I am a sucker for scary... well, everything. Maybe that's why Halloween is my favorite time of year. Because I have an excuse to do all the scary writing, reading, and watching I want. So here's an original story that I came up with during the night before Halloween.
I love my job as a librarian. Most days are relaxed—not many people are like myself and take pleasure in literary entertainment. But maybe twice or thrice a week, a lovely young person or a sweet old couple will walk into my library and smile and stroll around for a while before leaving with a book to read. They'll come back the next week, return their old book, talk about everything they learned from the book (to me), and check out a new one. And they'll come back the next week and do it all over again.
My library isn't like most public libraries. My library is one straight out of a storybook. There are no computers, printers, fancy machinery, or DVD's available at my library. Just rows and rows and rows of books, with fabric binding and those old ribbon bookmarks attached to the front cover instead of cheap plastic ones in cheap plastic boxes at the reception. No one comes here to print out their social studies paper. No one comes here to rent a movie on a Friday night. I don't use barcode scanners to check someone's book out. I don't use a computer to see if we have a book available. I know each and every single book that's in my library, and I know exactly who checks what out and exactly how many days they have it with them. I get books checked out the old-fashioned way—with a small paper slip, with lines on it for people to write their names on when they check it out, and another line right next to that one to write their name on when they return it. And they keep the slip with them for as long as they have the book, and they give the slip to me when they return it. And I have every single slip for every single book in my library, stocked in a folio cabinet underneath my desk.
The nice thing about being a librarian in my library is that you so rarely see an unfamiliar face. Everyone that walks in is someone who has been there before and knows exactly what they're looking for. All I have to do is smile at them and check their book out. I listen to them when they talk to me about what they've read. And since I have read every single book in my library, I always know what they're saying.
Well, almost every single book.
Today I found a rather small black book on a table near one of the nonfiction shelves. It was shut closed. It wasn't a very long book; three-hundred pages at most. And since it was only about eight inches by six inches in length and width, those pages probably weren't very long, either.
I had never seen this book before. And I know every book in my library. I never get shipments or new books; there's hardly enough customers who come here, let alone need them. I opened the book to the back cover to check if there was a slip. There was, but it was empty. No names. What's more is that the slip wasn't the same beige color that I use on the rest of my slips. It was white, like regular paper. Which I never use, since I don't want anyone replacing any of my slips with one that they make as a dupe; hence the typical beige paper I make them on. This one was white.
My first thought was that this was someone's own book, and that they had forgotten it here. But who brings books to a library? That's like bringing sand to the beach. My next thought was that this was from another library in town, since most people go there to use their computers. But no one in big libraries uses slips like I do. They use barcode scanners.
I closed the book to see what the front cover said. There was no title. I opened it to the first page. Blank. Second page. Blank. Third page. It had the words Chapter One in bold letters at the top.
The first words of the chapter caught my eye. Particularly because they were describing a date. The date I was born. My birthday. The month, date, year I was born on.
I chuckled to myself. The main character of this book was a lot like me already. I loved to relate myself to the characters in a book, always looking for connections to my own life. But this connection was outright handed to me.
The next sentence was a location. A hospital name. The hospital I was born in. And I knew that because I give a donation of $600 every year to that hospital, since it's run on charity. Huh. The date could've been a coincidence. This was just weird. It's not even a particularly well-known hospital. It's a small local one with one location—the town where I was born.
I heard the bell at the front entrance ring. "This place still open?" someone asked, peering into the room I was in.
"This place is always open," I responded, smiling, without looking at the person. The person went about their way, scanning the shelves for something to read.
I kept reading. The next line was a set of two names. The names of my parents.
My hands trembled. My eyes darted around for the next line. There was no next line. I flipped the page.
Chapter Two
The lines were about my first birthday. Then about my first steps, first words, and my first day at daycare. The first book I read. The first stuffed animal my parents bought me, even what store they bought it at. I skipped a big chunk of pages. Chapter Fifteen. My sixteenth birthday, described in detail. The day I got my driver's license, down to the street where I made my first stop. Things so minor even I didn’t remember them, but somehow the book did. I skipped a few more pages. My twenty-first birthday. The day I opened my library.
I scanned the page. My eyes darted around from not being able to concentrate. A bead of sweat fell on the page and I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
The day I opened my library, I went to the stationary store to buy supplies. A letter opener, a wax-seal stamp, and pens. That day, I pricked myself with the letter opener as I took it out of the box. It made an x-shaped cut on my middle finger. I still have that scar three years later. And I have never told anybody about it. I was alone in my library the day it happened. I don’t have any security cameras in my library, or outside of it. The nearest camera is at the stoplight outside. The windows to the library were covered with newspaper when I first opened it. Nobody on the planet knows about this cut except me. Even if this person was some sort of creepy stalker’s idea of a game, they wouldn’t know about this.
If this was in the book…
I scanned around the page. Flipped it. On the third page of Chapter Twenty, the first sentence wrote:
Cuts left-hand middle finger. X-shape injury. One-quarter inch deep. One-half inch tall. One-third inch wide.
I felt my stomach drop. I kept flipping. All the way to Chapter Twenty-Three.
Celebrates at home. Blows out white candle on red-velvet cupcake with vanilla frosting and red sprinkles. Not alone.
I felt my breath return to normal. The book was wrong. I was alone on my birthday. I know I was.
I was worrying for nothing. It was all just a coincidence. I didn’t even read the entire book. There’s no way of telling if it was me the book was talking about. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.
I heard the customer in the library rustling through a stack of papers. Hopefully they could find what they were looking for.
I put the book down on the table and smiled. A gust of wind blew through the open window and flipped the page. The last page.
There was only one sentence at the top of the page. The last sentence of the book.
Stabbed. Dies of blood loss. Perpetrator not found.
My heart skipped a beat. Then I reminded myself that this wasn’t a book about me. It was just a poorly-written piece of literature about someone incredibly unlucky. An original character. Not me or any other person in the world.
I rolled my eyes. What was a story like this doing in the non-fiction section? I tossed it into the garbage and closed the blinds to the window. I decided to lead the customer out of the store and close down for the night.
I heard footsteps approaching me, coming from the mystery section into the non-fiction section. Hopefully, the customer was ready to check out. I sure was.
Still facing the windows, I asked, “Ready to check out?”
No response.
“Excuse me, are you ready to check out?” I turned around. Staring at me, about a foot away, was the customer. Wearing a ski mask and a black hoodie. The slit that exposed their eyes revealed a crazed look. The pupils were dilated and I could see them smiling under the mask.
The letter opener gleamed in their hand as they raised it over their head before it came crashing down on my neck.
No wonder the book was so short.