by Autumn Duckworth

Genevieve had found herself standing on the curb across the street from
her new home in Eastmill, measly belongings at her feet. Eastmill was nearly five
hours away from where she had been living before. It had once been a booming steel
mill town, bustling with people and jobs, but since the mill had been shut down many
years ago, it had developed into a small tight- knit community. There was rarely ever
any change that came about, and most people were moving out, not in.

The bookshop she had inherited from her Ggreat Aaunt Marge was a small,
tan, two-story building with an aged, hand-painted wooden sign hanging from the
porch that read Literary Delights. Inside, the first -floor consisted of rows and rows
of bookshelves ranging from the classics to more modern fiction and an absurd
amount of black cat figurines with glassy eyes littered about them. To her left was a
staircase that led to the second floor which her great aunt had converted into a
one- bedroom apartment. From what little information she had learned about Marge,
it seemed that the woman had no surviving children of her own, no immediate family,
and never contacted any of her more distant relatives which resulted
in the live-in bookshop.

While Eastmill wasn’t necessarily a bustling town, the bookshop always
had people milling about it. Genevieeive assumed that since there weren’t many
events happening in the surrounding area, people used the bookshop as a source
of entertainment. She had started to notice the same people comingame in at
the same time so often that she had started to learn their names.  There was Harold,
who only bought books with helicopters on the cover; Janice, who wore dark blue
eyeliner that hadn’t been in since the 80s and , continuously browsed the gardening
section; and Cooper, who had been coming every day after school because he was
recently put on crutches, which he had never gotten quite used to.

Per her normal routine, Genevieve sat at the counter watching the regulars
browse the sections that hadn’t been updated since she came into town.
Cooper, browsing the romance section —, knowledge she had previously sworn
to secrecy —, lost his balance on the crutches and knocked one of the porcelain
cat figurines to the floor, shattering it.

“Gen, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed, trying to bend down to pick up the pieces.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Cooper. Those things aren’t really my style anyways,
but it felt wrong to redecorate this place,” she said, shooing him off to pick
the pieces up herself.

As she picked the shards up, trying not to cut herself on the sharp edges,
a shiny, glass piece caught her eye. Originally, she assumed that one of the figurine’s
eyes had managed to stay intact during the fall, but on closer inspection,
she realized that the glass piece was a small camera. A feeling of dread started
to creep up from the pit of her stomach as she turned her head from side to side,
realizing the mass quantity of figurines with their glassy “eyes” upon her.

Attempting to remain calm, she smiled up at Cooper, a cold sweat making its
way down her back. “Look, it’s like it never happened. Maybe this is a sign
I need to decorate anyway.”

Later that day, barely a moment past closing, Genevieve shut every blind and
locked the door all under the watchful gaze of a thousand eyes. She pulled each
figure from shelf after shelf until she had accumulated the entire shop’s worth on the
front desk, amassing to nearly 50. One by one, she clattered them to the floor,
each yielding the same results as the one before it —– cameras, on and recording
in every single one. The pit in her stomach seemed to only grow larger as she realized
the gravity of her situation; someone was watching her and had been for a while.
As she lifted her eyes from the scene on the floor to the solitary picture of her great
aunt that she had left on the desk, it seemed to almost stare back.

#

That night as she lay in bed, Genevieve thought back to life before she had
moved into Eastmill, pining for the life she had hated so much in wake of the
creepiness that surrounded her.

A yellow eviction notice had been tacked onto the worn oak door of the small,
olive-green townhouse that’s chipped paint revealed the uglier shade of green it had
once been many years before. The front door’s hinges, in desperate need of a
good spray of WD-40, had groaned loudly as she entered the home, tearing the
notice off as she went. The yellow slip took residency among the pile of bills
stamped with the word “overdue” in bright red, bold lettering.

Unceremoniously, she removed her bag, throwing herself onto the couch in the
living room while she shucked off the black flats she had worn so often this week that a
blister had formed on the back of each heel. A calendar sat upon the coffee table
with big red Xs angrily struck through the multitude of interviews that had happened
during the month. She felt that they seemed to stare mockingly in her direction.
The phone was silent, a zero blinking for the number of voicemails left on the machine,
its rhythm a steady laughter at her failure of procuring a callback from any of
the applications she had attempted.

As she settled into the couch, eyes drooping to a close from exhaustion,
a sharp rap sounded at the door. She hoped that the unscheduled visitor would leave
if she stayed silent long enough, but the knocking only became louder and
more insistent. Assuming it was Ms. Flora, her next- door neighbor, she dragged herself
from where she was lounging over to the door. It would have been just like
Flora to need something as trivial as a third of a cup of sugar just as she was laying
down to nap. Out of habit, she peered through the peephole which proved futile
since the landlord had painted over it last time he had given the door a fresh coat,
and she pulled it open.

Standing in front of her was a plump man with a receding hairline dressed in a
suit with a briefcase tucked up under his left arm; the right one was still poised to
start knocking again. “Genevieve Hollow?” he asked.

“Sir, if this is about the money I owe the landlord, I’ve been working —-,” she
began before he cut her off. “Ms. Hollow, I am unconcerned with the debt you’ve
accumulated. I have, however, been appointed as the executor of your
Ggreat Aaunt Marge’s will, and you, young lady, have been noted as the sole
beneficiary of her assets,” he said, pushing the rounded spectacles that seemed too
small for his pudgy face further up on the bridge of his nose.

Genevieve merely blinked in response at first, trying to process this information.
“I’m not sure you have the right household, I’ve never even heard of the woman
you’ve mentioned, but I’m sorry to hear of her passing,” she said, starting to close
the door to signal the end of the conversation.

In turn, he stuck the toe of his scuffed, black dress shoes into the opening,
causing Genevieve to pause to cause her pause as he rummaged for something
in his briefcase. “She expressed concerns that this news would not be well received,
but is this not you?” he asked, holding up a picture of Genevieve from her college
graduation with a diploma in hand. “Marge’s most noticeable possession that she
has left to you is a bookstore she owned in Eastmill; she assumed that you would
be most likely to keep the doors open because of your English degree.”

#

The euphoric feeling that she had when she first arrived quickly faded after
she realized that she was being watched by a stranger in her newfound home.
Less than a week had passed since the incident before Genevieve decided she
had to leave Eastmill.  After disposing of the cameras, at least the ones she found,
she had problems sleeping. Who was watching her? Why were they watching her?
What if there were more that she had missed?

Unsure of who she could trust, she stopped opening the store. Instead,
she found herself rarely leaving the apartment space, but the building was eerily
quiet without the normal trickle of customers. She became acutely aware of the
smallest sounds around her: the dripping of the kitchen faucet, the hum of a bulb
that would soon burn out, and a faint scuffling sound in the walls at night that must’ve
been rats. However, she decided she wouldn’t need to fix any of the problems
she had started to notice because she planned on taking the first bus out of town
in the morning.

Her items were packed in a deep purple suitcase, sitting by the bedroom door,
so she could easily grab it on her way out in the morning. She had spent the entirety
of the afternoon calling old friends and family that she had strained relationships
with to see if she could crash on their couches while she figured out a new
living situation, but time had passed so quickly that she had missed the last bus
of the night. Instead, she was forced to spend one more restless night in
Eastmill before she could pretend that none of this had happened. One more night
until she could figure out how to handle the situation she had found herself in.
One more fitful sleep until she was at a place she felt safe in again.

She drifted off to sleep at some point in between the questions racing
through her mind, but, in the middle of the night, she awoke from a tickling sensation
on her nose. Without opening her eyes, she shoved the hair from her face that
had been causing it, and burrowed deeper into the covers, but a dark inkling
made her feel as if she was not alone. With a deep breath, she opened her
eyes and found another pair staring straight back. Before there was time
to scream, the woman’s hand clamped down onto her mouth, both silencing
and suffocating.

“Oh, my dear Genevieve, welcome home,” whispered the woman
through a yellowed smile.

She could do nothing but stare into those cruel, dark eyes, the same ones
that watched the bookshop from the picture on the desk. She was unable to scream,
unable to breathe, unable to do anything but thrash helplessly under her grip.

“It’s always nice to get family together, don’t you agree?” Marge asked as
Genevieve’s world went black.

#

The world slowly drifted in and out of focus as Genevieve blinked herself
awake. She moved to rub the sleep from her heavy eyes as she recalled the
horrendous nightmare she had. However, her hand didn’t listen to her, instead staying
trapped down at her side. With a start, she realized that she was bound to a
chair instead of within the comforts of her bed. The shock of her situation only
increased as she noticed the table she was sitting in front of, and she was not
the only attendee. She was surrounded by other estranged members of her family,
long since dead.

Surely, she thought, this must have been a by-product of delirium.
There were 8 spots at the table, handwritten name cards marking the places of
the guests, but not all of them were full. Genevieve was positioned at the far end
of the table, directly across from the seat specifically marked for Marge.
To the left of that table setting was a place marked for Robert, her great aunt’s
husband, who had not seen the light for many, many years. The length of time
he had been exposed to the air had left his body as nothing more than bones,
tied to the chair to keep from falling forward onto the table.

Next to him were two much smaller figures: Cassandra and Clarence.
Presumably, they were her children once. Now they sat, rancid and decaying,
the flesh on their fingertips nearly gone. Maggots wiggled out of the boy’s mouth
which had fallen slack at some point in all the time he had been rotting away in
here. The two were adorned with mothballs and vanilla- scented car fresheners
in an attempt to mask the stink, but at this distance, the air was putrid.
The other three seats were unoccupied, two of their name plates blank.
The other read “‘James.”’

Trying to hold down the bile that had risen in her throat, she thrashed violently
in her seat attempting to loosen the bindings around her arms and legs. This went on
for twenty20 minutes before she calmed down and tried to find a logical way out of the
horror -fest she had been thrust into. She surveyed her surroundings again,
this time in hope of finding a way to escape. The dining room table in front of
her was set with silverware and plates., Sshe thought if she could manage to grab
one she mightay be able to cut through them. She had no idea where this place
even was though; where and who would she run to if she managed to free herself?
Pink installation was absolutely everywhere, and as a scuffling noise sounded
behind her, she realized that rats had never been the problem within the walls
of her newfound home.

“You’re trying to leave before dinner has even been served?”
asked Marge as she came in, taking her seat at the head of the table.
“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to be a proper guest?”

Genevieve swore her heart stopped for a moment. “I- don’t understand what
is happening,” she started, voice wobbling as tears welled in her eyes.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

Marge merely smiled in response. “Well, my dear, I just had so much fun
watching you take care of the store, I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving.
This dinner wasn’t supposed to happen until much later, but when that stupid
boy broke my cat, I knew you would be trying to high-tail it out of Eastmill.
People have a habit of trying to run,” she started,” “but I refuse to let my
family fall apart.”

The tears were falling fast now, mangled sobs escaping as
Genevieveshe tried to speak.

“Oh, I can’t stand that wretched sound. They all started with that,
but don’t worry, I figured out how to keep company without having to deal
with their moans and excuses. James, do you mind?” she called.

A short, stumpy man moved into view —- the same one that came to her
house with the will of her great aunt weeks ago. He had exchanged his suit and
tie for a t-shirt and apron covered in dark red, dried splotches. Marge came
around the table and placed her hand on either side of Genevieve’s head,
James looming over her shoulder with a sharpened blade in hand.

“After all of this nasty business is over, we’ll have a much more pleasant
time,” Marge said, a deranged smile upon her lips.

Immediately, Genevieve started thrashing as a last-ditch effort to escape
what she knew was inevitable. She screamed and cried, attempting to twist out
of the grasp of the woman in front of her. Marge was clearly unfazed by from
this reaction, acting as if she was dealing with no more than a rabid animal instead
of a helpless young woman.

“I wouldn’t want anyone to hear you and ruin such a lovely family dinner,”
she said, prying Genevieve’s mouth wide open. In a split second,
James had moved forward, and she found her severed tongue twitching
in her lap.

#

Eastmill was unfazed by the disappearance of Genevieve Hollow.
People were always leaving, there was nothing left in that small town. It wasn’t
long before another young woman arrived to take care of the store in her absence.

Accompanied by James, the young woman was shown around the
shop littered with entirely too many porcelain cat figurines. She was
brought up into the apartment to finish the grand tour of the place and
turned towards James with a smile.

‘You know, I’ve been looking for a fresh start. I hate to think that this
stroke of good luck came from the passing of one of my great aunts, but I think
this could end up being exactly what I needed. A forever home,” she said.

He smiled in response, “You know, young lady, I was just thinking the same thing.”

Inside the walls, Genevieve screamed silently for the girl to run and
never look back. She yelled without sound for what felt like an eternity,
never quitting while Aunt Marge put a new nameplate on the table.