The Book That Shouldn’t Exist.

The Folded Page.

A minute ago it had sitting on the pedestal, the blue candlelight sliding across its cover. Now there was nothing. Just bare stone, as if the book had never been there.

Her stomach tightened.Something else had changed too.

The scraping has stopped. The whispering. Even that slow breathing she’d felt right behind her. All of it gone. The quiet that replaced it felt worse somehow…thicker, like the room was holding its breath with her.

She turned slowly.

Her lantern was dead, but she lifted it anyway, out of pure habit. The blue candles along the walls were still lit, though their light looked weaker now, as if the dark was eating it.

Nothing behind her as usual.

She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“I imagined it,” she said under her breath, she didn’t believe it. Then something rustled , not close but somewhere in the shelves.

A page turned. Then another and another, until the sound rolled through the chamber like wind moving through trees, except there was no wind. Only books, hundreds of them, maybe a thousand.

She looked up in absolute shock.

The shelves climbed into blackness, level after level. Iron walkways crossed between them in places. Narrow staircases twisted up like something growing. None of that had been there when she walked in.

She decided to follow one staircase with her eyes until it disappeared into the dark. The library was changing or maybe it had been waiting , the thought made her skin crawl.

She tried being practical. Old buildings settle. Hidden doors. Mechanisms no one could possibly think of or remember. There had to be a reason, there always was.

Except none of that explained the writing that had appeared by itself. Or the voice that said her name, or the thing that touched her face.

She pushed the thoughts away, standing still wasn’t going to help. If there was another way out, she needed to find it.

She kept one hand on the nearest shelf and started walking the edge of the circular room, counting steps without meaning to.

Twenty three.

Thirty eight.

Fifty.

She was too frightened, she lost the ability to count figures well.

The room should have curved back towards the pedestal by now. It didn’t. The shelves just kept going.

She stopped and looked behind her, the pedestal was gone . In its place was another long aisle, books identical to the ones in front of her.

Fear hit her hard and sudden she turned into a slow circle. Every direction looked the same, the chamber had turned into a maze.

“No…”

It was her voice. But it hadn’t come from an echo, it came late, and from the wrong place.

She stood completely still, listening.

Nothing. Only the soft turning of pages. She ran her fingers along the spines, these books weren’t blank anymore. Titles were pressed into the old leather. Some in languages she could not understand and in others it was just dates.

One said: October 17, 1900

Another: The Boy Who Forgot The Sun

Another : Mrs Holloway’s Last Tuesday

They didn’t feel like stories. They felt like things that had happened to someone. She pulled one free. It was lighter than it looked, dust floated up when she opened it.

First page : a name, Edmund Hale.

Second page: like a dairy entry.

I heard a whisper today, mother says the old library has always called to someone eventually . I laughed her.

She turned the page. The handwriting was totally different, no one believes me.

Another page, the shelves keep moving and then a voice said audibly “ if anyone find this …don’t let it know your...”

The rest of the sentence was gone. The page had been torn out. So had every page after it. Only the empty binding was left.

A thump sounded somewhere above her. She looked up , but yet Nothing.

Another thump, closer. Something heavy landing on one of the iron walkways.

She held her breath while trying to remain silent.

A shadow crossed the moonlight … too fast, too long in the limbs and then it was gone behind the shelves .

She told herself to keep moving. Quietly. Without looking up again.

She took three steps

Then four

The air felt thicker now, as if the space between the shelves had narrowed without her noticing. Every small sound she made .. the soft scrape of her boot, the faint creak of the lantern handle seemed too loud , she forced herself to breathe through her mouth, slow and shallow, counting each breath the way she counted each steps earlier.

Above her, nothing moved. But the silence was different, it no longer felt empty, it felt occupied. Like something has settled into it and was simply waiting for her.

Her fingers brushed a book spine and she jerked her hand back, heart slamming once against her ribs. She didn’t look at the title this time around. She was not interested in knowing what it entails.

She could her the faint sound of steps deep down the dark room. She could feel the weight of the presence, the way you feel someone staring at the back of your head in a crowded place. Only for her to come to her consciousness that there was no crowd. Just the endless dark and the soft patient turning of the pages somewhere far away.

She kept walking endlessly, giving herself the motivation needed to pull out to the right place. Then something dropped on the floor which made her heart jump out of her.

She took a long while, waiting for the right motive and condition for her to summon the courage to turn around. Only when the silence stretched thin did she look over her shoulder.

A folded pieces of paper lay on the stone . It had not been there a moment before. Clara stared at it, hearts beating too loud in her ears. The edges looked soft with age, the creases deep, as if it had been opened and closed many times.

She read the words once. Then again and was in abrupt shock of the contents.