Ghosts That Linger

The old library smelled of dust and secrets, its shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten books. Clara had always loved it here, the way the light filtered through cracked stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the oak floor. It was a place where time felt suspended, where the world outside—with its noise and haste—couldn’t reach her.

Tonight, though, as the autumn wind howled beyond the walls, the library felt different. The air was heavier, the shadows sharper. She’d come to retrieve a book for her thesis, a rare collection of M.R. James’ ghost stories, but now, sitting at the long reading table with the leather-bound volume open before her, Clara couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

She’d read James before, years ago, curled up in her teenage bedroom. His stories had terrified her then—Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad had left her sleepless, checking the corners of her room for shapes that shouldn’t be there. Now, at twenty-five, she told herself she was beyond such fears. She was a scholar, studying Gothic literature, dissecting tales of the supernatural with academic precision. But as she turned the brittle pages, the words seemed to pulse with a life of their own, and the library’s silence grew thick, oppressive.

The story she’d chosen was Casting the Runes, one of James’ most unsettling tales. It followed Karswell, a malevolent scholar who cursed his enemies with slips of paper inscribed with ancient runes. Once received, the victim had days—sometimes hours—before something unspeakable came for them. Clara’s pen scratched notes in her journal: James’ use of ambiguity creates a psychological dread, leaving the reader to imagine the unseen pursuer. She paused, her pen hovering. The library’s radiator hissed, but the sound felt wrong, like a whisper forming words she couldn’t quite catch.

She glanced up. The windows rattled, though the wind outside had stilled. Her reflection stared back from the glass, pale and distorted, and for a moment, she thought she saw another face behind hers—a flicker of eyes, too wide, too dark. She blinked, and it was gone. “Get a grip,” she muttered, forcing a laugh. It was just the story working its magic, James’ knack for planting seeds of unease. She turned back to the book, but her eyes caught something tucked between the pages—a slip of yellowed paper, folded tightly.

Curiosity overrode her unease. She pried it free, careful not to tear the fragile page. The paper was brittle, its edges curling like burnt leaves. Unfolding it revealed a series of strange, angular symbols, inked in a deep, rusty red. They looked like no language she recognized, yet they seemed to hum with intent, as if they were waiting to be read. Her academic mind kicked in: A reader’s note? A bookmark from decades ago? But her pulse quickened, and the story’s plot echoed in her mind—Karswell’s runes, passed unknowingly to doom the recipient.

She shoved the paper back into the book and slammed it shut. The sound echoed, too loud in the empty library. Her phone buzzed, startling her. A text from her advisor: Found the James book? Be careful with it—rare edition. Clara typed a quick reply, her fingers trembling. Got it. Heading out soon. But as she stood, the air grew colder, the radiator’s hiss now unmistakably a low, guttural murmur. She grabbed her bag, the book, and the slip of paper—why had she taken it?—and hurried toward the exit.

The library’s main door was locked. She tugged at it, her breath hitching. The key, usually left in the lock for late-night researchers, was gone. “Hello?” she called, her voice swallowed by the vast room. No answer, but the shadows seemed to shift, pooling in corners where the light should have reached. She fumbled for her phone, but the screen flickered, then died, despite its full battery. Panic clawed at her chest. She backed away from the door, clutching the book like a shield.

A sound came from the stacks—a soft, deliberate scrape, like cloth dragging across the floor. Clara froze. “Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The scrape came again, closer now, from the aisle behind her. She turned, her flashlight app somehow working again, casting a weak beam into the darkness. The light caught something—a shape, tall and thin, its edges indistinct, like a figure drawn in smoke. It moved, not walking but gliding, its head tilted at an unnatural angle.

Clara stumbled backward, her hip crashing into the table. The book fell, the slip of paper fluttering to the floor. The shape paused, as if noticing it, and the air grew thick with a pressure that made her ears ache. She remembered the story: The runes call something. Something that watches, waits, and comes when you least expect it. Her rational mind screamed that this was impossible, a trick of fatigue and fear, but her body acted on instinct. She grabbed the paper, tore it in half, and shoved the pieces into her pocket.

The shape lunged. Clara screamed, ducking behind the table. The air vibrated with a low, guttural hum, and the shape passed through the space where she’d stood, its form dissolving into wisps of shadow. She ran, not toward the locked door but to the emergency exit at the back, her footsteps pounding against the floor. The hum followed, growing louder, angrier. She burst through the exit, the alarm blaring, and stumbled into the cold night air.

She didn’t stop running until she reached her car, the book still clutched to her chest. The slip of paper was gone—lost in the library or disintegrated, she didn’t know. Her hands shook as she started the engine, the headlights cutting through the dark. The library loomed in her rearview mirror, its windows black and unyielding. She drove home, her heart hammering, telling herself it was just a panic attack, just her imagination fed by James’ words.

But that night, as she lay in bed, the book on her nightstand, she heard it—a faint scrape, like cloth dragging across the floor. She didn’t turn on the light. She didn’t move. She just listened, her breath shallow, as the sound grew closer, then stopped just outside her door. The air was heavy again, the same pressure from the library, and though she couldn’t see it, she knew something was there, watching, waiting.

Clara never read M.R. James again. She returned the book the next day, slipping it through the library’s drop slot, avoiding the building entirely. Her thesis shifted to safer topics—Dickens, Austen, anything but the Gothic. But sometimes, late at night, she’d wake to a faint hum, a whisper of movement in the dark. She’d lie still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, wondering if the runes had ever truly let her go.Start writing...