Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-1306136-20140418162555/@comment-24841494-20140419175054

Crinal123 wrote: Hey everyone!

Finally rewrote my pasta and hopefully improved it. Please review and give any comments. My angus is peppered.

Bound

                 Thunder crackles loudly outside, as lightning flashes, each burst briefly illuminating the library in a shocking, intense light. The archaic structure is pelted by wave after wave of torrential rain. Winds bellow against the building, threatening to tear the entire structure down. No sane person would dare brave this weather just to read some old, musty books.

                 But I’m here.

                 The metal doorbell clangs as I enter the library, alerting my presence to absolutely no one. The place is empty, just as expected. I assume it will remain that way for the rest of my shift. I don’t even know why the administrators bother to keep the library up and running this late into the night. The only person I ever see this late at night is the librarian, and for this night, that librarian is me.

                 I make my way to the main desk. The librarian’s counter is stationed at the far end of the library. Every step I took causes creaks in the hardwood floor that reverberats throughout the entire facility.

                 ''Creak. Creak. Creak. Creeaaaaaak.''

                 I stop in my tracks, and the noise continues echoing along in the cavernous library. It’s strange, but the sound is not in tune with my steps. I take time to check the aisles and the reading areas, wary of the steps I take, but no one is here. Not a single soul reading books, using the computers or otherwise lurking about. I guess it is just the wood swelling in the cold of the rain or some squeaky, old floorboards. I don’t know; I’m no wood expert. I can’t help but laugh at my bewilderment.

                 The short walk serves to confirm my isolation in the library though. Even Alex isn’t here. I guess he left his shift early. I can’t really blame him. Between the gothic decor, the dim lighting and the emptiness, the library is the perfect mix of haunted mansion and horror movie set. No amount of funding or high tech workstations can erase this ancient vibe.

                 Coupled with the storm, there is absolutely no good reason to stay and supervise this empty, cavernous library. But I can’t let a little spooky ambiance scare me from a paycheck; that’d be irrational. Anyway, the job isn’t so bad. Once I finish all my work, I can always study for my classes the next day. The computers here are lot faster than my laptop, so it is all just convenient.

                 The desk is a mess. I knew Alex is a lazy slob, but I figure he would make an attempt to do his job properly, at least before leaving early. Books are scattered all over the desk and counter. Some are even on the floor, facedown, spines wrinkled and pages folded. A few minutes later, the books are all stacked on the table, ready to be put back in their respective aisles.

                 I take a moment to marvel at my work.

                 ''Creak. Creak. Creak.''

                 I guess I am wrong. Someone is in the library, each step confirming the fact. Perhaps I didn’t check hard enough. Anyway, that is signal enough to continue working or at least, look like I was. I gather up the books and place them on the cart, beginning the dull job of returning all of them. As I place book after book in the shelves, I can’t help but wrinkle my nose. It’s slight, but I know my imagination can’t be so powerful as to just conjure it up. It’s the smell of fish, fish that has been rotting in stagnant water for days.

                 I wonder if the other guy can smell it too and feel embarrassed if he does. Still, I am a librarian, not a janitor. My job is done, and I figure I could start on the philosophy essay I have due next week. I boot up the computer and as the familiar Windows start-up tune plays, I notice the book. It lay in the corner of my desk, propped up to guarantee I would see it. Strange, I swear I didn’t leave any books behind. Stranger still, it is a stripped book; it has no cover. Technically, it is illegal to own one, as books are usually stripped to be pulped and recycled. Perhaps the guy who entered thought he could leave this here as a donation? I can still hear creaking in the distance. He must still be here. If I run into him, I’ll be sure to ask.

                 I grab the book. The pages are clearly of age, crisp and yellowed. There is no indication whatsoever of what the book is or who wrote it. Not exactly excited to start my essay, I began reading it.

                 “This book is all that remains of H.C., 

                 What a coincidence. My name is Harvey Cooper. I laugh.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">''                 who was flayed alive on the Seventeenth Day of September. ''

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 I humor the book and check today’s date. My heart jumps out of my chest, like falling when you’re just about to sleep, an involuntary twitch that jolts you awake.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">''                 He is this book in its entirety. May you be connected with him through its touch.”''

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 A chill ran down my spine, but I still can’t suppress a chuckle. It is just a book after all, whatever is written here is probably just sheer coincidence. I just hope the coincidences end there. I have to read more.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 Each turn of the page dissipates whatever hope I have bit by bit. Each chapter I read sinks my gut a little bit deeper. The hairs on the back of my neck threaten to rip away from my skin. This is all too chilling, too coincidental. The first chapter begins with the first time I decided to work here, back when I was a freshman some three years ago.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 It starts with my first day of work, exploring the library, organizing books and meeting Gertrude, the senior librarian. The book even describes what I thought of Gertrude; what I think of her overt enthusiasm, how it borderlines into a creepy neediness. I am absolutely certain I've told no one about that. Every chapter after details a portion of my life since then, down to the smallest detail.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 I don’t know what was worse, the fact that my entire life has been written here or the fact that this is all written in a third person perspective, that of an omnipresent observer. The writing grows cryptic as the chapters progress; details irrelevant to my life are interspersed between every paragraph. Thunder continues booming in the distance, uncaring of my predicament. The lights start to flicker ever so slightly, making it even harder to read this chicken scratch handwriting.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 What scares me most though is that this book is not more than a hundred pages. Considering the pages I've read and how much of my life has been already detailed, I assume the worst. I fumble through the pages, desperately seeking how the last chapter will play out. I scan through paragraphs that detail everything up until this day, sweaty palms dampening the outermost pages of the tome.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 The following pages are empty. I flip through them, making sure I didn’t miss anything out. Nothing, not a single word beyond me picking this book up. I feel my heart pump in my chest and sweat bead down my temple. This must all be a cruel joke. That’s the only thing it can be, right?

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                   I could still hear the stranger’s footsteps in the distance. The stench of fish still wafts heavily in the air, seeping into every breath I take, churning my already weak stomach.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 Ring.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 It’s the doorbell. I don’t think anyone else would enter the library this late at night, so it could only mean one thing. The stranger is leaving. He is the only one who could explain this book. He is the one responsible for this. I run towards the entrance. My boots pound down on the hardwood, each step booming, like the thunder outside.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 As I ran, the doorbell continued ringing; the clanging of the bell producing a chaotic melody to the chorus of thunder. The creaking in the library got louder and more frequent, all of the sounds blending into a cacophonic dissonance. Everything climaxed into a harsh crescendo, a terrible symphony orchestrated by storm and fear. Distracted, I did not hear the lumbering monster creep up behind me nor expect the heavy blow that took my consciousness.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 ---

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 My head throbs, waves of pain shooting throughout my whole body. I could still smell the all too familiar stench of rot and strangely, musty paper. The odor only serves to exacerbate my pain. Blurry eyes distort my vision. I try rubbing them, but my arms are paralyzed, immobile. Thick leather belts hold them in place, red-hot blisters already bubbling where the abrasive leather is in contact with my skin. To my horror, my legs are similarly restrained. I struggle vainly against the restraints, until I realize I wasn’t alone in the room.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 He sat at the corner of the room, writing under the luminescence of a dying light bulb. His hands are a flurry of disgusting movement. They are like gnarled branches, knotted at the joints with the rigidity of bark. The cracks and groans of abused ligaments and joints are audible through the furious scratching of pen on paper. It is like the buzzing of hornets, an aggressive and foreboding white noise, made even worse knowing that he is writing on my book. The coverless pages lay flat and wrinkled on the table, squished under his forceful writing.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 I try to call out to him. I plead, I beg. My throat tears at my screams. I cry out words with increasing volume and desperation until I could feel my vocal cords hemorrhage. Specks of blood shoot out of my mouth. I could taste iron on my tongue. I try to scream louder hoping someone might save me, but mere silence escapes my gaping mouth. There is no reaction from him. There is only the persistent sound of words being written on paper.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 It is no use. He has the pen, and I am his story. His shadow, a distorted projection of his monstrous silhouette, dances against the flickering bulb. As he continues, one thought lingers:

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 How does he want my story to end?

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 --

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 The senior librarian, Gertrude, enters the library, the familiar scent of old and musty books immediately filling her nose. She notices the silence in the library, the stillness. The strange odor of rotting fish creeps up, subtle and quickly dissipating. She reaches her desk and finds it organized, the books returned and filed correctly. Harvey was always a good worker.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">                 She sighs, picks up the recently covered book, and knows she’ll have to find more help yet again. She’s old now. She wonders how much of her book has yet to be written.