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“Yes, the permanent resident medius.” She stared at me as if I should have known. “Ezekiel Wolfram.” She spoke slowly this time, and I nodded. “He’ll probably be training you at some point.”

“Oh, the carer on the sign out front.”

She gave me a dirty look. “Has he fuddled with the sign again? Hades almighty, I swear.” Her little cat-eyed glasses slid down her nose, and she plucked them off, letting them dangle on a chain around her neck. “If you see Zeke around, let him be. He’s the moody sort. He’s like a cat. He’ll come out when he’s ready and then spend half the day begging you for a crumb of attention.”

I nodded, and she gestured at the paper packet. “Sit, read, do what it says. I’m out for the day. I’m already fraying at the edges.”

I glanced down at the paper and then back again, startled to find her gone and the book she clutched laying atop the counter.

As a Historical Librarian Assistant II, I was expected to put books back. In the event that a red-marked book is returned, I was to leave it by a table outside of the reading annex.

My other duties were to check out books, peruse the catalogue occasionally, one drawer a day, to ensure things were filed correctly, moving alphabetically. Bathrooms were clearly marked and I could break whenever I pleased. As long as my duties were done, they didn’t care.

It outlined in no uncertain details I was to never bring a pen into the place, and to lock up when I left at six every day.

It seemed easy enough.

I was not to clean—as that was handled.

I stared at my paperwork outlining what appeared to be the easiest job I could have ever scored as the whispers I’d heard when I first entered the building struck up again, like a chorus of voices just out of sight.

So, without much direction, I shuffled through my packet and read. The library was a private collection by a society that valued misprinted, altered, and strange books of all varieties. They had a modern section, a classics section, history, fiction, and more. Outlined in the area was a note that I needed to write my preferred name in the card of any book I read, even if I never left the library with it.

I was encouraged to read on my shift, and if I ever got stuck in a book, feel free to use the key and someone would come help.

Odd choice of words…

A loud scraping interrupted my thoughts, and I glanced up, looking around to see where the sound had come from.

At first, things seemed largely the same, maybe a shelf had been pushed a little bit one way.

A book fell someplace on the other side of the library, along with shuffling whispers and then silence as I walked around, looking for the source. “This is creepy as fuck.”

I went back to my seat and completed my read, swearing I heard the scraping again. Books had instructions to follow if read, and I’d have to fill out the noted form inside the front jacket corresponding to request and submit it to the inbox. Forms would be clearly marked in a drawer.

I glanced around for the form drawer and made a mental note. Fun.

Once completed, I traversed the stacks, looking from shelf to shelf, letting my fingers trace the edges of spines far older than anything I’d seen before.

As I glanced over the covers, a title stood out, one I’d remembered liking. Beauty and the Beast by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villenueve. Mouthful of a name, but I rather liked the story—up until the beast turned human. Major disappointment.

I pulled the book down and opened the cover to look at the library card. I’d never interacted with them except in elementary school, where we had the old system for books there. I saw dates in some of those books going back to the eighties before they were phased out.

A dozen names lay in a row before a recent signature, in pencil—as all the names were—outlined Zeke. No last name. Just the four letters.

I glanced at a note written on the pasted pocket inside, detailing the instructions for the book. Alt/Phantom. Safe. Submit report A-4 if Belle dies. Submit report A-16 if Gaston and Belle marry. Any presence or mentions of spaceships and extraterrestrials—discontinue reading and return book with red label for correction.

It wasn’t the book I remembered; the older text was made from a print plate. I thumbed through the introduction and first chapter, finding myself in a dream, almost. I shook my head and returned to my desk to lean on the counter as I flipped a few more pages; the story the same as I expected.

Before I sank too deep into the novel, I checked the return bin to find three books, each meticulously labeled. I stamped the cards, found a fucking Excel database on the desktop that I updated—ew—and popped them back into place.

A copy of Tolstoy’s Resurrection felt hot in my hand as I lifted it onto the shelf, and while I turned to leave, a tiny voice whispered, Who the fuck is this bozo?

I glanced around, seeing nobody. Still, a brief whisper in the distance had me peeking about.

Maybe it was the AC? A hiss of air somewhere making my brain hear words. Humans did that, after all. Someone in another room playing a video on their computer or phone?

“Hello?” I called out, but silence greeted me.