What ancient tablets in the archives drove Professor Whitmore to madness? Why are certain acquisition records from the colonial expeditions sealed indefinitely? Which artifacts in storage whisper in dead languages? And what happened to the researchers who requested access to the pre-Sumerian collection?
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Would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?
― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Margaret had always found solace among the towering shelves of the museum’s library, but tonight felt different. The familiar scent of aged paper and leather bindings carried an undertone of something else---something that made her skin crawl. As the last patron departed and the heavy doors sealed shut with their usual resonant thud, she was alone with thousands of volumes that seemed to watch from their perches.
Her task was simple enough: catalogue the recently acquired collection from the estate of Professor Whitmarsh. The elderly academic had spent decades studying pre-Sumerian texts, and his personal library had been donated after his sudden death. Margaret wheeled the cart of unmarked volumes through the dimly lit corridors, their gas lamps casting dancing shadows that played tricks with her peripheral vision.
The first book felt wrong in her hands. The leather binding was too warm, as if it had been sitting in sunlight, though these basement archives never saw daylight. As she opened it, the pages seemed to rustle with anticipation. The text was in a language she couldn’t identify, with symbols that hurt to look at directly. Yet somehow, she found herself understanding fragments---whispered promises of knowledge that mortals were never meant to possess.
Hours passed unnoticed as Margaret worked deeper into the collection. Books began opening themselves to specific pages, as if guiding her toward particular passages. The temperature dropped steadily, and her breath began to mist in the stagnant air. Strange patterns emerged from the arrangement of volumes around her, forming geometric shapes that seemed to pulse with malevolent life.
By dawn, they found her cart, overturned and empty. Margaret was discovered three days later in the museum’s sub-basement, a place that wasn’t supposed to exist. She spoke only in the ancient tongue from the books, her eyes reflecting knowledge that had driven her irreversibly mad. The Whitmarsh collection was quietly relocated to storage, though some swear they’ve seen those same symbols appearing in other texts throughout the library, spreading like an infection through the accumulated wisdom of humanity.
