Nearly Departed by Max Schlienger (read novels website .TXT) 📗

“Doctor!”

There was, as always, a sort of ritual associated with entering the tiny curio shop, and enduring the enthusiastic greeting of its owner was Dennis’ least favorite. Many similar shops could be found in the Bay Area, particularly in the right (or wrong) sections of San Francisco, but it was the man, standing behind a row of jewelry cases at the store’s left wall, that made this one unique. He was well over six feet tall, maybe pushing seven, with the darkest skin that Dennis had ever seen. He wore a long ponytail of smooth dreadlocks bound together by a piece of hemp string. There was also something odd about the way that the man moved, but Dennis had never been able to put his finger on it. He was incredibly friendly, but there was an intensity to him which suggested, in no uncertain terms, that it would be a good idea to adhere to the rules he had laid down for the store. This was why Dennis would scuff his feet on the worn doormat, dip his fingers in the shallow stone basin of water that was just inside the entrance, and breathe in some of the trailing smoke from the numerous sticks of incense that were perpetually smoldering atop a roughly-hewn wooden table. After the ceremony was complete, thus allegedly insuring that any demons that might have been clinging to Dennis were now exorcised, the giant of a man would come flying over and eagerly greet him with a rib-crushing hug.

“So good to see you, my friend!” he bellowed, his thick accent making his already resonate voice sound even deeper. He spread his hands above his head and grinned down with a mouthful of impossibly white teeth. “You are back for more tools, yes? More to help with the hunt!” He grabbed Dennis’ arm and all but dragged him further into the shop. His long, robe-like shirt billowed behind him as he moved to one corner, where a dusty glass case stood with locked doors. Like every other surface in the shop, its interior was lined with objects that managed to avoid classification. There were small woodcarvings, polished stones, bits of sculpted metal, and one or two items which were presumably ornate utensils of a sort.

“Actually, I only need another candle today, Draadtrekker,” Dennis replied, stumbling as he always did on the pronunciation of the man’s name. This shop was the one place where Doctor September did not speak with an accent, if only because it would have made any attempts at conversation sound more like a gargling competition.

“Oh, but Mister Doctor! Such things do I have today, things you would not believe!” He pulled Dennis around again, stopping in front of a bookshelf that had been filled with crystals of various sizes and colors. To the best of Dennis’ knowledge, the store’s inventory had never changed, but it was probably rearranged and reorganized more frequently than it made a sale. Draadtrekker pawed through the shelves with one hand, keeping the other fixed on Dennis’ arm.

“I just need a candle, and I’m in a bit of a hurry,” said Dennis, letting a trace of impatience drift into his voice.

“Time will wait, time will wait,” Draadtrekker responded. “One thing I am finding for you, only one, and – ah!” he exclaimed, pulling forth a thumb-sized black stone. He held it in front of Dennis’ face, displaying the finely-etched designs that covered its surface. “Great magic in this! Here, take, hold!” He thrust the stone into Dennis’ palm and held it in place. “You feel the power, yes? Such power it is!” He launched into a dramatic story of the stone’s origins, which Dennis tuned out for the most part. Normally, this was the sort of thing that made him choose Draadtrekker’s shop over the numerous clones that dotted the Bay Area. The man’s ability to tell stories was both gripping and impressive, and Dennis felt an odd sort of kinship with him, but at the moment he was more concerned with obtaining the necessary implements for his latest charade.

“I’m sure it’s great, but really, I only need a candle.” He met Draadtrekker’s gaze. Was that a trace of amusement there?

“A gift then, Doctor,” Draadtrekker said. “No, please, a gift for you, my favorite customer!” He finally released his grip, leaving the stone in Dennis’ hand, and hurried over to the cash register at the opposite wall. “You say a candle? Just one? And black, for you, always black.” He opened a drawer and dug through it, making a show of squinting at an invisible label on each of the paper-wrapped cylinders. Dennis sauntered over, taking the time to examine the black stone as he walked. It was smooth and cool to the touch, and the symbols carved on it looked like an archaic depiction of wind, or possibly palm trees, if he held it at the right angle.

“Ah, a black candle!” declared Draadtrekker, holding out the object. “You are sure this is all you want? Perhaps I can show you –”

“Just the candle.” Draadtrekker’s smile broadened, if that was possible, and he held out his hand. Even his mannerisms were a bit off-putting, Dennis thought, counting a few bills out into Draadtrekker’s waiting palm.

“You take care of that stone, Doctor. There is much power in it.”

“I’m sure I’ll be able to put it to good use,” replied Dennis. He dropped the stone into his coat’s inside pocket and then took the candle from where it sat on the jewelry case. After exchanging a final nod with the shop’s owner, he walked briskly towards the door. Before he could open it, though, he was stopped by the sound of an impatient noise from behind him. With a sigh, Dennis reached over and snatched one of the smoldering incense sticks. He traced a wide circle of smoke through the air in front of the door, then replaced the stick in its holder. The ritual complete, he turned to look back