“Libary Love Letter” | Short Story

It was the perfect day for the library.

Matty rode his bike through a puddle, soaking his ankles with dirt, but he didn’t care. That made it better, in fact. There was nothing like curling up next to the rickety metal radiator. He could picture it now: tucked away in the furthest corner and cracking the spine of an Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King. He shuddered as he passed a storm drain. His imagination took off, and he rode faster, as if a clown were watching from below. One who might snatch him off his bike, and no one would be the wiser.

Although it was pouring rain and he was soaked to the bone, he smiled. It was the perfect day for the library.

Life could be so romantic when you knew where to look.

Matty slid into the bike rack with a practiced ease as lightning illuminated the sky with a blue haze. He counted the seconds until the thunder boomed and timed his footsteps to match. It took him five (large) steps to reach the door, and as he heaved it open, the sky rumbled to announce his entrance.

“Shh!” whispered the librarian.

Matty whipped his head toward her, flinging water droplets from the end of his bowl cut.

She winked at him from behind cat-eye glasses.

Matty chuckled (quietly, of course) and whispered back, “Sorry, Mrs. Johnson.”

“I’m just teasin’, baby. It’s a ghost town in here today.”

“But it’s the perfect day for the library.”

Mrs. Johnson shrugged and gave the boy a knowing smile. “You’re preachin’ to the choir, young man.”

Matty had never seen the library packed with people, but usually there were a few scattered around. Not today. He couldn’t believe it. Between the literal chill he felt and the metaphoric one that began to tickle his spine, he knew there was only one type of story he wanted to read.

He zigzagged through the titanic shelves of books, breathing in their scent with a deep and cherished inhale. He’d been to the library so many times, he could’ve gotten around with his eyes closed. So, he decided to try. He stopped and looked up to his left.

The shelf read: HORROR A – D.

“Almost there,” he thought. Then he closed his eyes.

He pictured the route he’d take in his mind and stretched his arms out in front of him. He started slow, walking straight forward. He turned right without hitting anything, then at the end of that aisle, he turned left. As he got more comfortable in this game, he dropped his hands. Forward for another row, then right, then forward, then left, then…

Matty let out a gasp as he bumped into something. His eyes were still squeezed shut as his butt hit the floor, and he let out an “Oof!” When he opened his eyes, though, no one was there.

But a book was.

He sat in the middle of the aisle; his legs splayed out in front of him. Thunder rumbled from outside, and he suddenly didn’t want to be in the library anymore. No matter how perfect a day it might have been.

He folded his legs beneath him, crisscrossed. He could feel his heart beating in his throat. But every time he swallowed, it only moved up higher. Matty let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

The longer he stared at the book, the more intrigued he became. In fact, the longer he stared at the book, the surer he became that he was in the middle of his own story. His very own adventure.

Matty leaned forward at the waist, his spine creaking like a rusty hinge. He wrapped his little fingers around the book and slid it closer to him.

It was a black hardcover tome, small but thick. In stenciled gold lettering, the title “Secrets of the Afterlife” was displayed. No author was listed. He flipped through the yellowed pages, careful not to rip their fragile edges. But with every turn, he found blank page after blank page. He couldn’t help himself. It was as if some otherworldly force was guiding his hands. Then, as he reached the last third of the emptiness, a loose sheet of lined notebook paper slipped onto his lap.

His heart stopped. It was so high in his throat now; he couldn’t swallow even if he tried.

The paper was folded vertically in half, but it was clear that the bottom half had already been torn off. Whoever had hidden this note in this book in the back of the library surely didn’t want anyone to find it.

Matty unfolded the paper and began to read.

“My dearest Sylvia,

My heart longs to hold you again. Too long have I been without your touch, your kiss. I miss you, Sweet Sylvia. I miss all we used to do. I miss how we used to feast.

Do you remember Sweet Sylvia?

Oh, how the children would scream! How afraid they were as the oven doors would slide—”

The rest of the letter was torn off.

Ice ran through Matty’s veins. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t look away from the last line. Then the thunder struck, plunging the world into darkness.

By the time Matty found the strength to release a whimper meant to be a scream, the lights returned.

The book did not.

And neither did the note.

Matty blinked in surprise and felt a shudder rattle through his entire frame. He bolted up to his feet. He wanted to run, but pure fear seemed to have wiped his memory of how he got here. The library that he knew so well that he could walk it with his eyes closed was now a mystery to him. And he was terrified.

The terror only grew as his eyes fell on something at the far end of the aisle. He crept forward, unaware at first that he was in control of his feet. As he got closer, the ice in his veins turned to molten lava and back again.

Hanging on the wall was a plaque dedicated to:

SYLVIA JOHNSON

For her years of dedication to the

SUMMERVILLE HOME FOR TROUBLED CHILDREN

Matty never returned to the library after that day.