It was the kind of summer in La Plata, Maryland, where the heat stuck to your skin like a second layer, and the air hummed with the relentless drone of cicadas. That summer, Garry and I found ourselves working at an antique shop called “Curiosities and Keepsakes”, tucked between a diner that always smelled faintly of bacon and a bookstore that seemed as ancient as the texts it housed.

Mr. Penrose, the shop’s owner, was as much an artifact as the items he sold, his age as mysterious as the origins of his collection. On our first day, he entrusted us with a task that seemed simple enough: to organize the back room. “Who knows what treasures you’ll uncover?” he had said, his eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and excitement.

The back room was a different world altogether, crowded with relics from the past, each covered in layers of dust and neglect. It was here, amidst the chaos, that I stumbled upon a peculiar book. Its leather cover was etched with symbols that felt both alien and ominously familiar.

“Hey Garry, come look at this,” I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the cluttered space.

Garry came over, and together, we pored over the book. Its pages were filled with bizarre illustrations and texts in a language that twisted and turned, eluding comprehension. The atmosphere in the room shifted, growing heavier, as if the shadows themselves were drawing closer, eager to peer over our shoulders.

Then, without warning, the book sprang to life, its pages flipping rapidly until they landed on one marked with a single, chilling word: “Necronomicon”.

“Garry, isn’t that the book from those horror stories?” I whispered, a knot of fear tightening in my stomach.

“Supposed to be just a story, right?” he whispered back, though I could hear the doubt in his voice.

In a moment of bravado—or perhaps sheer stupidity—we attempted to read aloud the words on the page. Our laughter, tinged with nervousness, was abruptly cut off as the ground shook and a cold wind snuffed out the light, plunging us into darkness.

The air filled with whispers, growing louder, more insistent. Shadows morphed into grotesque shapes, surrounding us, their malevolence palpable. Huddled together, Garry and I regretted our curiosity and our hubris.

Remembering an old lighter I had pocketed earlier from a box labeled “20th Century”, I fumbled in the dark until I found it. The flame, small and flickering, held the darkness at bay, the shadows retreating as if afraid of the tiny light.

Guided by the flame, we found our way back to the shop, the Necronomicon clutched in my hand. Mr. Penrose looked up, startled by our disheveled appearance.

“The Necronomicon,” I gasped, out of breath, handing him the book. “We didn’t mean to—”

To our surprise, Mr. Penrose chuckled, a sound that seemed oddly comforting in the aftermath of our terror. He explained that the book was a replica, part of a collection from an occult-obsessed collector. Designed to scare, this particular copy seemed imbued with an extra dose of… personality.

As compensation for our ordeal, Mr. Penrose allowed us each to choose an item from the shop. More than the physical token, however, that adventure bonded Garry and me in a way few experiences could.

Leaving the shop that day, the sun setting in a fiery display, we couldn’t help but laugh. The fear we’d felt was now a memory, a story to be shared and embellished over time.

Yet, back in the shop, hidden away securely, the Necronomicon’s pages fluttered as if caught in a breeze that didn’t exist, a silent testament to the adventure that had unfolded in the dusty back room of “Curiosities and Keepsakes”.