The Library of Lost Things

Chapter 3

The weight of Seline's words hung heavy in the air, the truth an uncomfortable pain.

He watched her disappear into the building, a sense of loneliness washing over him as the door clicked shut behind her. He turned and walked slowly back toward the cafe, the soft echo of his footsteps in the empty hallway.

"I need a minute," he said to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Just a minute to breathe."

He slumped back into the chair-the cafe's warmth suddenly stifling. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I'm letting everything get to me."

A young couple passed by the window, laughing; their carefree joy was an extreme jealousy to the turmoil within him. He envied them and their seeming lack of burdens.

He straightened and took a deep breath; the smell of coffee did little to ease his frayed nerves. "Get a grip, Elias," he whispered, too tightly wound with frustration. "You need to deal with this."

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "No more running," he declared to the empty café. He marched out, determination hardening his resolve.

The bookstore loomed in front of him, the familiar fascia now seeming ominous. He hovered in the entrance, the bell above the door seeming to echo his apprehension.

Mr. Thompson's shrill voice cut through the silent bookstore. "You're late!"

"I know, I know," Elias grumbled, quickening his pace towards the counter. "Very sorry, Mr. Thompson; it won't happen again."

Mr. Thompson's face relaxed ever so slightly. "Just get to work, Elias," he said, nodding toward a stack of books. "Fiction section. Alphabetical order."

Elias grasped the books in his hands, for one forgetful moment his anxiety gone as he took to the task. He wove in and out of the aisles, so familiar, their comforting scent of old paper and ink now a balm.

As he made his way into the fiction section, a shiver ran down his spine. It was colder here; the shadows were deeper. He looked around, his senses high, but again saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He started placing the books on the shelf, his movements mechanical, and his mind racing. He felt he couldn't get rid of the strange feeling that he was being watched, that something was wrong. A presence, an invisible onlooker of his actions, which, darkly, stood between the shelves.

"Who's there?" he whispered, hardly audible.

Silence. He held his breath, listened for any sound, any movement. Nothing.

He reached for another book, his fingers brushing against something cold and smooth. He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he turned his head, eyes wide in horror.

Between the shelves, shrouded in the darkness, a figure stood. Very tall and with a lanky aspect, eyes glowing with an unholy light, which looked at Elias with a cold fixity that froze his blood pretty much in his veins.

Elias exhaled a gasp, and his hand dropped the book with a loud bang. He recoiled backward; his heart raced inside his chest. He wanted to scream and then run, but his voice caught in his throat while his legs froze into paralysis, unable to move.

It took another step forward, its form taking shape in the dim light. It wore a long, dark coat; its face was pale and gaunt, the features sharp and angular. Its eyes, however, were its most striking feature-deep-set, piercing, and seeming to bore into Elias's soul.

"Who are you?" Elias stuttered out in a near whisper.

The figure said nothing. It continued to stare, unflinching and silent, upon Elias.

He felt dizzy, and his vision blurred as he stumbled once more. Elias desperately needed to reach out and support himself on the ceramic columns lining the hall; he surged forward, his fingers scrabbling through the shelf of books for support, his fingernails digging into the wood.

The figure took a step closer, and Elias winced, shutting his eyes. He waited for the inevitable, a cold touch, a chilling voice, something-but nothing came. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and he peered in the dark aisle. It was gone. Vanished.

He blinked, and his mind went racing. Had he imagined that? Some hallucination born of too much running of an overactive imagination? He couldn't say one way or another.

He looked around the bookstore, his heart still racing in the cage of his chest. The other aisles were deserted; the only noise was the soft hum of the above lights. He was totally alone.

"Aright, Elias, breathe," he told himself, fists clenched at the edge of the shelf. "Just breathe. It was nothing. Just your imagination."

But even as the words were said, the lingering chill that clung to him like a shroud could not be shaken from his frame. He cast a nervous glance backwards over his shoulder, half-expecting to see it reappear from the shadows.

"Get a grip," he admonished himself emphatically, his voice shaking in a tiny whisper. "There's no one there."

He sought to reassure himself, but the picture of the figure-tall with eyes that could see right through-had branded his brain. He couldn't shake from his mind that uncomfortable feeling associated with having seen something truly unsettling, which defied explanation.

"Pay attention to what you're doing," he said to himself, ripping his mind back to the books clasped in his arms. "Put the books away, get through the shift, get out of here."

"Almost there," he said to himself, searching the shelves for the other books in the series. "Just a few more and I can get out of here."

He went back to putting away the books, his movements much faster now, while his senses remained on high alert. He was doing the stack in record time, eager to get out from the confines of the bookstore and its unsettling atmosphere.

He went to Mr. Thompson, hugging the stack of books tightly into his arms. "I'm finished," he said, his voice still a little shaky.

Mr. Thompson nodded, his eyes roving off to scan Elias for a moment. "Good," he said. "You may go."

He didn't have to be told twice. He pretty much ran from the bookstore, anxious to put as much space between himself and the unsavory encounter as possible.

He quickened his pace across campus, still reeling from what had happened over the course of the last hour.

The figure he encountered in the bookstore had scared him thoroughly, scraping his psyche in a way he simply couldn't manage to brush off. 

He came into his classroom, which was vaguely familiar and ordinary. He sat down as his eyes wandered: the other students were seated already; anticipation and anxiety reflected in their faces. 

The professor entered the room with a pile of examination papers in his hand. He had them distributed to the candidates present, his eyes roving around the room. 

"You have one hour," he said. "Begin." Elias took a deep breath and tried to focus on the exam in front of him, pushing the unsettling experience at the bookstore to a place where he could try to forget it. 

He would go through questions, his mind gradually clearing, his focus sharpening. He answered each question with aplomb, his knowledge and understanding of the subject matter rising to the fore. 

He completed the test, his hand slightly shaking as he placed the paper on the professor's desk. He stepped out of the classroom; this was a release for him.

He had taken the first step.