Eyes in the Stacks

It was a Tuesday when I first saw her face staring back at me. I had a loaded cart of nonfiction and was deep in the stacks. My eyes have been getting worse over the years, and even though I have transition glasses, the small call numbers caused some strain.

     I was back in the 800s shelving some books on Shakespeare when I saw her. Just her eyes, a little fringe of blonde hair looking back at me from the other side. I ignored her and put the book away.

     A few minutes later, putting away some critique on Ibsen there she was. Her eyes looking at me, blue and cold and unblinking. 

     "Can I help you find anything?" I said.

     "Find anything," said a quiet voice.

     The voice ran down my throat and took every bit of moisture. Cold and empty repetition. A feeling of nothing saying an echo and the oddness of it made me pause.

     "I'll be here if you need help," I said.

     She said, "Need help." 

     I nodded and went back to my cart. When I finished the row, I stopped. Pretended to organize the books. Not wanting to make that corner and find her. Would she be smiling or as cold as that voice? Would she need help?

     I made the turn and found nothing.

     Two days later, right at closing, I was walking through the building looking for any stragglers. Time to go, don't have to go home, but please leave.

     I did the big loop down the side of the nonfiction, around the back near the windows. I made the turn, scanning the shelves for signs of movement. Sometimes folks read in a crouch, so I make a point to look below eye level. In the reflection of the window, hovering over the lights of the parking lot of the tire place next door, stood a girl with blonde hair in a white dress. I turned and the shape moved back to the stacks.

     "We're closing. Can I help you find anything?" I said.

     "Find anything," she said.

     "I'm sorry. You have to leave." 

     "Not yet."

     I bent and looked through the shelves, over the top of the books and could see all the way to the cookbooks. They were large and blocked the view forward. No one was around. I finished my walk and never saw her.

     Last night was the last time. I hope it's the last time. I had been at the reference desk all day. My knees hurt, and I had the building blocks of a headache. I wanted to go home, kiss my wife, and get a little stoned to drift away. We made the closing announcement and cut the lights. Gerry said she had checked for patrons, but often she comes up and grabs a biography she wants, declaring the place empty without checking.

     I made a quick walk in the darkened building, humming a tune to myself. I turned my head left and right going right down the center aisle of stacks. Five hundreds, six hundreds, seven hundreds, no one. Then a glimpse of white.

     I was moving fast and had to stop myself. "Hello? We're closed."

     More movement. Nothing I could see, just a feeling that she was there and moving around me. Past me. I leaned down and peered through the stacks. The blue eyes looked back surrounded by that blonde fringe. Wide and open and unblinking.

     "Not yet," she said.

     "You have to go," I said.

    She winked. "Not. Yet."

    And she was gone. Turned and moved, and this time I lurched forward and around the stacks just in time to see her turn the other corner. I kept moving to the nine hundreds, biographies, the windows. All empty except the old yellow lights of the tire mart's parking lot.

     A hand grazed the back of my neck. A quick giggle that came from an empty throat. My stomach burned and a cold sweat broke on my forehead. Revulsion filled my body and made me cringe away and back and turn and move and there was nothing. 

     I left the library and went home and kissed my wife and took an edible. In my dreams, I don't want to know what comes next.