A Rare Book Store

He pulled to the curb at the address he'd been given. All the buildings looked seedy, dark and foreboding. A look of decay hung over them, staining the bricks and casting a murky light over the dusty windows in the darkening night. He looked at the writing on his notepad, double checking that he was in the right place. Satisfied that he was, he stepped out of his car into the brisk night. He locked the BMW behind him with a push on his keypad, the car uttering an electronic beep.

No markings or signs pointed him in the right direction, and all the store fronts looked the same. He scratched the back of his head. Melvin liked to have an excuse to stick his fingers in his hair, assuring himself that it was still there; of all the things that had happened to him, at least he wasn't bald. He looked from door to door, wondering which was the right one.

He'd have to blindly pick one and choose. No guts, no glory.

Being a Rolling Stones fan, he picked the door painted black, the paint peeling in strips at the top and bottom like picked-over scabs. He figured it was his best bet anyway since it most appeared to match the address he'd been given. A swaying handwritten sign proclaiming the shop was "Open" hung in a shadowy window.

Melvin pushed his way through the door and knew he'd made a mistake as soon as he took a step inside. A few books sat on the shelves that lined the store walls, but these were far outnumbered by jars of strange looking ingredients. Melvin tossed a nervous glance to his right at one of these jars, one that seemed to be full of eyeballs. One of the eyes floated in the greenish fluid, turning to glare at him. Melvin began to back away, his hand reaching behind him to find the door handle so he could make his exit.