ORIGINAL FICTION

                      SKELETON'S CLOSET

                      a short story by

                       Ace Armstrong

  

  

  The store greeted David with the musty smell of dust and

mildew.  He stomped in, cursing.  This he did rather well,

as (in his opinion) David had quite a bit about which to

curse.  He had been fired, his car had broken down, and now

the rain had forced him--dripping and shivering--to seek

refuge in a musty, heretofore unnoticed bookstore.  Fate,

David had decided long before noon, was certainly plotting

against him.

  "Nice day, eh?"  The voice--deeply accented, and

annoyingly cheerful--came from a dust-covered aisle to

David's right.

  David turned, dripping, to find the source of the voice.

It belonged to a shortish elderly man of vaguely Asian

descent.  Not Chinese, but not quite Indian.  "Nice day, my

ass," David grumbled to himself.

  The Asian man kept smiling.  "You looking to buy book,

yes?" he asked.

  "I don't think so," David told him, looking at his

leather shoes, which squished every time his toes moved.

Small orbs of mud appeared where the water drops landed in

the thick dust on the floor.

  "Ah, I think you'll like my books," the bookstore's

proprietor said, the smile not changing.  "Maybe find

something to cheer you up."

  David smiled in spite of himself, and looked around for

the first time.  The bookstore looked more like an antique

shop.  Large, leather-bound volumes lined aisle after aisle,

covered in thick blankets of dust and cobwebs. "You know,

I've passed this street every day for the last year and I

never knew this shop was here," he said.  "What is this

place?"

   "A secret place," the old man answered, winking.  "Just

opened.  My name is Skeh-Lee Ton.  This store Skeleton's

Closet.  Funny, eh?"

  David had to admit it was cute.  "So what kind of books

do you sell?"

  "Special books," the man said.

  "What? You mean like rare books?"

  "Indeed," the old man said, grinning.  "Look around.

Maybe you'll find something you like."  He motioned with his

hand to indicate the voluminous stacks surrounding them.

"Plenty to choose from," he said, then shuffled into a back

room.

  David shrugged before moving into one of the aisles.  It

stretched out to an impossible length, holding hundreds,

maybe thousands, of the leather-bound volumes, each empty on

the cover except for the title, which glistened in gold foil

stamping.  "Harold G. Ledbetter," David read, clearing the

cobwebs from a nearby volume, then going to the next.

"Zachary P. Lee."

  David called down the aisle.  "Do you have anything but

biographies?"

  No answer.

  Shrugging, David ran his finger along the titles.  He

stopped, his finger trembling.

  Marcus S. Michaels.

  "The bastard," David hissed.  Marcus Michaels, the

project manager who had fired David not four hours ago,

somehow deserved to have a book written about him?  It

didn't make sense.

  Unbidden, David's hand snatched the book from the shelf.

He hesitated, his stomach tightening, then cracked it open,

coughing at the dust.

  The book was written like a novel, with a third-person

narrative, and struck David as being rather unlike any

biography he had ever read.  In fact, it detailed mundane

situations about which nobody could possible care_dinner

conversation, a drive home after work, an evening spent

watching television.  Nothing seemed left out; every minute

of every day in the life of Marcus Michaels appeared to be

chronicled in detail.  David's pulse raced as he flipped to

the back of the book.  More day-to-day monotony, a somewhat

amusing account of the Michaels' wedding night, then . . .

  David snapped the book shut.  It was better than dirt.

It was detailed, with names, dates, promises made behind

bedroom doors about promotions and firing people to make

room for women with "special" talents.  It would be better

than revenge, more complete than any blackmail in history.

  If it was true.  And in an almost painful burst of

knowledge, he knew that it was.  Every word.

  Clutching the book, he flew to the sales counter.  The

old man was waiting for him.

  "What are you?" David demanded.

  "A collector," Skeh-Lee replied calmly, no longer

smiling.  "Find something you like?"

  David looked at the book in his hands, and then back to

the old man.  "A collector of what?  People's lives?  Their

secrets?"

  "Everyone has secrets, Mr. Stevens.  I just have more

than others, perhaps."  Skeh-Lee punched in some numbers on

his cash register.  "That will be one hundred dollars,

please."

  David reached into his pocket and produced a hundred

dollar bill which he knew had not been there earlier.  "So

that's what you meant.  This is a `secret place.'  And you

sell them.  People's secrets, I mean."

  The old man only closed the drawer.

  "How many?  How many people do you have in here?"

  Skeh-Lee Ton handed David his receipt.  "Even I have

secrets, Mr. Stevens," he said.  "Do come back again."

  

  Two weeks passed before David returned.  He wore a new

suit, Skeh-Lee noticed, and sported a Rolex.  "Ah, good

afternoon, David Stevens," he said.

  "And good afternoon to you," David replied cheerily.

  "I trust you are doing well."

  "Very well," David answered, smiling, and produced a

small piece of paper.  "I need some books."

  "Ah.  Twenty books," the old man remarked as he began to

gather the books from their shelves.  "Big spender."

  David grinned.  "I've come into some money lately."

  The old man laughed.  "So it would seem.  We had another

big spender come in here today," Skeh-Lee said, setting the

books down on the counter.  "In fact, he bought your book."

The old man smiled.  "Mr. Armstrong said you should expect his

call this evening."

  

                           THE END