The Forgotten Library

Tucked between two decrepit buildings that appeared to have not been touched in decades, the library was concealed at the end of a little cobblestone alley. Blackwood Library had faded on the sign over the door; the letters were hardly readable. I had not intended to stop; I was merely slicing across the alley to escape the rain. Still, something about the location drew me in.

The sound of the door creaking open shivered my spine. Inside, the air smelled strongly of dust and old paper. Books piled high on the shelves, their spines broken and discolored, and the only illumination came from one, flickering bulb dangling from the ceiling.

" Hello? I cried out, my voice ringing in the stillness.

There was no response.

I strolled deeper into the library, my fingers tracing over the spines of the volumes. They were old—older than any books I’d ever seen—and the titles were written in languages I didn’t know. The more I went, the darker it got, until I could hardly see a few feet in front of me.

That’s when I found it.

It was a little, leather-bound book, tucked away on a shelf near the very back of the library. The cover was weathered, the title carved in gold characters that had long since faded. I opened it, and the pages were packed with scribbled notes, the ink smeared and hardly readable.

“Do you like it?”

I nearly dropped the book. The voice came from behind me, quiet and scratchy, like the sound of pages moving. I turned back, and there he was—an elderly man with a face like crumpled paper and eyes that sparkled like wet stones.

“It’s… interesting,” I responded, trying to keep my voice calm. “What is it?”

The old man smiled, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “It’s a journal. A very special journal. Would you like to borrow it?”

I hesitated. There was something strange about the elderly man, something that made my skin crawl. But the book… the book was beckoning to me, like it had a secret it needed to share.

“Yes,” I blurted, before I could stop myself. “I’d like to borrow it.”

The old man’s smile grew. “Excellent. Just remember—once you start reading, you can’t stop until you reach the end.”

The first night, I read the first chapter.

It was about a man who located a hidden library and borrowed a book. The language was vivid, the details so detailed it felt like I was there, strolling through the same dusty shelves, feeling the same sensation of uneasiness.

The second night, I read the second chapter.

It was about the man reading the book, about how he couldn’t put it down, no matter how hard he tried. The sentences appeared to fly off the page, dragging me deeper into the story.

The third night, I read the third chapter.

It was about the man recognizing that the book was altering him, that the more he read, the more he became a part of the story. I tried to stop reading, to put the book down, but my hands wouldn’t obey. The words were like a spell, anchoring me to the page.

The fourth night, I read the fourth chapter.

It was about the man returning back to the library, about how he couldn’t stay away, no matter how hard he tried. I felt the same draw, the same yearning to return to that dark, dusty area.

The fifth night, I read the fifth chapter.

It was about the man encountering the old man again, about how the old man smiled and said, “You’re almost there.”

The sixth night, I read the sixth chapter.

It was about the man discovering that the book wasn’t just a story—it was a trap. That once you started reading, you couldn’t stop until you reached the finish. And the end… the end was coming.

The seventh night, I read the final chapter.

It was about the man becoming the old man, about how he took his position in the library, waiting for the next person to find the book. I attempted to scream, to fling the book across the room, but it was too late. The words had already claimed me.

When I woke up, I was in the library.

The shelves were the same, the air dense with the scent of old paper and dust. The book was in my hands, its pages blank, waiting for me to fill them with a fresh story.

I heard the door creak open, and I turned to see a young woman standing there, her eyes wide with wonder.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice booming in the silence.

I grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth.

“Do you like it?”