Books Are For Reading

I unlocked the door to my neighbor’s house. House sitting during summer break is a great money maker. The bonuses are even better. I’m away from brother, my clients leave snacks for me, and some of them have me dog watch too. However, the best part… I don’t have to work at a fast food joint.

I always lock the door behind me. Never know what creepers might be following me. Today was the second of fourteen days house-sitting. I was looking forward to a book I’d found in the Deubler’s den. What? It wasn’t like it was hidden. Books are for reading.

I left it sitting on the kitchen table. I pulled out the kitchen chair and sat on the hard seat, ready to read. The book had caught my attention because it was hand bound with a supple leather cover and no title. If that wasn’t curious enough, it had a leather strap attached that wrapped around with the end tucked under the wrappings.

I ran my hand over the smooth leather and my skin tingled. It was probably a travel journal, but what if it was some erotic account of a love affair? Or an encounter with aliens? I slowly unwrapped it and gently opened it. The paper was thick and soft. It looked handmade. The first page had a fahexagon in black ink.

I turned the page. A sentence in flowing script, probably written with a fountain pen, was centered on each page. It was not English. I ran my finger across each sentence and felt a tingle again. The language was not Spanish, German, French, Italian, Latin, or any Asian language.

I read the first sentence aloud. “Alowa moray, cum spasticum nada lorest.” A gentle breeze stirred my hair.

Weird. I read the second sentence aloud, “Huppen! Stanzig ifum cabreezi!”

I heard the lock on the front door click. I stared at the book, blood screaming in my ears. Maybe all books weren’t for reading.


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