The Attack
Some books are just begging to be read
The Book leaped from the shelf, flew through the air, then landed with a loud thwack on the wooden floorboards. Two pinprick eyes appeared in the middle of its spine, and squinting, it gazed around the room in search of its intended target.
Over by the fireplace stood a faded armchair, and in that chair sat Angus Fitzgerald. Woken by the sudden thud, Angus’s forehead creased into a mass of crinkly lines. “Who’s there?” he called. He listened, and when no one replied, he narrowed his eyes and sighed. Instead of returning to his chair, he reached for his walker, but before he could grasp it, his face screwed up, and clutching his hips, he let a howl. From a distance, The Book watched, wondering if Angus’s arthritis had flared up again.
The Book slid across the floor towards the armchair. It came up from behind, silent, sinister, a surprise attack. When it was less than a meter away, it jumped up, flipped about twice, and kerthump, slammed for a second time to the ground.
Angus leaped to his matchstick-thin legs, turned around, then called out. “Who’s there?” His voice quavered, and bubbles of sweat formed on his brow.
Good, The Book thought, it slid closer to Angus’s foot and gave it a nudge, fear was setting in.
Angus looked down, then reared back, “Golly, why is this book here?” He pulled his specs from his cardigan pocket, placed them on his nose, and read The Book’s author and title name out loud, “Mark Howard, Misery and Murder.” He rubbed his chin, “how curious.”
With his hands still fixed on his rickety hips, he bent towards the floor inch by painful inch. His fingertips grasped a chuck of The Book’s pages and carefully he righted himself into the standing position.
He flipped The Book over in his hands, “Misery and Murder.” His left eyebrow shot up. “Odd,” he said out loud, “I didn’t know I had a copy of this creepy trash.”
Odd indeed, The Book thought. Perhaps you were so into your romance novels, your Danielle Steel books, your Jane Austen books that you didn’t notice the horror books on your shelf waiting to be read.
Angus grunted, “Blasted book.” He shook it up and down, then tossed it across the room so it landed in the small garbage bin next to his office desk. He then returned to his armchair. His usual sparkly eyes now resembling two dark clouds in his lined face.
The Book shuffled about in the bottom of the garbage bin, shifting disregarded bits of paper around. In under a minute, it pushed its way up and over the edge. Once on the floor, it began sliding towards Angus. When it reached the armchair, it rose upward, fluttered out its pages, then latched onto Angus’s hair and pulled.
‘Ouch,” Angus cried out. He flung his arms to the back of his head and thrashed at The Book with his fists. “Get off,” he cried. “Get off.”
The Book let go and slapped Angus over the head, bam, slam, boom, bang. A deep gash formed where Angus parted his hair, and blood, thick and red, splattered all over the walls. In a frenzy The Book continued its ambush, striking at Angus until he collapsed. A tiny mouth appeared under The Book’s shifty eyes, and releasing a wild laugh, it continued its attack.
Angus died within seconds. Afterward, The Book crept up on his chest and lay down with its front jacket cover facing the ceiling. Whoever found him would assume some lunatic had broken into his house and clobbered him to death with a Mark Howard book. Never would they guess it was The Book that made the kill.
And why? All The Book wanted was for Angus to switch his reading habits. Swap the romances for horror.
Was that too much to ask?
