Bryan Beal

Consume

© 2022, Bryan Beal

Aden stared into the maw of his own demise. His mind could not quite grasp what was happening to him, until Greg pointed out that the maw was a half-drunk bottle of cheap bourbon. Aden stared at his best mate blankly. He was sure he felt some dribble wander down his chin.

“You sure you're ok to walk home?”, Gregg asked, looking at Aden on the street.

From his place leaning against a shop window, a Gucci boutique whose doorway he had just used to relieve himself, Aden nodded vague assurances that he was perfectly capable of getting himself home. Greg was half cut himself, or he would not have accepted Aden's promises. He did. Aden feebly waved as Greg walked over to the taxi rank to get a ride to his own pad, a few miles away.

Aden managed to get his feet under him. He ambled and shuffled only to find himself in a side street with oddly old shops and buildings all around him. He might have been drunk, but he was sure he had never seen this street before. Some of the shops were ramshackle and dilapidated. Paint was peeling on most and had totally gone on many. Weeds pushed through the pavement, a stark contrast to the rest of the pristine city that only the Swiss could keep so clean. Aden gawped about like a lost child. He peered around him, suddenly realising that a miasma had crept up on him. Choking and smothering, it followed a sickly mist that clung to every fibre of the man.

Aden pushed on along the street. Cheap bourbon promised that the street led somewhere close to home. About three hundred yards along the street, Aden found one store that looked as new as the day it first opened. The bright sign out front identified it as a book shop of rare quality and erudition. It assured passers-by that the store catered to the most refined of minds. Aden liked to think he would be among them. Most of the time, people would have agreed. With a bottle of bourbon in him, that was less apparent. Still, the promise of books and a store that was open all hours was too much for the man to walk past.

He pushed the door open, a little too forcefully. He apologised to the attendant at the counter against the far end of the store. On his left and right, Aden saw shelved piled with dusty tomes, some leather bound and others paperback. All of them were in perfect condition. There was not even a mote of dust on any. Aden squinted at them and leaned in to check.

“Greetings, reveller. What brings you to our humble store?”, the attendant asked, a little too obsequious for Aden's taste.

“I'm just browsing.”, Aden said. At least, that is what he hoped came out.

“A reader of your obvious erudition and refinement might find the counter volumes more to your tastes.”, the attendant suggested.

Aden looked at him for a moment. Something was odd about the man and the way his seemed to be choking on his words. But then the promise of rare and exotic tomes tore all such thoughts away. Aden approached with his eyes firmly fixed on the tomes that were locked inside the counter.

Aden screamed.

Howled.

Wailed like a sick banshee.

Thin tendrils of soft, cartilage reached out and grabbed his arms. Very quickly, more had anchored his legs. All of them were dragging to the counter. All he could smell was mould and fungal spores as the tendrils hauled him closer. Aden made a dumb, but understandable, decision. He looked up.

The attendant's mouth was wide open, much more than humanly possible. He looked like a snake swallowing a rat. The thin lines that had wrapped Aden up extended from the attendant's mouth. A writhing mass of living, alien matter that was hauling Aden in. Aden struggled and pulled, but to no avail.

Darkness. Depth. Void.

#Horror #Lovecraftian #ShortFiction

Image: Photo by Warren Umoh on Unsplash