>[1] Well, alright. Stick it in your pocket, or whatever, and move on. You can't stand at this counter forever. (To do what?)

  >[4] Write-in.

  That's right. They DIDN'T vote to lick the crystal. I tricked you!!

  It's only a moment's hesitation before you pick up the crystal-laden handkerchief. If it's unlucky, you can weather that just fine. (Positive thinking!) If it's cursed, that ought to be excellent motivation. If it has designs on your pure maidenly soul, and aims to corrupt you into a black and midnight hag… you’ll simply overpower it! Positive thinking!

  "Wrap it up." Richard presses a new, clean handkerchief upon you. "You don't want it to stain, Charlie. You need to stay presentable."

  "My slacks are dark-colored. It won't show." But you nevertheless wrap up the crystal. "Hey, would you like to put those spindly arms to use? Get a book."

  "My arms are in normal proportion to my body," he says seriously. "Yours are stubby. Ah, we'll have to add that to the list."

  "The list?"

  "Of all your subpar attributes. 'Needs improvement', you know. 'U for U-nsatisfactory.' Let's see, your upper body strength, your voice, your eyesight…"

  You touch your eye instinctively. "My eyesight's just fine."

  "Your depth perception? Low-light vision? Quite mediocre. Respectable at distinguishing color, though. You know, I never knew there were so many reds."

  "I'm going to see red if you don't get a book," you say tensely. Your face is already hot. "Would you know why my depth perception is 'mediocre'?"

  "I wouldn't, no." He places a book onto the counter where the handkerchief laid previously.

  You hadn't planned anything to say to that. Your mistake, you know. The awkward (on your part) / smug (on his part) silence is broken by the wet plash of the cover being opened.

  It's not a book, actually: it's a folder. (You point this out to Richard. He claims they're all like that.) It's black, though you're not sure if it was originally— after all, it's completely soaked in goop.

  "1 MA" is the only writing still visible on the first handwritten page. You flip soggily to the next. A diagram? All you have is a single penciled curve and a stray label: "mcr.needle (sutl) —>." The next: the top has managed to survive in full. "2 MADMAN". A date! If only everything else weren't ruined.

  You schlorp from page to page in much the same manner. Dated pages ("5" "11 M" "17 MADM") are interspersed with… not-dated pages, all in what looks like Ellery's handwriting. "Looks like," because apparently no sample longer than a couple words survives.

  Richard dutifully hands you another couple of binders. A whole laboratory's worth of mirrors must have shattered inside the bookshelf, you're left to assume, because these are somehow stained even worse. It's an outright miracle you're able to find a single corner unblackened: "21 B," it says, which probably dates it to last Barkeep. Or not. You haven't seen a year on any of them.

  You give up about the time your fingertips turn the color of charcoal. It's not as if Richard's been helping at all. "I wonder," he muses, "if we could drag this into the other room…"

  Of all the things he's said, this strikes you as one of the very oddest. "Uh," you say carefully. "The bookcase is set into the wall."

  "Is it?" he says mildly.

  "Huh?" You look up at it. It is very squarely set into the wall. The counter is flush against it. "Yes! Unless you wanted to, what, cut it out of there?"

  "Is it?""

  Ugh! It's more of his nonsense. "Surely you know what 'set into the wall' means? It means that, unless your hands can go through walls, there's simply no way to— and they can't go through walls. You can't convince me. So don't try!"

  "Alright, Charlie. I won't try." You'd be hard-pressed to describe his expression as anything other than serpentine. "But I really do think you're wrong about this bookcase in particular. It doesn't look set to me. Don't you agree?"

  Don't you? You sneak another glance at the bookshelf, which seems as uncertain as you are. It flickers.

  But all the other bookcases are clearly set into the wall. So why wouldn't this one be?

  "Forget all the others. Ellery's not an interior designer. He must've made a mistake. You know how it goes with him."

  That's true. That's all very true. But still… it's in the wall. Right now.

  "Your eye difficulty, remember. Depth perception. It's all flat to you. You can't see how it's clearly, well, not in the wall. It's freestanding, Charlie."

  That would certainly explain it. Damn your eye. "Okay," you say. (The bookcase shuffles bashfully out from the wall, creating a gap in the counter. You fail to notice.) "Don't know why you didn't say that in the first place. How do you plan to move it, though? I mean, it's big."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Whatever strange humor Richard was in has evaporated. "Oh, that's no issue, Charlie. It's not heavy."

  It's built of wood and burnished rivets. It reaches nearly to the concave ceiling. You give a shelf an experimental tug; it fails to budge.

  "I suppose my upper body strength isn't quite on the level of magic," you snipe.

  Richard examines his cufflinks. (They're snakes, because an ounce of discernment would be beyond him.) "I'm hardly athletic, you realize— thanks for that. You just assign a weight that's simply nonexistent. These things aren't real."

  "Thanks for that," you scoff. That's all? "Next you'll tell me the sky is blue."

  "Green. And it's true. This—" he knocks on the side of the shelf— "isn't real wood, exactly how this—" he holds up a hand— "isn't real flesh. The only properties it ever holds are those of convenience."

  You try the shelf again. It's as big and woody as ever. "Convenience."

  "Nobody ever takes the time to apply the correct Laws, I promise. They just let average expectations fill in the blanks. And if you have those expectations, it's a perfectly viable shortcut."

  He hefts the entire bookcase under his arm. "I lack them. Be a good girl, Charlie; get the back."

  You do. It isn't difficult: the case has the weight and feel of cardboard. You have plenty of time to notice the massive hole where the bookcase used to be.

  "God blessed. Look at all that!"

  The interior of the massive hole is thick with cascading black ooze. It's formed a sort of crust around the sides where the bookcase edges used to be.

  "Hm." Richard has unwisely opened the door back into the entrance room, which smells like a lit stove. A full foot of ooze is busy ruining his loafers. "This may prove an issue."

  You set your half down and stroll closer. "Having some— oh." The entrance room is thoroughly flooded, coming up almost to your shins. "That was the only way through, right?"

  "Yes. …Well, it depends."

  "On?"

  "If there's a mirror in this room, and what's behind it."

  >[1] Just wade through the ooze to the wallpaper room. It's harmless (to the extent of your knowledge). Even if it will ruin your boots.

  >[2] See if you can sort of float the bookcase on top of the ooze and clamber across untouched. It ought to be tall enough, though the efficacy is a little unclear.

  >[3] Through The Looking Glass - And What Lottie Found There, By You

  There's a significant pause.

  "Well. Tally ho, then." Richard begins to wade forward.

  You almost follow him. You almost do. But then you think: do you want to go in there, really? You'll ruin my boots forever. And you don't like being told what to do. Why is he in the front, anyways? You ought to be in the front. Because you're an actual person with, with feelings, and he's a snake.

  What did your Aunt Ruby say to do with snakes? 'If you ever see one, don’t touch it, don’t talk to it, and call me quick?' Damn it. Damn you.

  And that's generally why you drop the bookcase with a thunk, stick both hands in your bulging coat pockets, and march off without a word in the opposite direction of the door.

  "Don't scowl," Richard calls after you. "It'll stick that way, and then where are you?"

  The mirror. Where's the mirror? There wouldn't be a mirror in two rooms and none in the third, that would be ridiculous. There's always an order to things.

  You weave around the tanks of water to discover the back half of the room: stairs leading upwards, the back wall shrouded with curtain, framed pictures on the wall…

  The back wall. You undo the complex knot of the ribbon tie dexterously, silkily. (Damn it!) You push back the curtain. There's a mirror behind it: the biggest you've ever seen.

  "Open! Open. Ohhhhpen. God!" You rap on the surface of it impatiently. "Knock knock. Open up. Open. OpEN."

  "You're looking for [OPEN]," Richard says coolly behind you. There is a snake in the reflection, briefly, before the entire mirror spasms once. When it settles, it's different— wobbly, gelatinous. You could cut it with a spoon, you think. You could push through it easily.

  You would, if Richard weren't right there. The bookcase sits uncomfortably just behind him. "Do you have to follow me?" you pout. "I mean, really? Would it be so terrible if I just did this myself?"

  He spreads his hands. "We're a package deal, Charlie. Even if I tried not to follow you, I couldn't."

  "Well, try."

  "Certainly. Are we bringing the bookcase, or…" He flashes a crooked smile.

  You flash him a vulgar sign back and step backwards into the mirror.

  ...nwob ll?? ?on ,H?υo?H? H?υq o? ?niγ?? ??υ? ???w υoγ ?q??x? ,b????qx? υoγ ??Hw ?'?I .γ??vli? bn? ,blo? b? ,??iH? ?'?I

  The world flips on itself as you spill out of the mirror and onto the… floor. (You think it's the floor. You have silver in your eyes and try as you might can't blink it away.) Your head throbs in rhythm with your heartbeat. It's very quiet.

  You don't move. You're waiting for something. You're not sure what, though.

  It doesn't come. You sit up, instead, and rub your eyes with one sleeve. The silver comes away a little.

  "Okay," you say, and gather yourself fully off the floor. "Nice. Awesome."

  The snake's throat glows faintly pink. It doesn't say anything. It only looks at you.

  "Are you mad I wanted you to stay back? Is that what this is?" You point knowingly at it. "You say I'm petty, but the silent treatment is the definition of…"

  It doesn't blink. Are snakes supposed to blink? You're not sure.

  "…And, you know, I liked it better when you had a face, actually. Not that you used it for anything nice. But it gave me someone to blame, you know."

  Silence.

  "Because you're an ass."

  Nothing! No retort, no rejoinder, not a grain of sprightly repartee. By God, is it really just a snake? Is Richard back behind those eyes, watching, or is all of him past the mirror? You're not sure what to do with yourself. 3 years, and all it took was this?

  The bookcase plops out of the mirror with excellent timing. The door across to the entrance room is tightly shut (and attached to the ceiling, but you'll deal with that later).

  By God! The world is your crustacean, and you hold the crabhammer!

  >[1] Write-in.

  Heartworm, a story set in a world consumed by a horrible dog-ocean. Like, an entire ocean of mutant dogs. The protagonist can absorb dog parts into himself. I am eternally gladdened to know that, for all the hard work I do putting crazy nonsense into the world, there's people on this website putting out even CRAZIER nonsense. This is purely a compliment.