Maple Harbor Public Library

“The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man”

― T.S. Eliot

Emma had always loved the Maple Harbor Public Library. The Victorian building with its towering shelves and stained glass windows felt like a sanctuary, especially during the chaos of her divorce proceedings. She’d taken to staying until closing time, losing herself in novels while her lawyer sorted through the wreckage of her marriage.

Mrs. Whitmore, the head librarian, was always kind about Emma’s extended visits. The elderly woman would simply nod and continue her work, pushing her cart of returns through the shadowy aisles with practiced silence. Even when Emma dozed off in the reading chairs, Mrs. Whitmore never disturbed her.

It was during one of these late evenings that Emma first noticed something odd. She’d been reading in the local history section when she heard whispered conversations from deeper in the stacks. Multiple voices, all speaking at once in hushed, urgent tones. But when she went to investigate, the aisles were empty.

“Just tired,” she told herself, returning to her book.

The next week, the whispers came again. This time, Emma crept closer and caught fragments of the conversations. They seemed to be discussing books—recommending titles, debating interpretations, sharing favorite passages. It sounded like a book club meeting, but the library didn’t host evening programs.

Emma mentioned it to Mrs. Whitmore the following day.

“Oh, you must mean our after-hours patrons,” the librarian said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Very dedicated readers. They prefer the quiet.”

“After-hours? But the library closes at nine.”

“Well, some books simply can’t wait until morning, dear.”

That evening, Emma hid behind the reference desk as closing time approached. Mrs. Whitmore made her usual rounds, turning off lights and checking doors, but she didn’t lock up. Instead, she returned to her desk and began stamping due date cards with mechanical precision.

At 9:30, they began arriving.

Emma watched in growing horror as figures emerged from between the stacks—pale, translucent people in clothing from different eras. A woman in a 1950s dress clutched a cookbook to her chest. A man in a Union Army uniform held a leather-bound journal. Children in Victorian dress shared a picture book, their small fingers passing through the pages.

They were all reading, but Emma realized with creeping dread that their eyes never moved. The pages never turned. They held the same positions, mouthing the same words over and over, trapped in eternal repetition.

Mrs. Whitmore looked up from her work and smiled directly at Emma’s hiding spot.

“I see you’ve met our permanent collection,” she said pleasantly. “Readers who loved books so much they simply couldn’t bear to leave.”

Emma tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t obey. She looked down to see her own hands holding a novel she didn’t remember picking up. The words on the page began to swim and blur, but she couldn’t stop reading them.

“The late fees can be quite steep here,” Mrs. Whitmore continued, approaching with her stamp still clicking rhythmically. “But don’t worry, dear. Once you’re part of the collection, you never have to return anything again.”

Emma felt herself becoming lighter, more translucent. The book in her hands was fading too, becoming part of her. She tried to scream, but only whispered quotes emerged from her lips—fragments of every story she’d ever loved, now repeated endlessly in the endless quiet of after-hours.

Mrs. Whitmore stamped Emma’s forehead with a gentle thunk. “Due date: never,” she said with satisfaction.

Now Emma wanders the stacks each night, clutching her novel, mouthing the same paragraph forever. She wants to warn the other late-night visitors, the ones who stay past closing, who love books just a little too much. But all that comes out are the words from page 247, spoken in an eternal whisper that mingles with the voices of all the other permanent residents of the Maple Harbor Public Library.

During the day, Mrs. Whitmore tells visitors about their extensive collection, their dedication to serving the community’s reading needs. She never mentions that some patrons have been checking out the same book for decades.

The library’s motto, carved in stone above the entrance, reads: “A Home for Every Book, A Book for Every Home.”

But the small print underneath, visible only in moonlight, adds: “Some homes are more permanent than others.”