The Secret Boo of Spells

Would you bid everything you had for the contents of a sealed locker?

If you did, what would be the results?

I started this as an entry to the Halloween Story Contest, but it doesn't really have anything to do with Halloween and I didn't want to warp the story just to make it fit.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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"Sold to number 24!" screamed the auctioneer.

I couldn't believe I did it. I just paid $2,730 for the contents of a storage locker, sight unseen. I have an absolute maximum of $800 that I will bid for the rights to an unclaimed locker. I have bought dozens of lockers at auction and never paid more that $800 for any of them– ever. But for some reason I had bid $2,730 for this one.

There were a total of seventeen lockers to be auctioned today. I had hoped to pick up at least three or four of them. With a maximum of $800 on any one locker, making money was a matter of odds. The percentages are that the contents of a locker will be worth somewhere between $1200 and $1600 dollars. I was figuring that they would probably go for under $700, or at most $750. But even if I had to pay my maximum every time, I could still get three lockers for $2400 and have some cash held back for the next auction.

My dream was that one of them would be that fabulous find everyone was sure they were going to make... some day. These were relatively small lockers in an older area of town, so they were more likely to be at the lower end of the value range. But even if one of my three was a pure bust, I would most likely recoup my money on the other two. It wasn't gambling. It was playing the percentages. And it worked. If you stuck to the system, you made money.

But I didn't stick to my system. I don't know why, but something I couldn't understand kept forcing me to keep bidding higher and higher and higher on the second locker. It was way beyond my system maximum and approaching how much cash I had on me and yet I kept bidding.

As I bid, my mind was filled with images of unknown treasure on the other side of that locked door. I knew I should quit, but something I couldn't understand was compelling me to keep bidding. I could almost hear a voice in the back of my mind telling me that the contents of this particular locker– whatever it was– were worth everything I had in order to possess them.

The other bidders slowly dropped out as the bid inched upward and upward. I rechecked the wad of bills in my hand. I had $2,730. The bid was $2,725 and the auctioneer was calling out, "Do I hear twenty-seven thirty?"

I took a deep breath and waggled my finger at one of the helpers who pointed at me and loudly yelled, "Yip."

The auctioneer's chant immediately changed to "Do I hear twenty-seven thirty-five? Twenty-seven thirty, looking for twenty-seven thirty-five. Twenty-seven thirty, looking for twenty-seven thirty-five."

Now I was holding my breath. That was all I had. This was a pure cash auction. I couldn't bid any higher even if I wanted to.

"Twenty-seven thirty going once... Twenty-seven thirty going twice... Twenty-seven thirty sold! ... to... hold up your card son, so we can get the number right. Sold to number twenty-four!"

There were still fifteen lockers to auction, but since I had no money left with which to bid, I walked over to the clerk's table and presented my bid tag. "Number 24," said the clerk. She smiled at me and said, "Ah yes, the high bid for the day... actually for the whole week." She giggled and added, "Maybe for the whole year." Then she held out her hand and said, "$2,730– in cash– and we'll cut the lock off the door so you can examine what you bought."

I laid my stack of bills on the table. The clerk counted them, carefully arranging them face down in proper order with all of the bills facing the same direction. Having satisfied herself that the proper amount was there, she turned to one of the helpers and nodded.

The helper picked up a large set of bolt cutters and started walking over to the door of the storage bay that had just been auctioned. He held up a card against the door and read aloud, "A 214." He then ran his finger beneath the number painted on the front of the door and read aloud once again, "A 214." There was a loud pop as the bolt cutter snapped the lock.

He picked up the pieces of the lock from the ground, turned to me and mumbled, "It's all yours. Make sure that everything is cleaned out by 6:00 pm or you get charged storage fees."

As the man walked back to the clerk's table, I stood nervously before that now-unlocked door. What was behind it? What had I just paid everything I had to get? Were the contents of this locker really worth $2,730?

"Only one way to find out," I said aloud as I reached out and pulled upward on the handle to the garage-style door.

The door creaked and groaned and rattled as it rose. It had evidently been a long time since this unit had been opened. I gazed into the darkened interior of the bay and my heart fell. It was worse than bad. It was worse than terrible. It was worse than a locker full of junk. The locker was empty! There was nothing here!

I had just paid $2,730 for NOTHING!

***

As if in shock, I stepped slowly into the musty storage area and slowly turned around looking at the dusty concrete floor. Nothing! There was nothing!

Then I saw it... a small table sitting in a corner at the very back of the bay. In the dim light it looked more like a flower stand than a table. I think it was what used to be called a telephone stand back when telephones had to sit on something. There was something sitting on it, and it wasn't a telephone. I wasn't sure what it was until I had walked all the way to the back. Then I could see that it was a book... an old book... a very old, leather-bound book.

My heart lightened... a little. Maybe it was worth something. Maybe it was a rare book. Maybe it was a really, really, rare book. Maybe– just maybe– this wasn't a complete disaster.

I picked it up and blew the dust off of the cover. It had obviously been sitting there for a long time. I turned its spine toward the light so that I could read the title. Embossed in gold overlay it read, "Secreta Libro Cantus."

'Secret something,' I thought. 'Maybe Secret Book something. Isn't Cantus something to do with singing?'

I started to open the book, but it was locked. There was a wide flap of dry leather extending from the back cover of the book across the side and over to the middle of the front where it slipped into a flat, ornate lock. There was no key.

"Shit," I said aloud. I was very tempted to just tear the book open to see what was written inside, but I knew that if the book was worth anything at all, it had to remain intact for me to make any money on it. I would have wait until I got home to pick this lock, or maybe find a key in my coffee can full of old suitcase and book keys. I cradled the book in my left hand and picked up the small table with my right and began walking back to my pickup.

I had arrived at this auction expecting to be taking home a truckload of things to sort and sell. Now I could almost hear people's thoughts as I walked slowly toward the parking lot carrying a single item. I even heard someone say aloud as I passed, "Whoa! Glad I was outbid on that one."

***

I finally got around to checking out the book the next morning. It was a very simple lock. A bent paperclip and little patience was all that was needed to unlock it. I had a lot of practice opening similar locks on Bibles and diaries that I had found in previous locker purchases. I carefully folded back the leather clasp and slowly opened the book. I was holding my breath and hoping for an old date... a really, really old date... or a famous name... or SOMETHING that would make this book worth more than the $2,730 I had paid for it.

There was an ornate title page with what appeared to be gold-pressed lettering identical to the title on the spine of the book, "Secreta Libro Cantus." Beneath that in a very ornate script it said, "He who possesses this book has the secret to all of Mortimer's spells and incantations." Below that in scrawled handwriting were the words, "Warning– Always use the feather." And finally near the bottom of the page in a barely legible hand was printed "NEVER WISH FOR HAPPINESS."

The rest of the book was blank. There were 365 pages - I counted then. I carefully folded over each and every page as I examined it, and each and every damned one of them was totally and absolutely blank.

I picked up the book and shook it. I don't know if I was hoping something valuable would fall out of it or I just needed to hit or shake something. "What in the hell are you?" I screamed at the book in my hands.

A handwritten note fluttered down and landed face up on the small table. The handwriting looked similar to the printed warning on the title page of the book. It read, "Grandpa and Art Babbit stole this book from Walt in 1941. He thought Mr. Disney would settle the strike just to get it back, but he was wrong. The secret to understanding the book is supposedly contained within The Myth of Mortimer's Feather, but I could never figure it out."

"Great!" I exclaimed aloud. "Now all I need is 'The Myth of Mortimer's Feather.'"

There was a loud click and a softer rubbing sound from behind me. I looked around as a drawer slid open in the small table. Inside the drawer was a sheaf of paper bound together with a metal clip of some sort. The title page read "Walt Disney Productions." Under that it said, "The Myth of Mortimer's Feather." That was crossed out and in pencil was written in the same hand that warned to always use the feather, "DUMBO, The Flying Elephant."

"Holy Shit!" I muttered aloud. "This is a planning script for a Disney movie. It might be worth something."

I ran to my desk, brought up my computer and Googled, "Disney Dumbo Art Babbitt"

Evidently there had been a animator's strike during the production of Dumbo. Art Babbit was one of the organizers of that strike. "Grandpa" must have been one of the animators who never got their jobs back. Disney had dealt with the strike very ruthlessly. To show his disdain for the strikers, he even added a scene to the movie where the clowns get drunk and sing, "Goin' to ask the big boss for a raise."

I entered "Disney Mortimer" in the search and found that the name Walt had originally intended for "Mickey Mouse" was "Mortimer". His wife convinced him to name it "Mickey" because Mickey Rooney was popular at the box office. But Mortimer still showed up as an "alter ego" for Mickey, sort of an evil twin and rival for Minnie's love, in some of the cartoons.

I continued looking up things on Disney and his cartoons and found several articles which pointed out that many of the Disney cartoons were blatant retellings of ancient myths. Disney had an extensive collection of ancient scrolls and manuscripts, many of which contained various magical or pagan practices. One of those scrolls was evidently The Myth of Mortimer's Feather, and Disney had very loosely based his cartoon movie DUMBO on that story. He had even originally used The Myth of Mortimer's Feather as the working title of the movie.

A little more investigation revealed that Disney had also wanted to name the mouse in that movie "Mortimer." Again he was persuaded to go with a different name and Dumbo's tiny companion in the movie was "Timothy Mouse."

I picked up the blank leather book and slowly turned the pages. "This gets weirder and weirder." I said out loud, and then added with a deep sigh, "If only I knew who wrote that note."

It felt as if the book jumped in my hands and I had to grab wildly to hold on to it. I ended up grasping it in one hand by the front cover with the rest of the book dangling over the table. Another small piece of paper fluttered to the desk.

That paper had not been in the book just moments ago! I was sure of it. I had turned each page carefully as I counted it. The first slip of paper might have been at the back cover and I missed it, but I know this little card had not been in that book before now. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck rising as I picked up the small piece of stiff paper and looked at it.

It was a business card for a Doctor William Michelson. The address on the card was a local private "rehabilitation center." I called the number and asked for him, but was told that he was not available.

A very polite young woman informed me that there were several other doctors available who would be able to help me. She would be more than happy to make an appointment for me.

I explained, "This is actually a personal matter. I need to talk to Doctor Michelson about a book I found. I think it once belonged to him."

"A book?" she replied, and then added curtly, "One moment, please."

After several seconds of silence, a male voice came on the line. "Did you say that you wanted to see Doctor Michelson about a book he once owned?"

I answered, "Yes, an old leather book."

I started to explain about the auction, but he cut me off with "How soon can you be out here?"

"I can come out now," I answered.

"Bring the book. Ask for Doctor Roberts. I'll be waiting for you." Whoever it was then hung up.

***

The rehabilitation center was located up in the hills a little west of where Sepulveda Boulevard blends into the 405. It would have been a lot faster to just take the 405, but something told me to stick to the surface streets. I stayed on Sepulveda all the way through Mission Hills, picking up the book at each of the stoplights and looking once again at the blank pages. I guess I was hoping for further enlightenment as to what in the hell it actually was.

I just missed making the left turn signal onto Rinaldi and was sitting there waiting for a long light when a very well-endowed young woman in very tight white shorts and an equally tight blue tube top started across the street. She was walking with a young man carrying a camera and both were pointing over at the cemetery, so I assumed they were tourists and were going to take pictures of some famous graves or whatever.

As she passed in front of the car, I found myself thinking, 'Nice rack.' Then I almost said aloud– I know it was almost... I'm sure I only thought it... I swear I didn't say it aloud– ' If you're going to wear something that tight and show that much, you might as well wear nothing and show it all.'

Suddenly there was a loud shriek and she was grabbing at her top. The seam had split all the way up the side and the top was falling off her now exposed breasts. She and her boyfriend or husband or whatever he was stood in the middle of the street with her screeching and trying to pull the fabric over herself. But with no tension on the stretchy material, it had shrunk to practically nothing.

I was surprised that her enormous breasts were apparently natural. They blended into her body on the sides in a normal fashion rather than looking like two giant knobs that had been glued on in the front. She turned and looked at me as I yelled, "Holy Shit!"

I know I said that out loud because the young man raised his left hand and flashed a finger at me as he hustled his hysterical companion back across the road. For some reason, traffic allowed them to get to the curb without a lot of shouting and honking despite the fact that the light had turned green.

I looked down at the book in my hands and whispered, "Holy Shit." I'd seen tits before. My first shout had nothing to do with that display, no matter how spectacular it was. I had screamed out when her boobs popped out because I knew that I had caused that display with just a thought... and this book.

I had to wait for another cycle of the lights to make my left turn, but as soon as I turned, I pulled into a parking lot and opened the trunk of my car. I had a small duffle bag in there with gym clothes in it. I pulled out a pair of sweat pants and wrapped the book in them. Then I stuffed it all back into the bag. It barely fit, but something told me I needed to hide the book from whomever this Doctor Roberts was.

I pulled out of the parking lot and went back to Sepulvada. There was an old fitness club a little ways south at which I had a "daily pass" membership. That meant I paid almost nothing in yearly dues, but I had to pay extra for those days I actually used their equipment. I hadn't paid much in the past six months or so, but I could still get in, and more importantly, if I paid for the day, I could put my gym clothes in a locker.

As I passed the women's workout room, a Pilates Yoga class was in progress. The door shouldn't have been open, but it was. They were all bent over doing some sort of exercise. I was standing in the doorway admiring the stretching ability of modern Yoga pants when the entire class went down onto their hands and knees facing away from the door and started doing leg extensions. As they pushed back into a tight ball, the fabric was now pulled even tighter over a room full of very nice asses. Cameltoe does not even begin to describe the effect when they raised up slightly, stuck one leg up in the air behind them and pointed their foot directly at me. It was obvious that the stretch material was more than form-fitting everywhere on their body. Evidently several of the more booty-endowed ladies hadn't heard about the recall of the yoga pants that turned almost totally sheer when stretched. One black woman apparently also hadn't heard of underwear.

As interesting as the view was, this wasn't why I had come to the gym. I shook my head to get my mind back on track and continued down the hallway to the men's locker area. I chose a long-term locker and put the duffle in it and my lock on the outside. I don't think they ever checked who was using the long-term lockers, but just in case, I upgraded my membership to monthly. I also put a month's dues on my credit card with automatic renewal. If I couldn't get back here for a few days, or even a few months, the book would be safe in my locker... I hoped.

As I walked down the front steps back to my car, for just a minute I had an image of an auctioneer standing in the locker room calling for bids before they opened it.

***

When I got to the clinic or rehabilitation center or whatever it was, they paged Dr. Roberts and asked him to come to the reception area. He was a mid-50s man who looked exactly like you would expect a nut house doctor to look. He had black, horn-rimmed glasses and a overly trimmed beard that was showing traces of gray. The place was very 1960's professional with green paint on the walls and all the orderlies in white pants and shirts and the nurses in white blouses and uniform skirts. The good doctor himself was wearing black suit pants, a white shirt and a white lab coat. He looked very much like he had just stepped out of a rerun of one of those old black and white TV medical shows. To me, it looked a little forced and fake, but I guess it was all part of the package that you sell the client to get them to pay the exorbitant fees for services there.