I worked evenings at a small public library for almost four years. Most nights were quiet enough that I could hear the old heating system clicking behind the walls. The basement was the only part of the building I disliked, mostly because nobody had bothered to replace the lights properly. They would flicker for a few seconds before coming on, and one of the pipes near the storage room leaked whenever it rained.

The older employees had a story about that basement. They said a librarian named Margaret Vale had disappeared in 1998, although the official explanation was that she had left town after some problems at home. Denise, who had worked there for years, called it one of those old ghost stories people tell new employees. She never seemed frightened by it, so I assumed there wasn’t much truth behind the story.

I changed my mind one Thursday night.

I was looking for a box of children’s books when I noticed an old wooden cart behind several shelves. There was a cassette recorder underneath a pile of magazines, with a tape still inside it. I pressed play without thinking much about it. A woman’s voice came through the speaker, quiet and slightly shaky.

She said a number first.

“Fourteen thousand two hundred and six.”

Then she said, “If you’ve found the book, don’t put it back.”

The recording ended.

I took the recorder upstairs and asked Denise about the number. She stopped sorting books and looked at me for several seconds before asking where I’d found it. When I told her, she said it was probably an old catalog number. She didn’t sound convinced, though, and when I asked about Margaret, she suddenly became busy with something on the desk.

I searched the old catalog during my break.

Number 14,206 belonged to a children’s book called The House at Willow Creek. According to the records, it had been removed from circulation in 1998. There was no reason listed, only a note saying the book should not be loaned again.

I found it in the basement the next evening.

It was inside a cardboard box marked DONATIONS, underneath a stack of books that looked as though nobody had touched them in years. The cover was faded and the pages smelled damp. A library card was still tucked into the back pocket.

The last borrower was Margaret Vale.

The return date was six days after she disappeared.

I took the book upstairs.

Denise saw the card and immediately told me to put it on the director’s desk. She wouldn’t explain why. Our director, Mr. Harris, was already in his office when I arrived. He looked at the card, then at the book, and asked me exactly where I’d found it.

After I told him, he locked it inside a filing cabinet.

He didn’t seem surprised.

That bothered me more than the tape.

The following evening, I found the book sitting on the return desk.

I knew it was impossible because I had watched Mr. Harris lock it away. I considered leaving it there until morning, but curiosity got the better of me. I opened the cover and checked the pocket.

The library card was gone.

There was a folded piece of paper instead.

My name was written on it.

Inside, someone had written:

You returned it too early.

I stood behind the desk for several minutes, trying to decide whether someone was playing a joke on me. Eventually I put the note in my pocket and finished closing the library. I didn’t tell anyone because I knew how ridiculous it would sound.

The next morning, Mr. Harris asked me to come into his office.

He had found the cassette recorder on his desk.

He wanted to know whether I had put it there.

I told him no.

He sat down and rubbed his face before telling me something he had never told the other employees. Margaret hadn’t simply disappeared. The police had searched the library after she failed to come home, and her coat had been found hanging in the basement.

They never found her.

Mr. Harris said there had been another recording.

Margaret had apparently mentioned the book again, but this time she said there were two copies.

One belonged to the library.

The other didn’t.

I asked where the second copy was.

He stared at me.

Then he said, “That’s what Margaret was looking for.”

I left his office feeling strangely disappointed. I had expected some explanation, even a bad one. Instead, I had another question.

That night, I searched the catalog again.

There was only one copy.

I was about to shut the computer down when a second entry appeared beneath it.

No author.

No publisher.

No barcode.

Just a title.

The House at Willow Creek.

Its location was listed as Basement, Shelf 6.

I went downstairs.

Shelf 6 was empty.

Except for a single book lying on the floor.

I didn’t pick it up.

The cover was identical to the first one.

The next morning, I quit.

I didn’t tell my coworkers the real reason. I said I had found another job and needed to leave quickly. Denise hugged me before I left and whispered that I had done the right thing.

I moved to another state a few months later.

For a long time, nothing happened.

Then one night, I was browsing a website about scary games based on true stories when I saw a screenshot that made me stop.

It showed a dark library basement.

There was a wooden cart near the wall.

A book was lying on the floor beside it.

The title was The House at Willow Creek.

I closed the page.

The next morning, a package was waiting outside my apartment.

There was no return address.

Inside was a library card.

My name was printed on it.

The return date was tomorrow.

On the back, written in faded blue ink, were four words:

You still have our copy.