Chapter 3: Under the Cat
1074 Words
Elias doesn’t run. Running gets you caught. Running means you’re prey.
He walks. Head down. Snow in his eyelashes. Past Hallgrímskirkja, past the dead man waving, past the tour group taking photos of the church like it’s not a crime scene.
He doesn’t look back. If he looks back, he’ll see him. If he sees him, he’ll have to admit dead men can wave.
His phone is burning in his pocket. Anna’s voice is still on it. He’s using my words now.
Who is he?
Library. Basement. Room with no number. The key is under the cat.
The National Library has a basement. Staff only. Storage, old newspapers, microfilm, and books too damaged to shelve. Elias has mopped it twice. Never seen a room with no number. Every door is labeled: B-01, B-02, B-03.
And the cat.
Marta’s desk. She has three porcelain cats. White, black, calico. She calls them “the board of directors.” Wipes them with Windex every Tuesday.
He cuts through the side streets. Austurstræti, then up Bankastræti. Avoids the main road. Avoids cameras. Avoids life.
10:38 AM. Staff door. His card still works. No alarm. No one stopped his access. Good or bad, he doesn’t know.
Inside smells like paper and bleach and Marta’s vanilla hand lotion. Normal. Which makes it worse.
He goes straight to her desk. Circulation. Empty. She took his advice. Didn’t come in.
The cats are there. White on the left, black in the middle, calico on the right. He picks up the white one. Nothing under it. Dust ring.
Black cat. He lifts it.
Key. Small, brass, old. Taped to the bottom with yellowed Scotch tape.
He peels it off. The tape leaves residue on his glove. The key is cold. Teeth worn down. Not a modern key. This is for a skeleton lock.
You’ll know which cat. Black. Anna hated black cats. Said they were “too honest.”
He pockets the key. Heads for the staff stairs. Down.
The basement is colder. Concrete sweats. Fluorescents buzz like trapped flies. B-01 is microfilm. B-02 is newspapers. B-03 is a damaged book.
Then the hall ends. Brick wall. Pipe running across it, dripping.
No B-04.
Elias runs his hand along the brick. Third one from the left, second row up, shifts. Not much. A millimeter.
He pushes. The whole section swings in. No hinges he can see. Just darkness and stairs going down further.
Room with no number. Because it’s not on any map.
He takes the stairs. Seven steps. At the bottom, a door. Wood, swollen with damp. No label. No handle. Just a keyhole, black and round like a pupil.
The brass key slides in. Turns with a sound like breaking ice.
The room is small. Ten feet by ten. No windows. One bulb, n***d, hanging from a cord. Under it, a table. Metal. Like the one in the lighthouse.
On the table: a book. No. A stack. Twelve. All Eva Lind. All three titles repeated four times each. The Shadow Box, The Drowned City, The Winter House.
And a chair. Facing the door. Like someone was waiting.
Elias puts his backpack down. Opens it. Takes out his three books. Sets them next to the twelve. Now fifteen.
He grabs the top one from the new stack. The Winter House. Opens to page 1.
Not blank. Not his address.
A list. Names. Dates.
Eva Lind — 02.11.2014
Anna Jónsdóttir — 07.11.2014
Höskuldsson, Director — 11.09.2016
Sigurður Bjarnason, Detective — 20.04.2026
Yesterday. The man from the harbor. Full name. Detective.
Under that, one more name. No date.
Elias Þórsson —
The dash is fresh. Ink wet. Like someone was writing when he came down the stairs.
He slams the book shut. The sound is a gunshot in the room.
On the back wall, behind the table, there’s a corkboard. Pinned to it: photos. Dozens.
Anna. Eva Lind. The director. The detective. And others. People he doesn’t know. All with dates under them. All dead, probably.
Center of the board: him. Staff photo from 2021. When he started. Someone wrote on it in red marker. READER.
Under the board, a shelf. On it, a tape recorder. Old. 1990s. Big buttons. PLAY, STOP, REC.
A cassette is in it. Label: E.T. — if you’re alone, press play.
His initials. Elias Þórsson.
He presses play.
Static. Then Anna. Not voicemail Anna. Live Anna. Close to the mic. Scared.
“Eli, if you found this, you went deeper than I wanted. I’m sorry. I didn’t vanish. I was taken. By a reader. Not like us, Eli. Not someone who loves books. Someone who edits them. Eva tried to write him out. He killed her for it. Then he used her books to find me. Now he’s using me to find you. The margin notes? Mine. At first. Then his. He learned my handwriting. He’s good, Eli. He—”
Footsteps. On the tape. Door opening. Anna stops.
Man’s voice. Calm. Icelandic, no accent. “Anna. You’re not supposed to be in here.”
Anna: “Please. He doesn’t know anything. He’s just a janitor.”
Man: “He’s a reader. That’s enough. You made him a character when you wrote his name in the first book. You know the rules. Once you’re named, you’re in the story. And stories end.”
Sound of a struggle. Chair scraping. Then Anna, loud, right into the mic: “ELIAS DON’T READ THE END—”
Crash. Tape cuts to static.
Elias stares at the recorder. Don’t read the end.
End of what?
He looks at the fifteen books. All Eva Lind. All have ends.
He grabs The Winter House — the one from his apartment. Flips to the last page.
It’s been rewritten. Pen. Blue. Same hand as the notes.
Chapter 30
Elias went into the basement. He played the tape. He understood. He turned around to leave. But the door was locked. Because readers don’t leave. They get read. The man in the wool coat was already behind him.
Elias stops breathing.
He turns around.
The door is closed. It was open.
And behind him, in the chair that was empty, sits the man from the harbor.
Wool coat. Grey hair. Water is still dripping from the sleeve.
He’s not wet anymore. He’s not dead anymore.
He’s smiling.
He holds up a pen. Blue.
“Hello, Reader,” the man says. “Ready for your last chapter?”
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