Bad Things Happen
The children walked into the room and the librarian followed them.
Green shades on small lamps cast yellow light on the tables. Small tables Two of them in the small six-sided room. Shelves made from the same pale wood as the tables armored the walls with magazine boxes.
This is the Rayburn Room, the librarian said, and the children fell silent. He continued as he moved between the tables. Y'all gather in. Come on in, don't be shy. It's a library, I can't talk that loud. Okay, everybody here? Like I was saying, this is the Rayburn Room. Named for the Rayburn family. If you know the story of the town, you know that Ms. Rayburn met her end in one of her father's sawmills. Disgruntled lover, a man in her father's employ. Mr. Rayburn was so upset he locked himself away in the Rayburn Mansion.
One of the children said, Isn't this dumb library the mansion?
The library did start out as the mansion, yes. Big, drafty old place. Mr. Rayburn, whose bust you can see right by the door, left the house to the town with the express desire that this room always be kept empty. It remained that way as a leprosy ward. And as the house for the mentally insane. If anyone moves anything into this room more than these tables and that stack of National Geographics, bad things happen.
The talkative child said, What happens?
The librarian moved past the children to the door. He said, Let's find out. Well, I mean, y'all find out. See, I don't run around the library yelling and breaking windows. I want to thank you all for coming to apologize, though. That was very nice of you all. I will remember it. Just, tsk, not quite enough.
The librarian crossed the threshold of the door, turned, and closed the heavy wood with a thunk.
Inside the room, one of the kids laughed. The laughter became high and piercing and almost a scream. Then other voices joined in, the voices high and loud until silent.
The librarian pocketed the key to the Rayburn Room and went to fix a window.