Chapter Text
It began with a fall.
Not a Fall fall, nothing so dramatic as that—a soft thump, at most. The sound, such as it was, barely registered in Aziraphale’s ears, so intent was he on his crossword. Years of practiced inattentiveness had proven useful, in his line of work—by far the easiest way to ignore a customer was to simply and genuinely not notice them—and there was a particularly clever little section of the grid he was determined to puzzle out.
It wasn’t until several hours later, when he’d headed back to mix up a pot of cocoa, that he spotted the book lying flat and spine-up on the floor.
Aziraphale tsked at it. “Now, then,” he said, “however did you get there?”
The book, an unexceptional copy of The Castle of Otranto, was unsurprisingly silent. It was, apparently, beyond the reach of even angelic powers to coax books into giving up words not their own.
Aziraphale, mostly unbothered, picked up the book, smoothed out the newly-formed creases in its pages, and replaced it carefully on the shelf.
Less than an hour later, it happened again.
This time, Aziraphale was engaged in a rather elaborate daydream involving a snake (any resemblance to demons of his acquaintance being, of course, entirely coincidental) and the ticklish bit just underneath his own navel, and the thump was loud enough to break it off just as things were beginning to get really interesting, tongue-wise.
“Drat,” said Aziraphale crossly, and stood up (with all appropriate care).
This time, the fallen book was a leatherbound copy of Hamlet, signed by a certain stage actor and inscribed to Aziraphale personally, and he was more than a little annoyed to see it covered in dust. (He was also entirely capable of ignoring the fact that the dust on the floor had built up over a half-century of putting off sweeping just til tomorrow.)
He resolved to sweep tomorrow and replaced Hamlet on the shelf.
Thud.
“What the devil…” Aziraphale muttered, and headed off in search of the new sound.
It was The Turn of the Screw, this time. Aziraphale’s thoughts shifted from irritation to curiosity. Two books falling in a row could be attributed to coincidence; three, and either a tectonic shift had occurred while he’d been working towards a quake of his own, or something else was afoot.
He slowly slid the Henry James back into its place, careful not to make too much noise, so that he could hear…
And, yes, there it was, a faint rustling sound, coming from a few shelves away. Aziraphale darted over and was just in time to see the next book fall, pages splaying open as it hit the floor.
He turned to the title page.
“A Christmas Carol,” Aziraphale said, aloud. “Well. Some patterns, I suppose, cannot be ignored.” He cleared his throat, and said, in a voice loud enough to fill the entire shop:
“Pardon me, but is there a ghost present?”