Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 70779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
My fear lessened considerably. If there was some kind of threat waiting for me inside the shop, my cat would have been much more on edge. She’s extremely perceptive about people, which was one reason I never should have trusted Carlo—Miss Sassy hated him right from the start.
“Okay, all right—I know I missed feeding you breakfast,” I said, reaching down to stroke her soft calico fur. She twined around my legs once more and then looked up and said,
“Mmmmmrow?” which translated from cat language meant, “Well? Are you coming in to feed me?”
“Yes, I’m coming,” I told her. “Here, I don’t want you tripping me.”
I scooped her into my arms and carried her with me as I stepped into the shop.
At first, everything seemed okay. I didn’t see anyone and nothing looked out of place. It wasn’t until I had opened a can of wet food and put it out for Miss Sassy that I heard a sound coming from the front of the shop.
The sound froze me in place. It was a kind of snuffling, crackling sound and I had no idea what—or who—could be making it. I suddenly wished that I had bought that taser I’d been thinking about getting for self defense.
Keeping low and creeping quietly, I peeked out into the front of my shop.
There, sitting on the floor with his legs splayed out, was an old man in a ragged gray coat. He was eating his way through the display of pralines and candied pecans, which accounted for the snuffling and crackling sounds. There were plastic wrappers scattered all around him.
My heart—which had been beating triple time—began to slow. I knew who the intruder was and he was harmless.
“Mr. Joe?” I called, stepping out from behind the counter. Mr. Joe was a homeless man who hung around the street corner near my shop. I gave him spare change sometimes when he asked.
“Huh?” He jerked his head up and stared at me with dull blue eyes. “What’chu want?” he demanded. There were bits of pecan in his dirty gray beard.
“I want for you to stop eating up all my inventory,” I told him. Leaning down, I got a hand under his arm. He smelled strongly of urine and I grimaced as I lifted. “Come on now—you know better than this, Mr. Joe. There’s a mission that will give you all the food you want just down the way.”
“They always make me listen to preachin’ to get any damn food. I hate preachin’!” he grumbled but he seemed willing to be lifted to his feet. I shook my head at the mess he’d made of the praline display, but things could have been so much worse—I really couldn’t complain.
And then things got worse.
I had ushered him to the front door of the shop and was in the act of pushing him gently but firmly back outside when he twisted suddenly, shaking loose of my grip.
“Hey—what…?” I began, but I never got any further.
Mr. Joe glared at me and I saw that his dull blue eyes were now a blazing red.
“You left it open…left it open,” he hissed and his face contorted into a demonic mask of hateful glee. The corners of his mouth turned up and he grinned, showing broken brown teeth still sticky with the remnants of the sweet candy he’d been eating.
“Left…left what open? Mr. Joe? Is that you?” My voice was shaking. He looked so evil.
I tried to tell myself he was just a harmless old man, but I was suddenly filled with terror. I had never seen him look like this—never seen him act like this. Mostly he just wandered up and down the street mumbling to himself and asking tourists for change. What was going on here?
“Expect a visitor tonight,” he hissed at me and his grin got even wider. His breath was foul enough to make me gag—a horrid mixture of rotten teeth, whiskey, and the sweet, sugary pralines. I thought I might never want to eat one again.
Then, suddenly, it was over. Mr. Joe slumped in the doorway and nearly fell. I grabbed him instinctively by the arm and when he looked up at me, his eyes were the same dull blue they’d been when I first saw him.
“Wha’ happened? Where am I?” he mumbled, looking dazed.
“You’re in my shop but you’re leaving now,” I said, trying to control the shaking in my voice. Had something just inhabited him? Some creature from The Pit, as Pop-pop had called it? He’d said that I left the door open—was he talking about the door I had accidentally opened when I tried to contact Big Nicky’s mother?
I pushed Mr. Joe firmly out onto the street and closed the door behind him. It was almost time to open up for tourists, but I locked it anyway—I needed time to clean up the mess and be alone in my home for a moment.