journal in private.”
“And I’d like to keep my policy of never meeting with clients outside of store hours unblemished.”
“I’m not a client.”
“You’re not looking to sell this item?”
“No, I have no desire to sell this journal. But I do want to try to understand some things about it. Learn the history. Ask you questions about it.”
“That will cost you.”
“I see.” Allison swallowed. “How much?”
“That depends, naturally, on how long I need to examine the journal to provide you with the answers you seek. And since you have not deemed me worthy enough for you to describe the journal over the phone, I have no idea how much time it will take.”
“It’s old. Seems to be, to me.”
“And do you mind telling me what that assessment is based on?”
Allison blushed. “I felt it.”
“Ah, I see. A serious scholar.”
“It’s just a feeling.”
“Anything else you’d like to tell me before we meet?”
Allison paused. Should she tell Carl now or wait? She swallowed and said, “Words that were in the journal when I got it disappeared. And new words showed up a day later. And then I wrote in it, and then those words that I wrote changed.” Allison paused, then added, “And I’m not crazy.”
Carl didn’t respond.
“Are you there, Mr. Pugliese?”
“Not Mr. Pugliese. Carl, please.” The voice warmed at least five more degrees.
“Sure.”
Again, silence.
“I’m not making this up. It happened. I’m an extremely stable person.”
“Hmm.”
All Allison heard was Carl’s breathing.
“Carl?”
His voice was quiet and almost monotone. “Do you mind repeating what you said a moment ago, so that I’m clear? About the words?”
“I said there are words that have disappeared and reappeared in it. And words I wrote—and I know what I wrote—have changed.”
Carl’s voice was now quite warm. “When do you want to meet?”
“I can leave work today at six. I can be to your store by seven, maybe a few minutes earlier.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
A few clusters of people wandered up and down the sidewalks on both sides of the street as Allison parked her car on Main Street in downtown Ballard. She got out and clipped toward the address she’d pulled up on her phone. The two restaurants she passed were crammed to capacity. The smell of Mexican food surrounded her as she scanned the buildings to her right for Ballyhoo Curiosities.
There. Found it. Allison read a wood sign that hung from a thick iron beam.
WHAT ARE WE? SOMETHING BETWEEN A LIBRARY OF THE STRANGEST TOMES, A NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM, AND AN ANTIQUE STORE. STEP INSIDE TO DISCOVER AN ECLECTIC ARRAY OF ALL THINGS UNUSUAL, UNIQUE, AND POSSIBLY NOT FROM THIS PLANET. WE CELEBRATE THE ART THAT EXISTS IN NATURE AS WELL AS THE ART THAT HUMANKIND HAS ACHIEVED BOTH CROSS-CULTURALLY AND THROUGHOUT HISTORY.
Allison cupped her hands around her face and peered inside. Darkness shrouded the store. She could make out shelves on the right and left, walls full of books and what looked like masks. In the middle of the store, three long tables sat but were covered in too much shadow for her to make out the objects lying on them. One looked like a skull.
At the very back of the shop, a thin slice of light pressed out from under a door. The light dimmed, then grew bright again, then dimmed, as if a person paced behind the door.
Allison knocked and the light held steady. She waited. Five seconds. Ten. The door stayed shut. Allison rapped on the doorframe again. Harder. A few seconds later the door at the back opened a quarter inch, maybe less. A finger of light now framed the door in a warm gold tone.
Another ten seconds ticked by. Allison was about to level a third knock on the door when the door at the back swung halfway open and the person Allison assumed to be Carl stepped into the frame. The lean man couldn’t have been over five six. He was backlit, the light from his office putting him in silhouette.
He stood that way for three or four seconds. Staring at Allison? Allison couldn’t see Carl’s eyes, but she felt them. Five more seconds before Carl patted his doorframe twice, then strode toward Allison, weaving in and out of the tables like a cobra. As he did, a shiver slid down Allison’s neck. Not from standing in the cool night air. From a thick sensation she shouldn’t have come.