Chapter Text
The ring of a bell takes your attention away from your fantasy book.
Looking up, you find a hooded figure at the door just looking around. He was hunched over slightly with his hands in his pockets, contemplating stepping in.
You give him a small, inviting smile and wave him over, letting him know you’re there if he needs help. The gesture feels automatic after years of dealing with patrons who wander in looking lost or overwhelmed by the sheer number of bookshelves.
He doesn't move for a moment, just stands there with his hands still buried in his pockets. The hood shadows most of his face, but you can make out the faintest hint of bone beneath—a skeleton monster, then. Monsters aren’t unusual these days in the library. A couple of years after they joined the surface world, they moved into the area and there’s a couple that come in everyday now.
But there’s something about the way he carries himself that feels different. Like he's not just hesitant; he's assessing the space like he's checking for exits or threats.
Finally, he steps inside, the door swinging shut with a soft click that echoes in the quiet library. His footsteps are nearly silent on the worn carpet, a soft shuffle that doesn't match his broad frame. He moves with a strange, deliberate slowness, like he's forcing himself to appear casual. The sight makes you fight back a giggle.
He stops a few feet from the front desk, still not looking directly at you. His hood tilts slightly toward the shelves, then back at you. When he speaks, his voice is low, flat, and devoid of any warmth. "astronomy. physics."
Uhh. Alright…
No greeting, not even a please, just two words dropped like stones. His accent is rough around the edges, a Brooklyn drawl you think. It sounds oddly out of place in this quiet suburban library.
You keep a smile in place, though it feels tighter now. "Of course. The astronomy section is over there," You point toward the far wall, "and physics is just next to it, in the 500s. Would you like me to show you?"
Aaaand there’s no answer. Alright.
He just turns and starts walking in the direction you pointed, his hood still up, his hands still buried. You watch him for a second, the way his shoulders hunch, the faint purple glow that seems to emanate from his joints when he moves. Monster magic, probably. Nothing to be alarmed about.
Still, a chill runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the library's air conditioning.
"Let me know if you need anything else!" You call after him, your voice a little too bright in the quiet space.
He doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge you at all. Just keeps walking toward the astronomy section, the faded blue hoodie disappearing between two tall shelves. The fabric looks worn, almost gray in places, you realize just before he disappears. Something that looks like pale powder dusting his shoulders and back. Is that—
No, it’s probably not. Maybe chalk? Ash? You can't really tell from here.
You wait a moment, just taking a second to listen. The library is never completely silent after all—there's always the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the faint whir of the computer server in the study rooms, the occasional rustle of pages from the few other patrons scattered throughout. But from where he went, You hear nothing.
No sound of books being pulled from shelves, no footsteps, not even breathing. Monsters can breathe. But skeletons definitely don't, you remind yourself.
Still, the absence of sound feels heavier than any noise would.
You glance down at your fantasy novel, but the words blur together. Your attention keeps drifting back to that aisle. What's he doing back there? Most people who come for astronomy books are students or hobbyists. They browse, they compare titles, they sometimes even ask for recommendations on telescopes. They don't just vanish into the stacks without a sound.
Minutes tick by on the clock above the door. The second hand moves with a soft, persistent click that seems to grow louder in the stillness. You should probably go back to your book. You should do inventory. You should check the dropbox for overnight returns. Instead, you find yourself staring at the space between the shelves, waiting for some sign of movement, some indication that he's even still here.
The air feels colder near that section of the library, or maybe that's just your active imagination. Rubbing your arms, you were suddenly aware of the goosebumps rising on your skin.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. You shift in the chair, the leather creaking under you. Your eyes drift from the empty aisle back to your book, but the fantasy world can't hold your attention now. Not with that strange skeleton somewhere in the library, somehow not making a fucking sound.
…Maybe you should check on him? That's part of the job, right? Making sure patrons find what they need. Strangers don’t really make you anxious anymore, not since you started working. He shouldn’t be making you so anxious, but there’s something unsettling about him.
Instead, you stand up and walk to the edge of the front desk, leaning against it to get a better view down the astronomy aisle. From this angle, you can see a sliver of the section: star charts, cosmology textbooks, guides to constellations.
What the hell? There was no movement, no sign of him at all.
"Everything okay back there?" You call, your voice softer this time, less librarian-chipper and more genuinely concerned.
Still nothing.
A sigh escapes you before you can stop it.
Fine.
If he doesn't want help, he doesn't want help. Some people come to libraries precisely because they don't want to interact with anyone. You get that. You’re one of those people on your days off.
Returning to your seat, you force yourself to open the book again. The protagonist is about to face a siren, but all you can think about is the stranger who might as well be a darn ghost in your library.
The clock ticks and the lights hum.
You try to read the same paragraph three times before giving up.
You’re halfway through pretending to read when you hear it—the soft, unmistakable sound of a book being slid from a shelf. Not the quick pull most people make, but a slow, deliberate drag, like he's considering each title carefully before choosing.
Your eyes snap up. He's still out of sight, but the sound tells you he's there, alive. Well, not alive per se, but present. The tension in your shoulders eases slightly. At least he's not just standing motionless in the dark between shelves. That's something.
Another book comes free, then another. He's pulling multiple volumes. A student, then? Or someone with a serious interest? The astronomy section isn't huge, but it's decent. Maybe thirty feet of shelves covering everything from beginner's guides to dense information on black holes and cosmic inflation.
You glance at the clock. 7:42 PM. Three more hours until closing. The library is emptier now; the after school crowd has gone home for dinner, and the evening regulars haven't arrived yet. It's just you, the silent skeleton in the astronomy section, and Mrs. Henderson dozing in her usual armchair by the periodicals.
The sound of books stops. For a long moment, there's nothing again. Then footsteps, those same soft, shuffling steps moving from astronomy to the adjacent physics section. More browsing. More silence.
You find yourself wondering what he looks like under that hood. Most monsters you’ve seen weren’t skeletons. Well, you’ve never seen one before on second thought… With other monsters, you could see their visage, their expressions readable and friendly. But he's hiding. Why though?
Your phone buzzes on the desk, making you jump. A notification from your landlord: "Took care of the cat that’s been wandering around the building. Found the food you left, don’t worry about her, she's with me." You type back a quick "thx" and set the phone down, your eyes drift back to the aisle.
He emerges then.
Not fully, just a glimpse. He's standing at the end of the physics section, facing you, holding three thick books against his chest with one arm. His hood is still up, but you can see the curve of his skull now, the way his cervical vertebrae disappears into the fabric of his hoodie. There's something dark staining the material around his shoulders. Not just that powder, but something that looks almost like…
One blink, and he's gone again, vanishing back into the aisles.
You watch the empty space where he stood for another minute, half-expecting him to reappear. He doesn't, of course.
The library settles back into its familiar rhythms. The hum of lights, the distant snore from Mrs. Henderson, the occasional rustle of pages from the few remaining patrons.
Your fingers tap restlessly on the desk. You should be doing something productive. You just find yourself staring at the security monitor in the corner of your desk, the black and white feed showing the physics section from a high angle.
There he is.
A dark, hooded figure standing perfectly still between the shelves, head tilted down as if reading the spines. He's not moving. Just... standing there.
The image is grainy, but you can see the books still clutched against his chest. Three of them, thick hardcovers that would be heavy for anyone. He holds them effortlessly.
Minutes pass. And he just keeps standing there… oookaayyyy.
A cold knot forms in your stomach. This isn't normal patron behavior. Even the most dedicated researchers take breaks, glance around, adjust their stance. He's statue-still.
You’re about to get up and check on him, really check on him this time, when he finally fucking moves. His head turns slightly, and though the camera quality is poor, you swear you see a faint glow from beneath his hood. Purple light, like the magic you noticed earlier around his joints.
He takes a step, then another, heading not toward the checkout desk but deeper into the library, toward the back where the study carrels and reference materials are kept. The camera loses him as he moves out of frame.
Standing up, the chair slides along the floor. The sound seems too loud in the quiet. Mrs. Henderson stirs in her armchair but doesn't wake.
He's heading toward the restricted section. The old archives that are technically open to the public, only for those with a library card and permission which he definitely does not have, but still rarely visited by those who do. The door there is usually locked, but sometimes the evening shift forgets. You know you didn't check it today.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady the sudden racing of your heart. The friendly smile you force onto your face feels brittle, but decide to round the desk anyway and start walking toward the back of the library. Your footsteps are too loud on the carpet, each one announcing your approach.
He's standing in front of the restricted section door when you find him. It's slightly ajar.
Damn, you knew you forgot to check it.
His hood is still up, but he's turned just enough that you can see the side of his skull now, the smooth curve of bone, the dark hollow of an eye socket. There's a faint glow deep within it, like a distant star in a void.
"Uhh, sorry." You say, voice coming out higher than you intended. You clear your throat. "That section is restricted. Archives and special collections. You need permission from the head librarian to access those."
He doesn't turn. Doesn't acknowledge your presence at all. Just keeps staring at the crack in the door, his body completely still except for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders. He's breathing, you realize. Or mimicking the motion. A faint purple mist, or fog… leaving him. You didn't think skeletons needed to breathe.
The books are still pressed against his chest. From this distance, you can read the titles: "The Fabric of the Cosmos," "Black Holes and Time Warps," and something in German that you can't quite make out. Heavy reading for anyone.
"Did you find everything you needed in the astronomy and physics sections?" You try again, taking a small step closer. The air around him feels colder, like standing near an open freezer. "I can help you find more materials if those aren't quite what you're looking for."
Finally, he moves. His head turned slowly, deliberately, until you looked directly into that hollow eye socket with its faint lights. The combination of red and cyan gave off a slight purple glow, that must’ve been what you saw earlier in the camera.
He stares at you for three full seconds without speaking. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. You can feel the pulse under your skin.
Then he turns away, pushes the restricted section door fully closed with a soft click, and walks past you without a word. His shoulder brushes against yours as he passes, a brief, warm contact that makes you flinch.
You stand there for a moment, frozen, the spot where he touched you feeling strangely numb. Then you let out the breath you didn't realize you were holding. It comes out shaky. Watching him disappear around a corner, you follow. The front desk is that way.
Letting out a long, slow sigh, you rub your scalp through your hair. Your fingers come away slightly damp with sweat you didn't realize was there. Once you get closer, you see him standing at the front desk, waiting. He's not looking around, not fidgeting. Just standing there, perfectly still, holding his three books.
Does he needs to check out his books…? Ugh.
Walking up to him, your professional smile firmly in place despite the lingering warmth on your shoulder where he brushed past you. He's still waiting, motionless, as you slide behind the counter.
"Did you want to check these out?" You ask, gesturing to the self-checkout machine.
"need a card," he says, his voice flat. He slides the three books across the counter.
"Of course. Do you have one with us already?"
He shakes his head once, a sharp, jerky motion.
"Alright, I can set one up for you. I just need some information." You pull up the registration form on the computer, fingers moving automatically through the familiar steps. "What's your name?"
"dust," he says, the word dropping from him like something heavy.
You type it into the system. "Just Dust? No last name?" Ah, that’s right. Most monsters don’t have last names. It’s alright, not many people named Dust in the world. He just might be the only one with that name registered at the library.
He shakes his head again. His eyelights don't waver from the counter between the both of you. They're not looking at you, not exactly, but you can feel their focus like a physical weight. Like they were gazing within you.
"Alright, Dust it is." You try to keep your tone light, conversational. "These are some interesting choices. 'The Fabric of the Cosmos' is a favorite of most in the physics section. Brian Greene makes some complex concepts pretty accessible."
You glance at the other titles as you scan them. The German one is ‘Die Grenzen der Quantenmechanik’—The Limits of Quantum Mechanics. The third is ‘Black Holes and Time Warps’ by Kip Thorne. Heavy, theoretical stuff. Not what most casual readers check out on a Tuesday evening.
"You must be a student," You say, looking up at him. "Or a researcher? We don't get many people checking out all three of these at once."
He doesn't answer immediately. His skull tilts slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. The cyan eyelight seems to pulse, the red ring around it expanding just a fraction before shrinking back. "nope. just interested," he says finally, his voice still that same flat monotone.
Nodding, you process the checkout. The scanner beeps as you pass each book over it. "Well, they're due back in three weeks. You can renew online if you need more time."
Expectantly, there’s no response. The weirdo just watches as you finish, then takes the books when you slide them back across the counter. His bony fingers wrap around the stack with a firmness that seems at odds with their delicate appearance.
Glancing at his shoulders, you spot the stains you saw earlier. Dry, faded, but so similar to the color red. He’s probably just a dirty guy.
For a moment, neither of you move. He's standing there, holding his books, and you’re standing behind the counter, waiting for... something. A thank you, maybe? Or at least an acknowledgment that the transaction is complete.
Instead, he turns and walks toward the door without another word. His footsteps are silent on the carpet, his form disappearing into the evening shadows gathering outside the library windows.
You watch him go, then let out a slow breath you didn't realize you were holding. Thank god.
The air in the library feels suddenly warmer, lighter. You glance at the clock. 8:15 PM.
Still two hours and twenty-four minutes until closing.
The door swings shut behind him with a soft thud that echoes in the now-empty front area. You watch through the glass as his hooded figure disappears into the deepening night, the streetlights flickering on one by one along the sidewalk.
It’s then you realize you forgot to ask if he’d like a bag. Well… Then again, he seemed fine carrying it on his own.
For a while, the library feels normal again. Mrs. Henderson wakes from her nap, gathers her things, and shuffles out with a wave before greeting her husband outside. A couple of college students come in, whispering to each other as they head straight for the study rooms. The familiar rhythms return, the hum of computers booting up, the rustle of pages, the occasional cough or chair scrape.
You try to focus on the work in front of you: processing the day's returns, updating the catalog, checking the overnight book drop. But your eyes keep drifting to the door, half-expecting to see that faded, blue hoodie reappear. The spot on your shoulder where he brushed against you still feels oddly warm, like a patch of skin that's fallen asleep.
An hour passes. The college students leave. The library grows quiet again, the kind of quiet that feels heavy rather than peaceful. You’re putting back a cart of romance novels in the fiction section when you spot movement out of the corner of your eye.
He's back.
Not at the front door, but already inside, drifting through the history aisle like a ghost. How the hell did you not hear him come in? The bell didn’t even sound his arrival.
His hood is still up, his hands in his pockets. He moves slowly, deliberately, pausing every few feet to glance at titles but never actually pulling a book from the shelf. He's not browsing, he's wandering. Killing time. Or… waiting for something.
You freeze, a paperback still in your hand. He hasn't noticed you yet. You could slip back to the front desk, pretend you didn't see him. But something about the way he moves… That same deliberate, almost predatory slowness. It makes your breath catch in your throat.
He turns down another aisle, disappearing from view. The history section is near the back of the library, far from the front desk and. Far from safety. If he's still there, you're alone with him in this part of the building.
"Oh, you're back!" You call out, trying to sound casual, friendly. The words come out a little too bright, a little too forced. "Forgot something?"
He stops moving, he's perfectly still, a dark silhouette against the shelves of history books. Then he turns slowly, his hood shifting to face you. You can't see his expression, there's no face to read, just tiny lights and shadow. But you feel the weight of his attention settle on you like a physical thing. It's oppressive.
"no," he says after a pause that stretches just a beat too long. His voice is the same flat monotone, but there's something different in it now. A tension, maybe. Or amusement. You can't tell.
He starts walking toward you, his steps silent on the carpet. You force yourself to stay where you are, not to back away, though every instinct is screaming to put distance between you both. The air grows colder as he approaches, that same electrified warmth you noticed earlier.
You swallow hard. "Just browsing, then? The history section's pretty extensive. We've got local history over there," You gesture with the paperback still in hand, "and world history starts around the corner. Anything specific you're interested in?"
He doesn't look at the shelves. Doesn't follow your gesture. His eyelights, that strange cyan and red combination remain fixed on me. The cyan one pulses again, the red ring expanding and contracting in a slow, rhythmic pattern that feels hypnotic.
"it’s just quiet here," he says finally, his voice so low you have to lean forward slightly to hear him. "i like it."
"Most people do," You say, my professional smile feeling more relaxed by the second. "Libraries are meant to be quiet spaces. For study, for reading..."
A small sound leaves him. It’s not a laugh, exactly, but something close. A soft exhale through his nasal cavity. "study. yeah."
He turns away from you, his attention shifting to the shelves. His bony fingers trail along the spines of the books, not pulling any out, just touching. The gesture is oddly intimate, like he's greeting old friends.
This monster seems a little more… humanized now? The term feels wrong, but you’re not sure how else to describe it. He feels normal, just a little. You can work with this. You just hope you don’t regret it later.
You give him what you hope is obviously a genuine, warm smile, though your cheeks feel tight with the effort. "Well, if you're interested in quiet spaces, you've come to the right place. We're pretty dead most evenings after seven." You pause, watching his fingers still tracing book spines. "Since you checked out those astronomy books earlier, would you like me to show you anything else in the science sections? We just got some new arrivals in chemistry, psychology, and cosmology last week."
The movement stops, then he turns his head just enough that you can see the side of his skull again, the smooth curve of bone, the dark hollow where an ear would be.
"cosmology," he repeats, the words flat but with a slight upward inflection that might be interest. Or might just be him echoing you. It really seems like he doesn’t converse with people often.
You nod, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up speed. "Yeah, a couple of books on dark matter theory and one on multiverse hypotheses. They're over in the new arrivals display near the front, but I can pull them for you if you'd like."
He's silent for so long this time you start to wonder if he's going to answer at all. The library feels unnaturally still around the both of you, as if even the air has stopped moving. The only sound is the distant hum of the fluorescent lights and the too-loud beating of my own heart.
Maybe you misread this guy? You’re still learning to connect with people and read their body language. Maybe you got it wrong—
Finally, he pulls his hand back from the shelves and turns fully to face you. His hood shifts, and for the first time, you get a clear look at his face entirely. The smooth dome, the empty nasal cavity, the jawbone that hangs slightly open. His eyelights burn like firewood in the shadows of his hood.
It’s beautiful. So beautiful that you forget to be unnerved and just appreciate the otherworldly beauty of it.
"show me," he says, voice low, a little breathy.
"Sure," You say, your voice softer than you intended. "They're right up front. Follow me."
Turning, you start walking toward the new arrivals display near the entrance, footsteps sounding too loud in the quiet. You don't look back, but you can feel him behind you. That same cold presence, the soft shuffle of his steps on the carpet. The air grows chillier as you move through the library with him, like you’re walking with a pocket of winter trailing in your wake.
The new arrivals display is a circular rack near the front windows, bathed in the warm glow of the reading lamps. You stop in front of it, eyes scanning the shelves until you find what you’re looking for.
"Here," You say, pulling out a thick hardcover with a striking cover image of swirling galaxies against a black background. ‘The Invisible Universe’. You hand it to him, your fingers brushing briefly as he takes it. His bones are smooth and cool to the touch, like polished stone.
He holds the book in both hands, his bony thumbs tracing the embossed title. His eyelights seem to brighten as he examines it. The small change in expression interests you, reminds you that this is a person in front of you.
"And this one," You continue, pulling another volume. "’An Infinity of Worlds: Cosmic Inflation and the Beginning of the Universe’. This one has a less striking cover, splashes of blue on a black background that reminds you of one of his eyes.
He takes this one too, stacking it carefully on top of the first. He doesn't open either book, just holds them, his attention fixed on the covers. The way he handles them is oddly reverent, like they're sacred texts rather than library books.
"These just came in last Tuesday," You say, trying to fill the silence. "The multiverse one is getting a lot of attention in academic circles. Some pretty controversial ideas in there about parallel realities and alternate timelines."
He looks up from the books, his eyelights meeting yours. The cyan one pulses faster, the red ring expanding until it nearly fills the socket. Why does it look like a cat seeing something or someone they like? It’s almost cute.
"alternate timelines," he repeats, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "yeah. i know about those."
"I don't get a lot of people who're into subjects like that," You say, trying to keep your tone light despite the excitement at getting him to speak more makes you excited. "Most folks stick to fiction or self-help. It's refreshing to see someone checking out the heavy stuff."
He doesn't respond immediately. His eyelights remain fixed on you, the cyan one still pulsing with that strange, rhythmic expansion and contraction. The red one feels like it's boring into you, seeing past your nervousness and polite smile.
"heavy stuff," he echoes, the words flat. He looks down at the books in his hands, his bony fingers tightening slightly on the covers. "if you say so."
A joke? You can't tell. There's no change in his tone, no hint of amusement on his expressionless skull. But something about the way he says it, the deliberate understatement. It makes you think maybe it is.
You manage a small laugh, though it sounds nervous even to your own ears. "Well, you've got a different definition of light reading than most people. Those books are dense. The multiverse one has equations in the appendix that look like alien script."
He makes that sound again, that soft exhale through non-existent nasal cavities. It might be amusement. Or contempt. You can't tell.
"i’ve seen worse," he says. He shifts his weight, the movement causing his hood to fall back slightly. You catch a glimpse of more bone. The curve of his occipital, the ridges of his parietal bones. There are fine cracks running through the surface, hairline fractures that glow faintly purple at the edges. Like his magic is holding him together. How interesting, the sight makes you wanna look closer.
You need to find a book on monster biology and magic. He just looks so… unlike a skeleton but familiar enough to one.
Dust notices you looking and pulls his hood back up, the motion quick, almost defensive. The fabric settles around his skull, casting his face back into complete shadow. Only the lights remain visible, twin points of color in the darkness.
Damn. Oh well.
"gotta go," he says abruptly. He turns away from you, the books still clutched against his chest. "i’m gonna keep these too."
"Of course," You say, my professional instincts kicking in despite the lingering curiosity. "Do you want to check them out now, or would you prefer to put them on hold and pick them up another time? Sometimes it's easier than carrying a stack."
He looks down at the books in his hands, then back at you. The cyan pulses once, slowly. "now."
You nod and gesture toward the front desk. "Alright, just bring them over and I'll scan them for you."
He follows you to the counter, his footsteps silent. You notice then that he walks with a slight limp—a hitch in his step that's barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. An old injury, maybe. Or just the way his bones articulate.
As you take the books from him, your fingers brush again. His are warmer than before, the gloves he wears are soft and fuzzy. You scan each one quickly, the beep of the scanner loud in the quiet library. The computer screen shows his account. Dust, no last name, one previous checkout today. The system automatically calculates the due dates. It’s the same date every time but you tell him anyway.
"Three weeks from today," You say, sliding the books back across the counter. "Same as the others. You can renew online if you need more time."
He gathers the books against his chest, stacking them carefully with the others he's already carrying. The pile is getting substantial, six thick hardcovers now.
He holds them like they weigh nothing.
"thanks," he says, the word so quiet you almost miss it. He doesn't look at you as he says it, his eyelights fixed on the door.
Then he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back, doesn't say goodbye. The door swings open at his approach. You didn't even see him touch it and then he's gone, swallowed by the night outside.
You stand there for a moment, watching the empty doorway. The streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk, but you don't see him walking away. He just... vanished.
A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the chill he left behind. Shaking your head, trying to dismiss the feeling. He's just a patron. A strange one, sure, but just a patron.
You return to your chair behind the front desk, sinking into the familiar creak of leather. The fantasy book is still open where you left it, the protagonist still facing that siren. You try to pick up where you left off, but the words blur together on the page. All you can think about is the way his eyelights pulsed when he looked at those multiverse books, and the weight in his voice when he said, "know about those."
The clock ticks. 9:54PM. A little under an hour until closing. The library is empty now except for you. The silence feels different than before. Heavier, watchful. Like the shadows between the shelves are holding their breath.
Your eyes drift from the fantasy novel to the security monitor in the corner of the desk.
The screen is divided into 8 grainy quadrants, each showing a different section of the library. The front entrance, the different sections of the library, the back study area, the parking lot, the sides of the building, and the behind the building. All empty. All still.
You lean closer, squinting at the front entrance feed. The timestamp in the corner reads 9:59PM. The sidewalk outside is visible through the glass doors, illuminated by the yellow glow of streetlights. No hooded figure to be seen. No one at all.
Switching views, cycling through the cameras. The history aisle where you found him wandering. Empty. The science section where he pulled those heavy books. Empty. The back study rooms. Empty. Even the restricted section door is closed, the dark wood barely visible in the dim lighting.
He's gone. Really gone this time.
But something nags at you in the back of your mind. The way he vanished so quickly. The door swinging open without him touching it. The complete absence of his form on any of the exterior cameras. You rewind the front entrance feed a few minutes, watching as the timestamp counts backward. 9:59... 9:56... 9:53…
There. At 9:48, the door opens.
But you don't see him walk out. The door just swings open, stays open for three seconds, then swings shut. Like someone passed through it, but the camera didn't capture them. It just fizzes out while he takes a step then comes back when he’s gone. The angle should have shown anyone leaving. The camera covers the entire doorway and several feet of sidewalk beyond.
Your breath catches. Leaning even closer, your nose almost touching the screen. You play it again in slow motion. The door opens. The space beyond is empty. The door closes. No shadow, no movement, no distortion of light. Nothing.
Nothing but the camera having a spat.
A cold knot tightens in your stomach. That's not right. That's not possible. Even if he moved fast, there would be a blur. A shadow. Something.
You switch to the exterior camera mounted above the door, the one showing the parking lot and the front of the library. Its feed shows the sidewalk from a higher angle. You rewind to the same timestamp. The door opens. Closes. The sidewalk remains empty. No one walks away. No one appears on the street.
He didn't walk out. He just... ceased to be there.
Your hands are trembling slightly as you switch the monitor back to live view. The library sits empty and silent around you. The familiar rows of bookshelves suddenly feel like a maze, the shadows between them deeper than they should be.
You force yourself to take a slow, deep breath. There's a rational explanation. The cameras are old, the resolution poor. Maybe he moved at just the right angle to avoid being captured. Maybe there's a blind spot you don't know about. Maybe…
Monster magic wasn’t something you knew every little bit about but you’ve never heard of a monster traveling through space or whatever the fuck. There were too many weird things about that stranger.
The fantasy novel lies forgotten on the desk. The dragon on the cover seems to smirk at you, as if it knows something you don't.
The rest of your shift passes in a blur of mundane tasks that do nothing to quiet the unease humming beneath your skin. You reshelve books, straighten chairs, wipe down tables. Every creak of the old building makes you jump. Every shift in the shadows at the edge of your vision sends your heart racing. You keep glancing at the security monitor, half-expecting to see that hooded figure materialize in one of the quadrants, but the screens remain stubbornly empty.
At 10:35PM, you finally start closing procedures. You walk through each aisle, turning off lights section by section. The library shrinks around you, swallowed by darkness until only the front area remains illuminated. You lock the restricted section door, double checking the handle. You count the cash drawer, shut down the computers, set the alarm.
By 10:50PM, you’re stepping out into the cool night air, locking the library doors behind you. The street is quiet, most of the shops are already closed. Your apartment is only a fifteen minute walk away, through a few well-lit residential blocks. It’s very convenient that your walk home and back wasn’t long, you didn’t have a car after all. Most folks these days don’t have the luxury of a short commune to work by walking.
And… you’ve made this walk a hundred times, but tonight, every shadow feels deliberate. Every parked car seems to hold a presence.
You’re halfway home when the feeling starts. A prickling at the back of your neck, the distinct, unsettling sensation of being watched. You stop walking, your hand tightening around the keys held between your knuckles. You turn slowly, scanning the street behind you.
Nothing.
Just empty sidewalks, pools of yellow light from street lamps, the dark shapes of trees rustling in a slight breeze. You can’t hear an sound except the distant hum of traffic a few blocks over.
You shake your head, telling yourself it’s just nerves. The strange patron. The security footage. Your active imagination is just working overtime.
You pick up your pace, your footsteps echoing too loudly in the quiet. The feeling doesn’t leave. It follows you, a cold weight between your shoulder blades, all the way to your apartment building.
You fumble with your card at the outer door, your fingers clumsy with a tension you can’t shake. You glance over your shoulder one last time. The street is still empty. You slip inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a solid, final sound. The lobby is warm and brightly lit, familiar and safe. Taking the stairs to the fourth floor, you unlock the apartment door. Stepping inside, you immediately flip the deadbolt and chain.
Leaning back against the door, you let out a long, shaky breath. The silence of your own space wraps around you, a stark contrast to the watchful quiet of the night outside. You’re home. You're safe.
But as you move to turn on the lights, you can’t shake the image of those eyelights. One cyan with a ring of crimson surrounding it, one solid red, burning in the darkness of the history aisle. And that soft, deep voice.