I worked at a small library in Oregon for about four years. It wasn’t a public library exactly. It was attached to a community center, so most of the people who came in were regulars.
There was one shelf near the back that I didn’t like very much.
It wasn’t because anything had happened there. I just didn’t like the shelf. It was too narrow, and the books were always leaning forward because the floor wasn’t level. Every few days I’d have to push them back.
Most of them were old scary stories collections. Nothing special. Cheap paperbacks, old ghost books, things people had donated.
One afternoon I was putting books away when I found one that I didn’t remember seeing before.
It was dark blue with no picture on the cover. There wasn’t even a title.
I opened it because I thought maybe the cover had come off another book.
The first page was blank.
The second page had someone’s name written in pencil.
Mine.
I actually laughed when I saw it.
I thought one of my coworkers was messing with me. I looked around, but nobody was nearby.
Then I noticed the handwriting.
It looked like mine.
Not exactly. I mean, handwriting is hard to compare, but the way the letters leaned was the same.
I put the book back.
About ten minutes later, I picked it up again.
I don’t know why. I guess I wanted to see if the name was still there.
It was.
Under my name was a date.
The date was the following Monday.
That bothered me more than it should have.
I showed it to my coworker, Helen. She was at the desk doing some paperwork and barely looked up.
“Probably somebody’s joke,” she said.
“How would they know my name?”
She shrugged.
“People know your name. You wear a badge.”
That was fair.
I left the book on the desk that night.
The next morning it was back on the shelf.
I asked Helen if she had moved it.
She said no.
I didn’t think much about it after that.
Actually, I did think about it. I just stopped doing anything about it.
That seems to happen with strange things. If nothing happens immediately, you get used to them.
A week later I found another book on the same shelf.
This one had a title.
Scary Ghost Novels for Quiet Nights.
It was a stupid title. I remember thinking that.
I opened it and found a handwritten note inside.
“Don’t read the last one.”
There were twelve stories in the book.
I read eleven.
I wasn’t planning to read any of them, but I was bored during my lunch break and the book was sitting right there.
Most were terrible.
One was about a woman hearing someone walk around upstairs. Another was about a guy who kept seeing a light in his backyard. Nothing unusual.
The last story was only three pages long.
I didn’t read it.
I put the book back.
That evening, while I was locking up, I heard something fall in the back room.
I went to check.
Nothing was on the floor.
The blue book was gone.
I looked through the shelf twice.
Then I noticed it sitting on the checkout desk.
Open.
The last page was facing up.
There was writing on it.
My name again.
This time there was no date.
Just:
“You’re already in it.”
I remember being annoyed more than scared.
I thought Helen had done it.
I called her and asked if she had come back to the building.
She said she hadn’t.
I went home.
The next day, the blue book wasn’t anywhere.
I didn’t report it because I knew how ridiculous it sounded.
Three days passed.
Then, on Thursday, a man came into the library.
I’d never seen him before.
He stood near the back shelf for a long time without touching anything.
Eventually he picked up the scary ghost novels book.
I told him he could check it out if he wanted.
He looked at me.
“Not that one.”
He put it back.
Then he pointed at the empty space beside it.
“That one.”
There was nothing there.
I thought he was joking.
I told him the shelf was empty.
He looked confused.
Then he said, “Oh.”
He walked away.
I watched him leave.
I don’t know why, but I checked the shelf again after he was gone.
The blue book was there.
I didn’t touch it.
I went back to the desk and sat down.
A few minutes later, Helen came in.
She looked at the shelf and then at me.
“You found it again?”
I asked her what she meant.
She said, “That book comes back.”
I asked how long she’d known.
She said she didn’t know.
Then she changed the subject.
I wanted to ask more, but there were people waiting at the desk.
So I didn’t.
I never opened the blue book again.
I left that job a few months later.
The book stayed on the shelf.
At least, I think it did.
I went back once after leaving because I’d forgotten a jacket.
The shelf was still there, but the blue book wasn’t.
I actually felt relieved.
Then I saw it on the desk.
Closed.
Waiting for me, I guess.
I didn’t touch it.
I just took my jacket and left.
I still work around books, actually.
I don’t mind normal books.
I just don’t like books with no title.
Especially when my name is written inside.
