Why do certain rare books reshelve themselves in different sections overnight, and what's behind the restricted archive that requires written permission from town officials who died decades ago? Which reading rooms remain perpetually cold despite the heating system, and why do some historical records contradict the established timeline of local events? What's sealed in that basement collection that requires gloves and masks to handle?
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When change cometh, she will bring peace at her back. She will not bend to your will; you must bend to hers.
Adriana Mather, How to Hang a Witch
Welcome to Salem Library!
The old Salem Library looms over Main Street like a sentinel of knowledge, keeping watch over the small town. But it hides a dark secret. Behind those stately oak doors lies a maze of stacks housing not only books but long forgotten evils.
I enter the grand reading room on the ground floor. High windows let in streams of dust floating in the afternoon light. The librarian, perched on a ladder, shushes me with a gnarled finger before returning to the tall shelves lined with worn leather volumes.
I descend the creaking staircase to the basement stacks. The fluorescent lights flicker and buzz. The air grows cold and musty. As I wander the narrow aisles, the shelves seem to grow closer, towering over me, threatening to topple and bury me among moldering pages.
Then I see it. At the end of a remote row, sitting innocuously on a lower shelf, is an ancient, leather-bound tome. I approach slowly, my blood running cold. As I reach for the book, a voice whispers in my ear “Never read what should remain hidden. Leave now whilst you are still able.” But I do not listen. My fingers close around the book and pull. All at once, the lights go out. I am trapped in the darkness. The library has claimed another soul.
