The Library Δ

By Paige O'Brien

When did they put this here? I think as I pass what looks to be an old, abandoned 
building. But that is impossible. The building cannot be old, nor abandoned, as I have walked this street every day for the past five years and I have never seen it before.
 

It is small, made of dull grey stone, matching the rest of the buildings surrounding the 
street. There’s no name or number on the building to distinguish it from any other, and it sits tucked away between the Bank of Hollowford and Mr. Pew's Pawn Shop. Looking as if it had always been there.

I glance around, searching for any sign that I’m not losing my mind. Across the street I 
notice a couple walking arm in arm. The woman catches my eye, smiles and continues walking. I look back at the building, shake my head and continue walking home. Buildings do not just appear out of thin air. Plus, the woman didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

By the time I made it home, I convinced myself that the building always existed, and I 
just never noticed it before. It was the only logical answer. 

Even though I could not remember the name of the building. 

Or recall what the building was for. 

And I can say with almost certainty that the building has never sat there before.

Right? 

It all falls to logic and common sense. And both of those all point to one conclusion: the 
building has always been on the street. 

The next day, I passed by again.

This time, though, I noticed something different.

A symbol etched into the stone above the inconspicuous door. 

The marking is simple yet unsettling–-an upward-pointing triangle, its peak yearning 
toward something unseen, barely noticeable unless you know where to look. I shake my head and keep walking. But the thought lingers in my mind: I have walked this street thousands of times. How could I miss this? 

I finish my walk to work lost in thought but once I step into the office all my thoughts 
vanish. I walk to my desk, annoyed at the bustle around me, providing discomfort that a long day is ahead of me. I turn the corner and smile a little seeing the small redhead at the desk next to mine. At least Trina is here. 

I see her frown as she watches me put my things on my desk. 

“What’s the matter with you this morning huh? You’re all serious and frowny.” Trina 
asks skeptically. 

I look at her intently wondering if she’ll think I’m crazy if I mention the mystery 
building. 

“You know how I pass Mr. Pew's Pawn Shop and the bank every day on my way to 
work?” 

“Yeah, and?”

“Well yesterday I swear this building just appeared out of nowhere sitting straight in 
between the two.” She tries not to laugh. I see the moment she realizes I am being serious cross her face and her smile falters. 

“Buildings can’t just appear Isla don’t be silly. A long time ago, like back in the 60s or 
something, there used to be a library there.” 

“A library? What do you mean?”

Trina rolled her eyes at me, her nails clicking away at her keyboard. “You know a library, 
where you read books.” she continued talking before I could make a snide comment. “It never got much business. I mean it’s next to the pawn shop, and we all know that the folks who talk to Mr. Pew aren’t the most welcoming or friendly. But anyway, it’s been abandoned for years, probably why you never noticed it.” 

She had turned her attention back to her computer already and kept typing. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to mention how friendly Mr. Pew was to me every Friday when I saw him, but I kept my mouth shut. I turn to my computer curiously, looking at Trina before I start Googling this mysterious library. I find nothing. My stomach drops as I go from tab to tab looking for anything. Too much time has passed before I start to actually work, unable to shake away any remaining thoughts about the library. Had the building truly always been there?

***

Each day on my way to the office I pass the library. And each day something new seems 
to appear. Monday was the building, Tuesday was the symbol, Wednesday I noticed the black door, bottomless and absorbing all the light around it, randomly acquired a nice shiny silver handle. I started faintly smelling aged paper every time I passed. Thursday, I saw a dim, flickering light in a window above the black door.

Every time I pass it, I know I need to leave it alone. I need to keep walking. That there is nothing special about this building. But everyday something beckons me, and I can’t leave it be. 

Thursday evening, against all better judgement, I go to the door. Standing in front of it 
gave me a chill that I couldn’t shake off. Something about the door draws me in. Beckoning me to turn the smooth silver handle. I shouldn’t. But I do.

 

The handle twisted in my hand silently, swinging the door open as if it had been waiting for me the entire time. I hesitate, staring at the entrance of the library. The street has gone quiet, and all I can focus on is the faint tinkle of the bell above the door blowing in the wind. Slowly, I lift my foot above the threshold and step in. 
 

Inside, the air is thick with dust and something heavier–-something unseen. Shelves 
tower impossibly high, stretching into a ceiling shrouded in shadow. Books line every inch of space, their spines worn, their titles shifting when I try to read them in the low orange light. The silence is oppressive, not merely an absence of sound but heavy like a presence all of its own. 

I walk through the rows, telling myself I will only look. Only for a moment. Touch 
nothing.

Then I see it–-a single book resting on a small wooden table. The table sits in the center 
of the room, surrounded by looming shelves. I look more closely, and my breath gets stuck in my throat. Across the spine in silver swirls is my name. 

Isla Harrington 

My heart pounds in my chest, my entire body shakes, as I take a step backward. What the hell? I take another step away, not daring to move my eyes from where the small black book sits.

I should leave. I should run and not turn back. Instead, I feel myself being drawn forward. 
I reach for the book and open it. The first page is blank. I sigh a breath of relief and go to put it down.

Then ink appears to seep into the parchment, curling into letters, forming words. 
A single sentence stares back at me:

Welcome, Isla.

I slam the book shut, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingers. My hands shake 
violently as I drop it back on the table with a heavy thud. I glance around, half expecting 
someone to emerge from behind the shelves, wanting an explanation to appear. But there is only silence. 

I hesitate, my breath lodged in my throat, curious to see what else the book has written. I 
grab and open the book once more flipping past my name, a small gasp coming from my lips as I watch the ink swirls create a story. 

Isla has come to the library. Scared and alone she wanders the shelves, her 
fingers running along the spines of books she cannot fathom to read. She has found her 
book. Her book of life. It has started. Do not forget dear Isla that everything happens 
for a reason. She sets her book down and runs out of the library unprepared for what’s 
to come.

Just as it says, I run, dropping the book on the table, tripping over my feet and stumbling out of the door. I gasp for air, trying to settle my nerves. The only thought in my head: What the hell was that? I observe my surroundings. The sun is now slowly rising, and I can hear the birds chirping. I blink and look down the street seeing the coffee shop owner switch their lights on, signaling the start of the day. 

How long was I in there? I look back at the black door which has swung itself shut. I start 
my journey home feeling unnerved, not sure how to feel about the book I had just discovered. 

When I get home, things feel different. I noticed it first while brushing my teeth, getting 
ready for work. My reflection was just slightly off; my dark hair looked dirty and frizzy, my blue eyes foggy, almost empty, blinking a second too late. I brush it off as me being tired, having not slept since I was at the library.

It’s a Friday, so the whole town wakes up two hours later than normal. I am walking past 
the bank as I see Mr. Pew turning on his open sign. My pace slows when I pass the library, a heavy feeling in the air drags me, as I continue my way towards Mr. Pew.

“You’re a bit early today Mr. Pew. You still have ten minutes before you open.” I say 
lightheartedly, checking my watch. 

The old man laughs, which quickly turns into a coughing fit, consequences of being a 
chain smoker I suppose. “It’s ten minutes Iris. You never know what could happen in ten 
minutes.” 

I nodded as I walked past, laughing with him. It took me until I got to the end of the street to realize he called me by the wrong name. A simple mistake, I’m sure, but I could not help but notice how strange it was. He has greeted me by name every Friday for the past five years. 

 

I ignore the weird feeling in my stomach as I make my way to the office. The trip 
normally takes no longer than fifteen minutes, but today something feels off. It takes me walking down one more street before I can finally place my finger on the strange feeling. Standing at a crosswalk–-farther down than it should have been–-I noticed the street signs were different. Some were pointing in the opposite direction, some were misspelled, or just entirely misplaced. 

The faces of people I have known for years flicker, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, smiles 
twisting at the edges when I pass them on the sidewalk. I tell myself it’s exhaustion, stress, anything but the truth. 

The only street sign that has stayed the same reads “Ashford Street” and on that street lies the Hollowford Bank, Mr. Pew's Pawn Shop, and the library with the strange black door. 

***

The library has started calling me in a seductive whisper. Every day it begs me to come 
enter the door and be swept away by the thick scent of ink and old paper. Every night I return, unable to resist. The black book waits patiently for me, sitting perfectly in the center of the table. Each time I open it, the entries are longer, more detailed, more insidious. 

It consumes my nights. I tell myself each morning that I will not return, that I will pass 
Ashford Street without a glance toward the black door. Yet, by dusk, my feet lead me there on their own accord, my heartbeat quickening with each step. I do not know what I am searching for. Answers? Maybe. Proof that I am not losing my mind? Absolutely. 
 

The book of life is always waiting. Its pages no longer blank. Now, they are full–-inscriptions that seem to bleed fresh as I read them. It chronicles everything, even the smallest movements and tiniest thoughts. The book details all the differences of Hollowford I have picked up on. 

The first time I saw an entry describing my morning in perfect detail–-the tea I spilled, 
the phone call I ignored–-I snapped the book shut so violently the sound echoed through the rows.

 
Now, however, I cannot stop myself. I read. I flip the pages feverishly, searching for 
something that makes sense. The words ripple and shift, almost alive. 

Isla has noticed the changes. Her friends have started calling her Iris Harking. 
The streets are changing. The people are mean, and the world is unforgiving. Names, 
numbers, symbols, nothing is as it was, or is it the way it should be? Watch as she is 
called back to the library, unwilling to leave it alone. Isn’t it funny that nothing is as it 
seems?

The words are carved deep, the ink raised and dark. I trace them with trembling fingers, 
my breath shallow. What do you want, I say aloud, quietly speaking to the book itself. I watch as the ink seeps into the page my heart pounding feverishly. 

You.

***

I cannot escape the library. Sleep has started to offer no peace either. Dreams are no safer than waking hours. In my sleep I wander the endless shelves, hands brushing spines that whisper my name, promising truths I do not want to know. At the end of each row, the black door waits, wide open, darkness flowing out. The book always waits patiently for me on the dark oak table. 

Nothing is as it seems.

The book's words scrawl themselves across the walls, floors, the ceiling – impossible to 
ignore. I scream, tearing out pages, but the ink only bleeds thicker, faster, staining my hands black. I scream until I wake up, covered in sweat and smelling like an old book.

Every time I awake from my nightmares, I run through the streets as fast as I can, always 
toward one destination. I turn corner after corner, only to find myself standing in front of the street sign reading “Ashford Street”. I look to my left and see the black door yawning wide.

The library is waiting for me. 

My hands are numb as I push open the door. The silence is deafening, the air stifling. The book lies open on the table, pages fluttering, ink glistening wet. I approach on legs that tremble, fingers twitching with the need to touch, turn the page, to know.
 

The final entry falls in front of my eyes. The words written in red, a stark contrast against 
the yellow parchment. 

Isla Harrington no longer exists. 

The heavy door swings shut from behind me; sealing shut with a sturdy click. I whirl 
around, my heart pounding. I look back down. 

The book is still writing. It chronicles my every move–-the gasping breaths, the 
trembling hands, the way I spin frantic, searching for a way out of the library. My hands slap the pages closed, but the words bleed through the cover, whispering, promising.
I am not sure when I start screaming, only that the sound goes on and on, swallowed by 
the silence of the library. I read the last page.

The library is real.

The words glow, dark and final, ink seeping into the parchment like blood. An 
undeniable finality. My vision blurs, legs giving way. I sink to the floor, my head falling into my hands, the silence swallowing me heavy and absolute. The book closes with a soft sigh, as if finally satisfied. And now I finally understand. Nothing is as it seems. The library exists, but now Isla Harrington does not.