Bound: A Short Story Read online

  Bound

  A Short Story

  By

  Alexa Grave

  §

  Haunted Unicorn Publishing

  §

  BOUND: A SHORT STORY

  Copyright © 2016 by Alexa Grave

  ASIN B01C1NSX70

  Cover Art “Book of Magic Fire” by frenta / 123RF Stock Photo

  Cover Design and Formatting by Haunted Unicorn Publishing

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the permission of the author.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Bound

  Every book has a heartbeat.

  I caress the spine, cracked and aging, and pull the book from the shelf. The musty scent irritates my nose. A part of the old cover flakes off and flutters to the carpet.

  Poor thing. Another victim of time, and barely a survivor from last year’s flood. Water spots stain the yellowing pages as I turn them, accusing and injured. No, fire isn’t the only threat to paper.

  I close the book and place it on the cart. It’ll receive a facelift, just like the others on my list. The water stains will remain, and the pages can never return to white, but a new cover will protect it. I touch the spine again, the title worn off from years of use, and try to imagine what this book was like when first bound. If only I had power like Gandalf’s, maybe I could make the pages pristine again.

  “Leda?” Fran’s voice is loud in the library’s hushed expanse, like the booming voice of the Wizard of Oz.

  Even my breath is intrusive to the silence. “Yes?”

  She walks between the stacks, tapping her watch. “It’s that time.”

  Time, that ever liquid entity, slipping through my fingers as if it doesn’t exist – at least that’s how it feels when I’m wrapped up in a book. So many books, so little time.

  I nod, and Fran walks away, likely returning to her post at the reference desk.

  Low librarian on the totem poll, a mere assistant who has only worked here for a few months, I have the job of clearing out the library at closing time. Need to make sure not to leave any college students asleep in the cubbies.

  I glance at my watch, and sure enough, it’s a quarter to midnight. Darn it – I spent too much time paging through the books instead of simply gathering them to be repaired. I weave out of the stacks and push the cart of forlorn texts into the large office behind the circulation desk.

  The student behind the desk, engrossed in homework, doesn’t spare me a glance when I pass. A warmth fills me, memories of when I was in college and working the same job. Most times I would be so wrapped up in a book that I didn’t notice the patrons until they spoke, their words shattering the illusion of the world I was lost in. I mean, walking into the Chamber of Secrets with Harry has nothing on reality.

  Those days are over, only a couple years past – no chance now to plunge into someone else’s words while at work. Only at home, when relaxing before bed. My sigh even sounds too loud for the silence, rough and hard on my ears.

  I start on the second floor, looking down all the stacks, checking hidden corners – all good places to hide from the world and soak up knowledge. All clear, including the bathrooms. The periodicals in the basement are just as lonely.

  Fran offers me a smile when I pass by the reference desk on the first floor. So far, I’ve only found two students struggling over statistics – they packed their bags up as soon as I told them it’s closing time.

  One room left. There are cubbies at the end of each row of books in the reading room, so I look carefully, the sound of my flats sliding on the carpet a calming balm, signaling the end of my night. At least in this world – I intend to dip into another once home.

  In the last cubbie, a student stares transfixed at a page of the book open before her. I pause before I approach. A chill shoves out the warmth I felt earlier. Her eyes aren’t moving; her hand, clasping the page to turn it, is frozen.

  I step closer. “Excuse me. The library is closing in five minutes.”

  She doesn’t respond and remains still, as if she’s a statue perched on the chair, her hands melding with the book. A detailed piece of artwork, like the metal monstrosity in the library foyer – unwavering, cold.

  Goose bumps spring up along my arms, and I shiver, the feeling I got when first crossing paths with Stephen King’s Pennywise.

  I inch forward, the shushing of my shoes on the carpet no longer a comfort, and place my hand on her shoulder. A small zap of static electricity sparks the tips of my fingers, and I jump back.

  The student starts and whips her head around to look up at me. Her pupils dilate then contract rapidly, twice. “I’m sorry.” She shoves papers into her backpack, hands shaking.

  “Are you okay?” The image of her eyes haunts me.

  “Yes, fine.” The quiver in her voice indicates quite the opposite. “Just fell asleep.” She grabs her coat and slips by me, heading for the front door.

  Asleep. Possible, perhaps, but my insides feel burnt. From the electric shock, that’s all.

  The student left the book she was reading, still open. I touch the page. A mixture of cold and electricity shock through me. I yank my hand back. Strange. Water stains mark the edges of the page – another victim of the flood.

  “Leda? Is there a problem?” Fran asks.

  I jump and squeak, spinning to face her, pressing my hand to my chest. “No, no problem. But you surprised me.”

  “Sorry.” She smiles and turns to walk away.

  “Wait.” The girl’s eyes and reaction nag at me. “What was it the student who caused the flood said when they caught him?” Fran told me the story when I started my job here only days after the flood. A student had purposely busted a toilet on the second floor late one night before closing. No one noticed until the next morning. His excuse for his act rumbles below the surface in my mind, vague and odd – I don’t quite remember it.

  She places a finger to her chin. “He had to destroy the books before they destroyed us.” Anguish ripples across her forehead, eyebrows drawing together.

  I understand how she feels. How can a book destroy us? Harming one would be like stabbing a friend, one who’s given you nothing but joy, never asking for anything in return.

  But I remember the books lined up along every available table, like fallen soldiers, opened in the hope that the pages would dry and they could be saved. Many couldn’t be.

  “Crazy, right?” I ask.

  Fran shifts her weight and looks at the book on the desk beside me. “Of course. He merely snapped due to finals.”

  Sad. Almost as sad as the books lost to his madness. Books offer new life, new insights, not destruction.

  But I asked the question for a reason – that girl, the trance. I shudder again. No, the two incidents couldn’t be connected. She fell asleep. Yes. Fell asleep.

  I flip the book closed with a quick flick of my wrist and hustle away, Fran following. It’s been a long night and my exhaustion tugs at my mind. Time to go home and get lost in my own book.

  * * * * *

  I’m already jittery, and my palms start to sweat when I see what’s before my apartment door. A vase of a dozen white roses gleams under the hall’s fluorescents. I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to allow any tears to escape.

  This has to stop.

  I pick up the vase and pluck out the card from among some baby’s breath. “Love, Se
an.” Simple and to the point, just like him.

  I gather up the flowers and battle with the deadbolt – the landlord refuses to fix it, even though it’s lined with rust and hard to turn. Once inside, I place the vase on the table among the scattered mail.

  Sean insists he only wants a chance.

  I met him at a local fantasy convention two weeks ago. He made me laugh, hell, made the convention more enjoyable, and the last night I allowed my usual barriers to drop, ending up in bed with him.

  I immediately regretted it the next morning.

  Relationships always fall apart on me, my craving for solitude and my bookishness destroying what tenuous connections I create. People hurt, break my heart – unlike books. I’d rather travel to the ends of Earthsea with Ged than risk being cheated on by the Jays of this world because I need to “live a little” – at least that’s what he said when I caught him in bed with my roommate. The day I graduated college, I swore I’d stick to my books for companionship. No more pain.

  I’d hoped Sean would chalk the experience up to a fling and never want to see me again, but it turned out he thought our meeting was something akin to fate.

  Fate is for fantasy stories. The only happy endings are in romance novels.

  I stare at the flowers. They’re beautiful.

  For a moment, I catch myself smiling. No, no. I’ll ignore these, just like the voice messages and e-mails. I know better. A relationship with him is doomed before it ever starts.

  The gesture is sweet, though, especially since he remembers I like white over red.

  My head hurts from my indecision, so I grab a book from the shelves lining nearly every wall in my apartment. Fahrenheit 451. Haven’t read this one in a while, but my choice feels right, suitable after tonight.

  I snuggle under my covers and dip into the science fiction world Bradbury created. But my mind can’t focus on the words, skipping around like a record.

  Sean’s smile and laugh illuminate the dark corners of my imagination. And the visions of him are silhouetted by the girl turning the page of the book, as still as if her body were but a shell, her soul sucked in by the words on the page.

  * * * * *

  Dreams of the library burning wake me. Sweat coats my body, and I shiver.

  Screams. The books in my dream screamed as the fire consumed them, wailing, pleading, begging for their lives. And I burned with them.

  Perhaps Fahrenheit 451 had been the wrong choice.

  No matter, it was just a dream. Simple enough. The dryness in my throat refutes that simplicity – and the memories of the girl last night.

  I take a deep breath, snatch the book from the night stand, and hide it behind a row of books in the living room. I’ll finish it another time. Yes.

  Errands to do before work this afternoon. I move on with my day, the flickering of a fading fire refusing to die out in my mind.

  * * * * *

  I walk into the library, tripping over the entry rug. The student and the dream don’t want to release their hold on me. Normally I love work – nothing like exploring the stacks and finding interesting new things to read. I may prefer fiction, but even the nonfiction college texts hold fascinating details, a world all their own.

  But today, staying at home reading a happy book sounds heavenly. Too bad I can’t take a personal day – too many spent on that convention.

  Light pours into the windows, brightening up even the darkest corners. It eases my soul, and a warmth settles inside me. Nothing wrong here. A library, filled with books. The definition of non-threatening.

  I head to my desk behind the circulation counter. Before I can situate myself, Fran appears.

  “There’s someone here to see you. Supposedly he’s been waiting a few hours.” A coy smile graces her lips. “In the reading room.” She walks away, not giving even a hint as to who it could be.

  The reading room is not where I want to start my day – especially meeting someone who makes Fran smile that way. Couldn’t be work related, or she would have been more forthcoming and less playful.

  The warmth I felt after entering the library flees to the hidden recesses of the mezzanine. No, he didn’t.

  But I already know he did.

  No use stretching it out. I suck up my pride and enter the reading room.

  Sean sits at one of the big tables in the center. At least he’s not in one of the cubbies. His legs are propped up on the chair next to him and a dog-eared paperback rests in his hands – too ratty-looking to be one of ours.

  I clear my throat, and for a moment I fear a repeat of last night: Sean as unmoving as the girl, fixated on the pages before him.

  But he turns, closes his book, and stands up, the smile on his face tentative and shy. “Did you get the flowers?”

  I keep my distance and squash the slow upturning of the corners of my mouth. “Yes. But what are you doing here?”

  “Well, you haven’t returned my calls...”

  “This is my job, though.”

  “I figured it was better than showing up on your doorstep like the roses. And it’s been a while since I visited my alma mater.”

  He has a point – if he knocked on my door, I wouldn’t answer, and if I found him in my apartment building, I’d freak and call the police.

  I forgot he’d mentioned graduating from this college. Could he have experienced anything strange in the library while he attended?

  For heaven’s sake, what am I thinking? Maybe I’ve read too many Dean Koontz novels lately. No more horror for a while.

  Sean takes a step closer. “Please, Leda. I just want to talk. If you still want nothing to do with me afterwards, the calls will stop. I promise.”

  I take a step back, even though I don’t really want to. Memories of the night we spent together caress my mind. So sweet, so warm. It had been too long since I felt that – and those moments with Jay had only led to heartache. I swallow. “I have to work.”

  “You get a dinner break, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  I sigh. I’m not about to argue – we’re already receiving glances from people in the room. Need to keep the library quiet.

  “Fine.” I leave him to his book. It feels as if I have lead in my butt when I sit down at my desk.

  “Is everything all right?” Fran, the nosey librarian.

  “Yes. No. Maybe.” I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “That’s the guy I told you about.”

  “The one from the convention?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How can you resist a man with his nose in a book?” She laughs. “I say give him a chance.” This isn’t the first time she’s tried to meddle in my love life, or lack of one. Hopeless romantic.

  I want to say, It’s hard. And it is, but I made a promise to myself. No more messy relationships, no more Jays. Books don’t break my heart.

  I glance at the clock. Today is the first day I wish dinner time wouldn’t come soon. Instead of work, flowers and the blushingly great time with Sean dominate my thoughts.

  And statues and flames. I’m not sure what unhinged my brain to become so obsessed with what happened last night. It’s like when I’m reading an Agatha Christie novel, and I’m so intent in discovering the mystery that it’s all I can think about until I find out.

  But this isn’t a mystery novel. This is the real world, and my obsession is silly, bordering on crazy.

  Unable to concentrate, and not busy enough to block my thoughts, I head downstairs to the archives. No one else is down here – almost everything is accessible by computer nowadays. But what I need isn’t.

  I turn on the microfilm machine and insert the article from the school paper about the flood. It’s exactly as Fran told me, including the bit about the student snapping due to exam pressure. Nothing new, and no indication about what happened to the student in later editions of the paper.

  Then I scan backwards through the microfilm, flicking through the older dates. Three years
back, I find what I’m looking for – a reported death of a student in the library. Heart attack. Something I think impossible at such a young age, but the writer claimed it was due to a combination of stress, high amounts of caffeine in her system, and a family with a history of heart conditions at an early age.

  Still unsure of the deranged idea blooming in my head, I continue to look back and find two more incidents, with just as shaky causes of death, before my sweaty fingers slip on the knob of the microfilm machine and the film tears.

  I curse and remove the film, hoping it can be repaired.

  But my worry over the microfilm masks my true fears. Three deaths in ten years all on this campus. There was even an article about a sickness spreading throughout campus that caused extreme lethargy, right before that student flooded the library.

  Maybe he wasn’t so crazy after all.

  The girl’s eyes from the night before flicker in my mind like strobe lights.

  Or perhaps I’m going crazy, too.

  * * * * *

  I force myself to return to work, to shut down the irrational fears in my mind. I’m seeing into things, misinterpreting – I didn’t get much sleep last night.

  The sun sets and darkness closes in. No more warmth pouring through the windows, only odd shadows hiding from the fluorescents. Tonight the stacks seem alien, the books looming as if they have a life of their own, bindings their skin and paper their flesh. I never thought I’d feel misplaced among them, but I do now.

  Yes, every book has a heartbeat.

  Fran disturbs me from my book pulling. “Can you do a walkthrough before your break?”

  I nod. The last few hours passed too quickly.

  Cart back at my desk, I peek my head into the reading room and catch Sean’s attention. “I need to do a walkthrough, then I’ll be ready.” I’m not sure what I’ll be ready for. Ready to ignore him yet again? To finally give in and allow him that chance he’s asking for?

  “One sec.” He waves me closer.

  I grit my teeth and slide forward. “We can talk in a bit.”

  “No, not that.” Unlike earlier, his voice is low, as if worried he’ll attract attention. “Is it just me, or does something in this library seem off? I completely forgot how uncomfortable this place made me feel and why I avoided it while going to school here. But I’ve been sitting for a long time, remembering, and I get this sense that the stacks are closing in on me. It’s creepy.”