A ghost lived in the library. Or at least that’s what some people said in hushed whispers
behind stacks of books. Hiding in plain sight with the hope that they wouldn’t fall privy to any
hauntings. Others found that the history of stories did indeed travel better through word of
mouth. The myth of spirits walking among the living was far too outlandish for them to believe
in; their interests buried deep in textbooks of monotonous language and lecture notes that went
on for miles.
Lucian’s fingers tightened around the mug of steaming coffee. The searing burn on his
palm served only to keep him awake as he re-read the same paragraph five times in a desperate
attempt to retain some sort of knowledge. His thesis sat compiled in endless pages of illegible
notes. Each scribbled list of bullets proved to be worse than the last.
The longer he looked at it, the more he felt his sanity get chipped away. He was the block
of marble waiting to be shaped, an amorphous piece of nature anticipating the first thwack of
hammer against chisel. Yet he could only hope what came out remained comprehensible to the
naked eye.
He flipped another page, eyes scanning down to the bottom before flicking back up. If he
was lucky he’d be out of the library before one in the morning. Although he rarely remained
lucky.
A rustle of movement sounded behind him, a chair heavily being dragged back a foot
before scooting forward once more. He figured another student had found their way in hoping to
cram for a few hours before they lost the battle to exhaustion. Part of him wanted to turn, offer a
small grin of encouragement. Instead he remained still, eyes going over line after line until he
felt another piece of his mind slip through his fingers like sand. Pooling on the old wooden table
and falling between the cracks.
By the seventh time he nearly packed his leather bag and left, unwilling to try again until
the sun was up in the sky. His muscles were weary with holding a sitting position for far too
long, his sight blurry and unfocused. Eventually he’d have to find his way to the grand entrance
lined with pillars—the darkened floors signaling the end of the day.
“Of course,” he muttered, glaring at the lamp overhead that flickered a musty yellow.
Such an inopportune time. Such disappointment from what he actually wanted. The
words floated off the pages, jumbling together to form sentences that held no meaning. Phrases
that could only be found in the dead languages of the past.
With a sigh, he shut the textbook. Another thud echoed behind him—the person shuffling
through book after book frantically. Either they were attempting to beat the clock, or they were
trapped by a deadline. A paper looming over their head. He’d been there before—forking over
each minute and hour he might be able to spare in order to make ends meet. All to earn a grade
that could barely be considered passing.
Scrubbing at his face, he turned in his seat, the offer of help at the forefront of his mind.
If they were so anxious maybe he could offer some insight into their current predicament. Only
for the words to die on the back of his throat. The sight of an empty chair and haphazardly placed
book filled his heart with dread—a stone dropping to the bottom of his stomach.
“What…” He stood, leaning over the table to get a better view of the book. The words
etched onto frail thin paper were in a language he couldn’t understand; one that was rarely taught
on this campus. “Is someone here?” he called out.
The still quiet of the library became his only response. An eerie void of nothing he
drowned in until his mind eventually caught up with what was happening. This had to be a
hallucinatory response to the rigorous work he forced himself to endure. A momentary lapse in
reality as he struggled to maintain his sanity. He chalked it up to lack of sleep, flipped the book
shut and slid the chair back into place. There would be time tomorrow to return with sleep under
his belt.
The lights flickered, a reminder that people were now encouraged to leave before the
final half hour. He returned to his chair, the pen in his hand tapping restlessly on the table—his
eyes squinting at the still blurred page. Thirty minutes. He could manage to obtain something
within that small amount of time.
He’d done it before.
The scrape of the chair echoed behind him, thumping into his back. He stiffened, eyes
fixed on the bookcase directly across from him as the book flipped open again. Thumping
heavily and finding its way back to the page from before—the language facing upwards as if
sneering in anger. Taunting him to speak it aloud, to draw forth the spirit that held no name.
There was a ghost in the library.
Merely stories. Myths.
“It’s not real,” he muttered, fingers clenching into a white knuckled fist. “I’m just tired.”
A trill of laughter filled the air. Muffled behind layers of books lined on wooden
bookcases bolted to the ground. The hair stood on the back of his neck, stomach flipping as the
sound came again. Loud enough to be pressed right to his ear. He flinched, shoving himself up
and out of the chair—expecting to see another student toying with what little patience he had left.
The library remained empty.
“No,” he snapped, grabbing the open book and slotting it into a random space three tables
down. “This isn’t happening.”
The stacks were empty of people, each table bare of books and signs of life that might
have existed a few hours prior. He stood alone at the center of the library, his hands clutching the
back of his head—fear curling around his heart. Each breath became a punctuation to his
downward spiral, a note written to create a symphony of madness that played throughout the
building’s vacant floors.
“Ghosts aren’t real!” His voice bounced off the walls, footsteps an echoey stomp that
resounded against the bitter silence. “I’m losing it. I’m fucking insane.”
Another laugh grew louder—bolder—as he found his way back to the same table.
Somehow maneuvering in a complete circle. He swore he was headed right towards the staircase.
Damn his books, forget his notes, he could come seek them out tomorrow. Right now he had to
find his way home. Even if it meant running through the pitch black of night.
“No, no, no,” he gasped. “I’m alone.”
“Come find me Lucian,” a woman called, voice interrupted by giggles that flowed like
the clear water of a stream.
“Leave me alone!”
“I can’t do that. We’re having so much fun.”
His heart formed an unsteady beat in his chest, the blood rushing to his ears as he ran past
bookcase after bookcase. A wild gleam in his eyes shone in the lowlights of the library—the
yellow glow did nothing but cast an endless amount of shadows along each wall. Shapes of a
woman running, of someone chasing him. Of students sitting at tables that remained empty—
their attention suddenly drawn out of their textbooks and onto the man who ran for his life.
“Be with me Lucian. Be with me forever.”
“Let me go,” he muttered, spinning on his heel to find the exit. The double doors that led
to the sweet taste of freedom. “Please. I didn’t do anything.”
“Do you believe I’m real?” she asked, voice tinged with the lie of anguish. “I’m so
lonely.”
“But I don’t belong here.”
She giggled, a shadow darting from behind a bookcase to his right. “Neither did I.”
“No you’re…I’m…” He rushed to the door, yanking it open with all the strength he could
muster, adrenaline coursing through his veins and making choices for him.
The lights flickered once more, an icy brush of air caressing his skin while he ran. He
could make it out to the front lawn. He could find the escape he so desperately wanted. He…was
lost. Stopping abruptly, he faced the same table—his notes scattered across the surface, pen
marks etched onto plain notebooks.
Every ounce of breath expelled from his lungs, terror streaking down his spine, and for a
moment he struggled to stand upright. His hands shook, tears burning his eyes with each rapid
blink.
This couldn’t be.
This wasn’t reality.
Yet he still stood, gaze fixed on the book that held no name. No library card tucked in the
front with dates and people who checked it out. A billowy deafening laugh filled his ears, his
entire body now wracked with shivers as he stood unable to move.
“Would you like to stay?” she asked, stepping forward.
Where he expected to see her face, he was met with a blank void. Simply skin plastered
across a skull—indents where her eyes were meant to me, an empty echo where her mouth
should have been placed. He struggled to gasp for air, nails pressed into his palms hard enough
to draw blood to the surface. But the pain never came.
Instead, he was faced with a hollow ache at the bottom of his heart.
“If I say no…” He bit back a strangled sob. “Will you let me leave?”
She laughed again, shrill and biting. “No.”
Someone tapped against Lucian’s pale cheek, rough fingers pressing to his throat in
search of a heartbeat. Two others surrounded the table, glancing at his papers in interest.
Scribblings of a language they couldn’t discern were placed in the corners and along the margins.
A rambling of insanity that could only depict what occurred during the night. Sunlight filtered
through the windows, the early morning hour piercing the sky with a warmth that emanated past
the cold.
“What do you think happened?” The man asked, turning Lucian’s head to the side—
unblinking eyes staring wide. Fear still painted across his face.
“Must have had a heart attack,” someone muttered, pulling their phone free and dialing
the emergency line within minutes. “Poor guy. I recognize him. Usually spends all night up here
alone studying.”
He grunted. “Think the stress got to him?”
“Probably.”
Lucian’s voice went unheard as he shouted for help. He kicked, screamed, clawed at the
bookcases to catch their attention. They went on about their day. His shadow loomed in the
corner of the library. Stuck somewhere in between life and death. A bystander for the remainder
of time.
About the Author
J. Camarena is a published writer who focuses on the emotions hidden away in dark corners and only spotted in shadows. Her days are spent with far too much coffee and a multitude of books. She is currently working on a novel in the hopes of finishing it in 2025.
About the Artist
Sean Reed is a student and photojournalist from Illinois. They got their start in photography as a teen, photographing diy punk shows in and around Chicago. Since then, they have held various roles producing and leading multimedia projects as a student journalist.
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