Cellar Books Novels & Stories

“Go down that hall. Push the door at the end open. That is where I store my inventory.” “Okay, sir,” I breathed out, my heart starting to race. Every step I took down that dark hallway made the hairs on my arms stand up. The air grew progressively colder, and the muffled noise of the tavern faded into a suffocating silence. When I reached the heavy door, I pushed it open with a low, agonizing creak and stepped into the pitch-black cellar. The room smelled of damp earth, mold, and old wood. A single, dim lantern flickered on the wall, casting long, dancing shadows across rows of dusty shelves. Holding the paper up to the weak light, I began searching for the labels.

I could find out for myself if that's what I really wanted Then she took me just as suddenly and… That's it, yes, I have proof and I hope it will be still there. The old house where Sarah used to live, not far away from the house was a dark cellar. The place was cramped and damp and looks more like a torture chamber than a storage place. Did you say a cellar? And if I get you out of here, could you point it out to me exactly? It's been a long time since then, my mind was blurred back then; it still is, I was afraid but I can try…

A dark and profound gaze emanated from his eyes. "I hope you won’t blame me for being disrespectful to you, Grandpa." Jay pulled Zayne up and left in a hurry. The library. The stronghold’s library was actually a brick cellar with a very earthy appearance. The entrance was also a furnace room, but once Jay stepped inside, he realized that it was a completely different world in there. There were several circular compartments in it. The circular walls rose high into the clouds, whereas the circular bookshelves rested against the walls. Each compartment was filled with densely packed books.

The doorbell over the door rang when he entered, and for an instant, he stood still—not uncertain, but due to the strange warmth that rushed up to meet him. It smelled like cardamom tea and old parchment. Music was playing softly in the background—something acoustic, not jarring. Books lined every wall, their spines lovingly lined up by color and genre. A shelf of poetry books sat in the corner, surrounded by dried lavender and hand-painted bookmarks. And behind the counter. she stood there. Lena had just rolled a stack of children's books under the register when she looked up—and they made eye contact. For the first time.

Glenn says and opens a door to our left. Curious, I peek inside. There’s a cistern halfway up the wall with a pipe leading to a stained porcelain toilet. A broken chain dangles from the cistern. I ruffle my nose in disgust and Glenn chuckles. “It’s clean, I promise…it’s just old.” He leads me back to the living area and takes me across to another room. “The library,” he announces. “I brought some newer books up, but there are a lot of very old books you may find interesting.”

He shook her from his mind and pushed open the doors to the study. The rug-lined room was bigger than B’s above-garage apartment. Floor to ceiling bookshelves dampened any noise B might made in his whiskey search. There didn’t seem to be a single inch of space on any one of the shelves. Books of all colors, textures, and sizes were packed together. In front of the book spines sat hundreds of little treasures–seashells, pocket watches, glass figurines, and carvings of creatures. So many creatures. B let his fingers drift over the book spines: The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Catcher in the Rye. The Odyssey. Brave New World. The Call of the Wild. White Noise. So many stories he’d never read and

I still remember coming to this office when I’m still in grade school, I love reading books in this place even I have my own mini library and study room especially when dad’s around, but today it reminds me of Lost. I run my hand through dad’s book collections alphabetically arranged according to Author’s last name, I guess it’s in the blood of being a bookworm. His huge mahogany desk still the same for as long as I can remember. On the left side are few of his liquor collections although dad doesn’t drink much. He has his own cellar here in our home.

Elias didn’t let me rest long on the table. My body was still pulsing around his cock when he pulled out, a fresh trickle of his cum leaking from me. He lifted me like I weighed nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carried me deeper into the restricted section, the rare books room at the back of the library. The heavy door creaked open. Inside, glass cases held priceless first editions, and tall rolling ladders leaned against the highest shelves. The air smelled older here, dust and leather and secrets.

Already much more soothing than sad songs and the sound of explosions. Tall shelves lined the walls, crammed with books. Of course this man had a library that looked like it belonged in an interior magazine spread. A low chandelier hung in the middle of the room above a long solid wood table, a few chairs, one couch in the corner with a folded throw. I walked along the first shelf, letting my fingertips brush the spines. Gold lettering, embossed titles, lettering already faded. The first row was full of classics. Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Dumas. Of course Zane owned a collection of depressed men who liked to write about sin and consequences. Fitting.

She stepped inside, the scent of old books and mildew wrapping around her like bad memories. The place was as quiet as a wault, with rows of bookshelves stretching into the distance. A few scattered tables sat under flickering fluorescent lights, and the dust in the air felt thick enough to choke on. Leila found the history section and grabbed the book Tom had mentioned. Eduard Yellen’s "masterpiece" on German aristocracy and their ties to ancient power. It was thick, the kind of book that could double as a doorstop or a weapon, depending on circumstances. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the boring content, but she wasn’t really reading. Her mind was elsewhere, piecing toget