The Midnight Library

The Midnight Library doesn’t appear on any map. It doesn’t have a fixed address. But if you’re desperate enough, it will find you.

I didn’t believe in magic or fate—until the night I stumbled upon it. I was lost, both literally and figuratively. My job was gone, my relationship was over, and I was wandering the streets at midnight, trying to outrun my thoughts.

That’s when I saw it: an old, ivy-covered building with a flickering sign that read “Open at Midnight.” The clock on the tower was stuck at 11:59.

I should have walked away. But I didn’t.

The door creaked open as I approached, as if the library had been expecting me. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. The shelves stretched endlessly, filled with books that seemed to hum with a strange energy.

At the center of the room stood the librarian.

She was tall and gaunt, her skin pale as parchment. Her eyes were too wide, her smile too sharp. “Welcome,” she said, her voice like the rustle of pages. “Choose wisely. Every book has a price.”

I laughed nervously. “What kind of price?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she gestured to the shelves. “Find the book that calls to you.”

I wandered the aisles, my fingers brushing against spines that felt unnaturally warm. Then I saw it: a small, leather-bound book with my name etched in gold.

I opened it.

The first page read: “Tomorrow, at 8:15 AM, your ex will call. You will not answer.”

I scoffed. My ex hadn’t spoken to me in months. But as I left the library, a coldness settled in my chest, like something had been ripped out.

The next morning, my phone rang at exactly 8:15 AM. It was my ex.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. The book had been right.

I didn’t answer.

That night, I returned to the library. The librarian was waiting, her smile sharper than before. “Back so soon?” she asked.

I ignored her and found another book. This one predicted a job offer—one I’d been dreaming of for years. But as I read, the coldness in my chest deepened.

The next day, the offer came.

I should have stopped there. But I couldn’t. Every night, I returned to the library, devouring book after book. Each one revealed a piece of my future, but with every page, I felt… emptier.

My reflection grew fainter in the mirror. My laughter sounded hollow, even to me.

One night, I found a book I hadn’t noticed before. Its title was simple: “The Midnight Library.”

I opened it.

The pages were filled with stories—hundreds of them. Stories of people like me, who had discovered the library and been consumed by it.

“The library isn’t a place,” the book explained. “It’s a predator, feeding on the desperate and the curious. Every book you read steals a piece of your soul. And when there’s nothing left, you become part of the library.”

I slammed the book shut, my hands trembling.

The librarian appeared beside me, her eyes glowing faintly. “You’ve read too much,” she said. “There’s no turning back now.”

I tried to leave, but the door was gone. The shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, trapping me in a maze of books and shadows.

“Let me go!” I screamed.

The librarian smiled. “You can stay and become part of the library,” she said. “Or you can leave—but you’ll forget everything. Including yourself.”

I chose to leave.

The librarian nodded and handed me a small, blank book. “Write your name,” she said.

I did.

The moment I finished, the library dissolved around me. I woke up in my bed, the morning sun streaming through the windows.

But something was wrong.

I couldn’t remember my name. Or where I worked. Or why I felt so empty.

On my doorstep was a book. Its title read: “The Life You Forgot.”

I opened it.

The first page was blank.

The clock struck midnight.

The library appeared again, its door creaking open.

And I realized: I wasn’t holding the book anymore.

I was inside it.