Page 18 of A Witch’s Guide to Surviving Halloween

Chapter Twelve

We don’t hesitate. Within moments, Lucy and I are bolting up the stairs and through the back room. We burst onto the sales floor of Moonlit Pages and pause long enough to pick our jaws up off the floor, trying to process the utter chaos before us.

Throughout the store, books are not only floating off the shelves but also talking between themselves.

Except in one corner of the store, where the books aren’t so much as talking to a customer, they’re arguing in front of her.

The dumbfounded woman swings her head back and forth as if watching a tennis match while three thick tomes quarrel over the best high fantasy author.

“If you think George R. R. Martin is one of the greatest fantasy authors of our time, you should go throw yourself beneath the espresso maker right now to spare another unwitting soul from reading your small-minded filth!” a paperback screeches, its pages flapping wildly as it bounces up and down like an irate rabbit.

The aforementioned ‘filth’ of a book jerks back, its cover hanging open in the book equivalent of a gasp. “Excuse you! Not all of us were written by a linguist scholar who couldn’t even spell, let alone define, the word ‘edit.’”

The third book hovers in between, twisting back and forth in time with the stunned customer.

“Are insults really necessary?” the third book chimes in. “I understand you both savor violence, but maybe a more logical Sanderson-esque approach is what our dear friend here is looking for.”

“Logical?!” the Martin book shrieks. “Fantasy isn’t about logic! It’s about whimsy and war!”

“No,” the Tolkien advocate pipes in, “it’s about exploring cultures and species of other realms as a way of analyzing our own human experience.”

The three books all start talking over each other, and the customer simply continues to stand there, completely enraptured by the great book debate of Moonlit Pages.

A yelp from the coffee bar catches my attention, and I turn, only to find that the coffee mug in another customer’s hand has started to shake and wiggle.

The ceramic mug hums an off-pitch tune that’s so atrocious I can’t even tell what song it’s supposed to be.

Assuming it’s a real song. After all, I’m not sure what coffee mugs are into nowadays.

With an apprehensive expression, the customer slowly tries to set the mug down carefully on the counter, looking as if they’re counting the seconds until they can bolt out the door when the mug screams.

The customer jumps, fumbling the mug and nearly dropping it. Coffee sloshes over the edges, pooling on the counter where the customer’s elbows lean, the mug in a death grip between their hands.

“I wasn’t done!” the incensed mug cries. “How inconsiderate customers are these days. I swear, the audacity of some people to interrupt such a moving melody. And you weren’t even going to set me on a coaster or plate? Who raised you?!”

I mentally rank everything going on and decide that Marilyn is the most in need of immediate help.

Our elderly part-time employee is standing before the romance section, eyes bulging as she stares at a worm.

An honest-to-goodness worm. A worm who is spewing lines from the most graphic, spicy book scenes I’ve ever heard as if gossiping over Sunday tea.

Lucy beelines for the coffee bar as I head straight for Marilyn, a mutual agreement that while the arguing books are unsettling, they aren’t going to harm anyone but each other.

“Well, you know how those tentacled monsters are”—the worm does a suggestive nudge-nudge movement—“so possessive. Of course, it wouldn’t be fun for him unless he used every arm in some capacity. I think that’s why, while she was on all fours, he . . .”

“Stop!” I shriek.

The worm pauses, then looks me up and down as if appraising my worthiness.

“And who might you be?” it asks, and I swear that if it had a nose, it would be sticking straight up into the air.

“I’m the owner. Who are you?”

The worm recoils as if offended. “I’m the bookworm, obviously.”

The bookworm, as if they were hired for the job, and I promptly forgot. I stare at it for a moment, not really sure how a person even responds to that.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m doing what bookworms do, dear. Talking about books.

Just be thankful the book dragon isn’t here.

” The worm rolls its head as if rolling its eyes, as dramatic as a mistress in a harlequin novel.

“They’re absolute menaces when it comes to a practical discussion about quality.

They’re far too busy collecting to actually keep up with what’s new. ”

Marilyn grabs hold of my arm, nails digging into my bicep as she looks from me to the worm with alarm.

“Amelia,” she whisper-yells, “I have been working at this bookstore since long before you were born. I have seen my fair share of odd things in my time here. Hard to avoid with your grandmother around. But this is by far the most inappropriate—”

“Inappropriate?” the bookworm repeats, aghast. “You came over here looking for your next read. You seemed lost, so I thought I’d offer some recommendations.

As it is, I’ve read every monster romance in the store—much more interesting than those billionaire romances you like so much, if you ask me—so who better to guide you in the right direction than an honest-to-goodness bookworm? ”

“I wasn’t lost, I was debating! I’ve already read most of these, thank you very much,” Marilyn retorts. The insinuation that she isn’t as well-read as a worm seems to overshadow the fact that she is, in fact, arguing with a worm.

“Okay, okay!” I shout, getting between the two and guiding Marilyn toward the front door. “Marilyn, thank you for coming in and helping tonight, but Lucy and I have it from here.”

“Fine, but you tell that worm—”

“I will give that bookworm a piece of your mind. Thanks again. Goodnight!” I practically shove her through the door, the bell above mocking me with its cheery chime.

With Marilyn gone and no one left to argue with the worm, I move on to the bickering fantasy books.

“Oh, for the love of all that is good in the world,” I breathe, tempted to follow Marilyn right out that door, crawl into bed, and hope this all takes care of itself before I have to open the store tomorrow.

But then, I spot my new bookworm perched on the edge of a shelf in the fantasy section, watching the great Martin-Tolkien-Sanderson debate with rapt attention.

The Tolkien and Martin books are practically page-to-page, and their argument is getting out of hand. The Sanderson tome floats nearby, looking concerned—can a book look concerned?—and seems to sag with relief when I approach.

“I swear these two, I can’t get a word in edgewise.

And trust me, I have many!” the thousand-page Sanderson tome assures me, following at my shoulder.

I decide not to comment on that very obvious assertion and instead head straight for the stupefied woman who still hasn’t budged.

I place myself between her and the books, getting her full attention the only way I can think to.

It takes a moment, but eventually she blinks a few times, her eyes focusing on me as she comes back to herself.

“Hi!” I chirp, far too loud to be honestly cheerful.

With a hand on her shoulder, I guide her toward the front door.

“Thank you so much for stopping in, but as you can see, we’re having a few issues, so we’re going to be closing early.

But please do come back tomorrow for a book or two on the house! ”

The customer looks back over her shoulder, her blonde braid whipping through the air. “But . . . how . . . ? The books . . . They’re . . .”

I laugh nervously. “Ha, yeah. Neat little trick, isn’t it?”

“There are no strings,” she continues in a faraway voice as if lost in a daydream, “and I touched one. It’s not a projection.” She turns her glassy gaze back on me and whispers, “It yelled at me.”

With a wave of my hand, I do my best to dismiss her concerns, feeling like the very definition of a gaslighter.

“I’m not surprised. Those Martin books can get pretty moody.” Because I don’t need to ask to know it was the Martin book.

“But—”

“Thanks for coming in!” I cry with a forced smile as I push her out the door. Before I can even close it behind her, the customer from the coffee bar goes flying out the door. They’re running so fast that I’m surprised there isn’t a dust cloud coming up from their heels.

I hurriedly flip the lock, turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and fall back against the door with an exhausted whine.

In the time it’s taken Lucy and I to get everyone out of the store, several more bookish debates have popped up.

Contemporary romance books are fighting with the new romantasy section about what constitutes an appropriate age gap, and closed-door romances argue with dark romances over the definition of consent.

Several history books are in concise little groups, debating over the accuracy of obscure details, and the religion section is in an all-out war.

The travel section is simply floating around the store from place to place, observing everything like lost tourists.

Not to mention the trinkets, toys, and decorations that have all decided to start their own activities along the floor of the store.

Pumpkins are aligning themselves into a bowling lane, the skeletons have started line dancing (again!), and several brooms have started sweeping up little animal-shaped toys like zookeepers herding their inhabitants.

The entire store is in complete and utter chaos, and Lucy is chasing her new professional whipped cream dispenser across the counter.

I close my eyes for a breath to gather myself.

What would Grandma do?

I clear my throat and project my voice over the roar. “That’s enough!”

Everything freezes, and slowly, books, toys, decorations, and baristas alike all turn to look at me.

“I want every book back on their shelves by the time I count to five. One!” I hold up a finger.

The books all start talking over each other, and this time, their objections are directed at me.

“Two!” I hold up another finger.

“And what if we don’t?” one of the dark romances asks, as defiant and sassy as its heroine.

I narrow my eyes at it. “Any book not back on its shelf in three seconds gets sent back to the publisher.”

They all let out a collective gasp.

“Three.” Another finger.

The books all slump and slowly float back to their empty slots on the shelves, nestling into their spots among their brethren.

“Four, five.” I breathe, letting my hand fall to my side, limp. Every book is back on its respective shelf, and some sense of normalcy has started to return to Moonlit Pages.

“Now for the rest of you,” I mutter and push myself off the door, ready to get to work.