Horrorscopes: Twelve Tales of the Macabre

The Night Watchman

 The Juniper Hills Public Library loomed ahead like an ancient cathedral. The architecture of the odd building was more suitable in old churches than libraries, but Howard liked it. He thought it had character.

He had been a certified public accountant, once, but had since retired. Because he was widowed, unemployed, childless, and not particularly social, he was quite bored with his retirement and had taken a position as the night watchman at the Juniper Hills Public Library. Tonight would be his first night on the job, and though he knew that this wasn’t the position to escape his boredom, he was sure he would find plenty to read between his hourly rounds.

The library itself was of monolithic stature. In a town as small as Juniper Hills, Howard found it odd that the library be four stories tall, with three wings branching off of the central hall. Even more so, he found it odd that the library be adorned with gargoyles and a high stone wall surrounding the property. It was designed more like a small castle than a place to check out paperbacks and read old newspaper articles. He was enticed by the building—perhaps that was the sole reason he had inquired about a job in the first place—and found that there was no mystery to the library. Surely its founder had sufficient funds and an interest in Gothic cathedrals. Still, a town so small has little need for such a library; like a cornfield in the center of Tokyo, this paperback palace was quite out of place.

He walked the last block to the library, tossing away his finished cigarette and whistling lightly into the breeze. For April, the night was quite warm and not damp enough to send rheumy jolts through his hips and knees. He was still whistling when he passed under the arched entry and ascended the steps.

The heavy door opened silently under his weight and a swath of yellow light flooded his face. The beige carpet whispered under Howard’s heels as he stepped across the echoic lobby. The two remaining patrons were checking out their last-minute finds before the library closed for the night. Cindy, the head librarian—a kind woman with the unbecomingly severe expression of an angry nun—smiled faintly at him as she stamped the last checkout sheets for the night. The two patrons slipped past the heavy doors through which he had just entered, and out into the growing night.

“You’re early, Mr. Fangorn,” Cindy said. “It’s only eight forty five.”

“The marines had a way of reminding me that five minutes early is ten minutes late,” Howard said. “That was a long time ago, sure, but things like that don’t have a way of changing.”

Cindy smiled again and said, “As long as you’re here, you might as well start the evening lock-up.”

“You bet.” She handed him a large ring of keys and explained where the three open exits were located. When Howard returned from his task, the bright overhead lights had been replaced by smaller bulbs hooked into dimmer-switches. The lighting was low and the library silent. He spotted a note on the counter where Cindy had been and read it.

Welcome to the Staff, it read, and help yourself to the coffee in the lounge. Don’t forget your rounds and ALWAYS double-check your locks. –Cindy.

Always a diligent employee, he double-checked the locks as requested and when he was satisfied they were sound, began his first round of the night. He took the handicap elevator up to the fourth floor, where the rare and occult books were shelved, checking windows and stairwells. He moved down to the third floor—the fiction floor—meticulously inspecting, and then to the non-fiction floor just below. He checked the main floor again, then the basement level where the archives were located. In the archives, one could find back-dated issues of nearly any magazine or almanac, and most local newspapers like the Juniper Hills Gazette and the Daily Chronicle out of DeKalb. Also, the archives housed the local genealogy logs and local histories. The basement level had no windows—only artificial lighting—and only one stairwell, so his rounds only brought him down cellar once a night, to assure that no cat burglar was stowing away between file cabinets.