Maggie Turner had always found comfort in the quiet, dust-scented aisles of the old library. It was her sanctuary, a place where time slowed, and every turn of the page offered a refuge from the outside world. She had worked at the small, historic library in the heart of the city for over five years. The building was old—an echo of a different time. And though it was often quiet, Maggie loved the peace it brought.
But that peace was shattered one evening when a strange girl appeared in the library, standing in the aisle between the dusty shelves of old novels and forgotten histories. The girl looked to be no older than twelve, with pale skin and dark hair that cascaded down her shoulders like a shadow. Her clothes were peculiar—old-fashioned, as if she had stepped out of a time long past, a simple white dress, and shoes that looked like they belonged in a century gone by.
Maggie had been sorting through a stack of new arrivals at the desk when she noticed the girl standing in the silence. At first, Maggie thought she was simply a lost child, perhaps from the nearby school or an overzealous wanderer from the park. But something about the girl struck her as odd. Her eyes, deep brown and unfathomable, held an ancient sorrow that sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.
"Excuse me, are you lost?" Maggie asked, walking towards her.
The girl didn’t speak immediately. She simply stared at Maggie, her eyes piercing, as if measuring something. Then, with a voice like brittle leaves in the wind, she finally spoke.
"You are Maggie Turner, yes?" she asked, her tone soft but certain.
Maggie blinked, her unease growing. "Yes, that's me. Can I help you?"
The girl smiled faintly, a haunting sadness curving her lips. "I am Clara Shaw."
The name hit Maggie like a physical blow. Clara Shaw? That was impossible. Clara Shaw had died over a century ago, in 1913. It was a well-known local tragedy—her body had been discovered in the woods behind an old estate, her life taken by a powerful man, a landowner named Richard Harper, whose influence ensured that the case was buried.
Maggie’s voice faltered, the room suddenly feeling too small. "But... you... you’re supposed to be dead. How—?"
Clara raised a delicate hand, silencing her. "I am dead, Maggie. I have been dead for a very long time. But I have not forgotten what was done to me, and neither should you."
The room grew colder as Clara’s eyes hardened. Maggie’s heart pounded in her chest. She knew that name—Richard Harper had been a prominent figure in the town’s history, his wealth and power leaving a trail of manipulation and deceit behind him. But the idea that this girl had somehow returned from the dead to seek revenge felt beyond comprehension.
"I need your help, Maggie," Clara continued, her voice growing urgent. "You must help me bring him to justice. He’s still alive. He’s still living his life, untouched. He must pay for what he did."
Maggie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. "I... I can’t help you," she whispered, her mind racing. "You’re... asking me to do something impossible."
Clara’s eyes turned to stone. "You will help me."
Before Maggie could respond, Clara’s figure flickered in the dim light, and then, in a blink, she was gone.
Maggie stood frozen in the silence, unsure whether she had imagined the encounter. But deep down, she knew it had been real. She felt an odd pull to the girl’s words, but fear held her in place. Clara’s anger had been unmistakable. Maggie didn’t know how, but she knew that if she refused, something terrible would happen.
She tried to dismiss the encounter, telling herself it was just a figment of her imagination, a trick of the shadows. But the next day, the horror began.
It started with the blood.
Maggie had been shelving a few books near the back of the library when she noticed it—a streak of dark red, as if someone had dragged their hand across the walls. She gasped, her hand trembling as she touched the stain, which was eerily cold to the touch. But when she pulled her hand away, the stain remained, smudged and thicker than before.
She wiped it away with a rag, but no matter how many times she scrubbed, the blood would reappear—always in the same spots, always fresh. Panic clawed at her chest. She tried to keep working, to ignore the growing sense of dread that coiled around her, but it was impossible.
That night, after closing hours, the sounds began.
At first, it was just a faint creaking, like the old wooden floors groaning under an unseen weight. Then, the footsteps came—heavy, deliberate, pacing the aisles in rhythmic thuds, each step closer than the last. Maggie froze in terror as the sounds came nearer and nearer, stopping just behind her. But when she turned around, the aisle was empty.
The temperature in the room dropped. Maggie could see her breath in the air, even though the library had never been cold. And then, she saw it—a shadow moving across the bookshelves, creeping closer with every passing second.
Suddenly, a cold, clammy hand reached out from the dark corner of the room and grabbed her shoulder.
Maggie screamed, jerking away, but the hand was gone as soon as it had appeared. Her pulse raced, her mind reeling. She could feel something watching her, following her every move. Something was coming for her.
The next few days were worse. The blood on the walls spread, darkening the corners of the library like an ever-growing stain. The footsteps grew louder, echoing through the empty hallways, always behind her, always getting closer.
One evening, when she thought she couldn’t take it any longer, Clara appeared again. This time, she was no longer the innocent child Maggie had seen before. Clara’s form was twisted, her face pale and lifeless, her eyes full of fury. Her voice was like an angry whisper, carried on the wind.
"You refused me," Clara’s voice hissed, her image flickering like a broken film reel. "Now, you will pay."
The air around Maggie grew thick with darkness, and the library seemed to bend and twist, the walls pulsing with the sound of a heartbeat. Maggie ran through the aisles, desperate to escape the nightmarish presence, but the more she ran, the more the walls closed in around her.
In the corner of her eye, Clara’s figure flickered, reaching out with long, claw-like fingers. And with every step Maggie took, a new sound emerged—a creak of the floorboards, a slam of a door that shouldn’t be open, and, worst of all, the slow, measured footsteps that followed her wherever she went.
Maggie realized that Clara was no longer just a ghost—she was a force of vengeance, and now Maggie herself was trapped in the web of her rage.
With no choice left, Maggie returned to the library one last time, standing in the heart of the chaos, alone, with the blood on the walls and the footsteps closing in.
"Please," Maggie whispered into the suffocating darkness, her voice shaking. "I can’t help you. Please, stop."
But Clara’s cold laughter echoed through the library, louder and louder, until it drowned out everything else.
"You should have helped me, Maggie," Clara’s voice came, soft and cruel. "Now, you will die just as I did."
And with that, the dark hand reached out, and the library became a prison of shadows and death, the last thing Maggie saw being the flicker of Clara’s cold, vengeful smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment