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He never hesitated to enter the abandoned building alone. Today is no different. Oliver crosses the threshold, nudging open the heavy wooden doors with his hip, hands clasping a crate full of haphazardly stacked books. As his polished shoes tap across the weathered floorboards, the doors slam shut behind him, setting the foundations of the building a-shake. He passes the front desk, unmanned, and continues onwards, pressing deeper into the library. Rounding the corner, he stops abruptly, breath catching in his throat. The sight of it always strikes him so heavily, so squarely in his chest.
Rows upon rows of towering mahogany shelves span out as far as the eye can see, a labyrinth stretching upwards towards the marble ceiling. Not a single shelf contains a single book. All are eerily empty, standing there without purpose, rotting away in this dimly lit cavern. The scholar sighs heavily, hefting the crate with a huff before weaving his way through the maze.
Cobwebs form a thick, silvery film across the shelves; intricate patterns spun by the new residents, those skittering spiders who have no interest in reading. Oliver runs a gloved finger along the nearest shelf, skimming it as he breezes by. The silken fingertip is coated in a thick layer of dust, causing the man to frown. The faint sunlight filtering in from grimy, arched windows creates patches of yellow, populated by floating particles. As he passes through, his neat head of curls explodes into a sea of bronze, scattered red strands illuminated.
The scholar makes a few sharp turns, guided by the mental map he’s constructed after many nights hunched over unfurled scrolls with sketches of faded blueprints splashed across the coffee-coloured parchment. Eventually he spills out into the open space towards the back of the building, lined with dark wooden desks, weeping lamps bent over their glossy surfaces. As he threads through them, Oliver can’t help but imagine the studious people who used to pour over their books, eyes eagerly devouring the print upon the page.
A graveyard of leather chairs draped in sheets that were once white, now an off-grey, welcomes Oliver as he grows nearer to the end of the massive hall. As the last of the obstacles fall behind him, the scholar is provided an unobstructed path towards his destination; a door blending in with the walls surrounding it, camouflaged save for a few flakes of chipped paint, the jutting brass doorknob and grimy Staff Only sign. It’s entirely unimpressive, vastly different from the wide-set wooden doors with their creaky gold hinges and ornate doorhandles of wrought iron that mark the entrance. This door isn’t intended to be opened, at least, not by the public. And the public’s opinion was the only opinion that seemed to matter, back when the library was still functional.
From his pant pocket the perspiring man fishes a set of rusty keys, trying several against the door until one finally clicks, turning in the lock with some resistance. How long since this was last opened? With a groan the door swings inwards, revealing a little rectangular room filled with clutter; overflowing boxes and dried-out ink pads, crinkled pages tied together in uneven bundles, trays of disorganised knick-knacks. The overhead light flickers to life, bathing the space in a sickly grey. It feels claustrophobic, as if being here, stored away in the back of this abandoned building alongside the discarded items, will remove even people from existence, like the books from the shelves they used to call home. Like once that door closes all will be made redundant, lost to a sea of dust.
Oliver sets down the crate of books, and as he straightens a strange symbol catches his eye; an inky smudge drawn in the bottom corner of a box. His brow furrows as he delves into the recesses of his mind, searching for any knowledge on this symbol; a lid-less eye set in the centre of a circle, old Latin swirling within the iris, undecipherable. Unable to ignore the spark of curiosity igniting in his chest, licking at his insides unbearably, he lifts the marked box into his arms, unknowingly discovering the trapdoor beneath. Oliver quickly casts aside the box, kneeling and hooking his fingers around the iron ring set in the centre of the wooden square. He hesitates a moment. This door wasn’t in the blueprints, wasn’t mentioned by any of the old staff members. Did they know it existed? If so, why hide it? What could possibly be down there? He must know. The scholar slowly pries the trapdoor open, dislodging sawdust as it peels back from the floor, creating a dark opening into the hidden space below.
The man peers into the darkness, uneasiness blooming within. Part of him expected the door wouldn’t open at all. Now, faced with an unknown passage into the depths of the abandoned building, Oliver becomes starkly aware of the fact he’s alone here. Should he get stuck down there, nobody would find him. The sole set of keys reside in his pocket, the chances of anyone even entering are slim. He shouldn’t. It would be foolish, and Oliver is many things; overzealous, obsessive, idealistic, but not a fool. The scholar hastily rifles through the boxes, procuring pen and paper, scribbling a comforting yet useless note, reading: ‘I have descended. Follow’. Further searching earns him an old flashlight, the batteries still miraculously functioning.
Oliver turns back to the gaping maw, eyeing it cautiously. The flashlight comes to life with an echoing click, a beam of pale light shining down, revealing a rusty iron ladder. The scholar turns and lowers himself into the darkness. Hands gripping the ladder, flashlight between his teeth, Oliver descends until his feet hit stone. Now he’s underground, the trapdoor several feet above, just a square of light overhead. As the flashlight slices through the stuffy air, Oliver’s eyes widen at his surroundings.
The scholar finds himself stood in a chamber made entirely of stone, empty save for the alter before him. Wilted flower petals turn to dust under his feet as he draws closer. The wooden table is draped in a silken cloth, embroidered with swirling patterns that remind him of ripples. Scattered upon the table are a collection of gems, bird skulls, bundles of dried herbs, embellished tarot cards and wax candles. In the centre of the assorted items sits a leather-bound book, evidently worn. Oliver tentatively runs a finger down its spine, as if it may come alive at his touch. The book is old, though he can’t date it in the dim light. He gazes round, searching for anything that may explain this chamber’s existence, and why it was so hidden. The only other interesting feature is the symbol splashed across the wall behind the alter, same as the one on the box. The man’s burning questions are left unanswered. How can he leave, having learnt nothing?
He itches to spill open its contents, absorb all the information it has to offer. The rational part of his mind reminds him that opening, let alone reading an un-marked book in a hidden chamber in an abandoned library is insane. But the thirst for knowledge is too powerful, a wild animal thrashing within. He must know.
Oliver pries open the dusty book, flipping to the first page, which contains unfamiliar foreign writing and a few spindly symbols. He flicks through the pages, careful not to tear the fragile parchment, moth-bitten and unnervingly thin. Detailed diagrams and drawings blend together as the scholar continues through the book, skimming undecipherable passages, pausing to inspect inky images. One such image is the same symbol, the one with the eye. Beneath it is a sentence in scrawly Latin, nothing more. The rest of the page remains blank. Oliver frowns as he considers why every other page in the book was positively crammed, but not this one. Lifting the book up into his arms, he leans closer, shining light upon the single sentence that stands like a lone solider amidst a battlefield. He mouths the words silently, and they taste foreign, strange. None of them make sense, but perhaps speaking them aloud may reveal a clue about this book’s purpose, perhaps the sound they conjure holds meaning. Or perhaps, it’ll bring forth the answers he seeks.
“Egredere, devorator verborum, comes scientiae. Coniuro te ut tue sapientiae provideas, illumina nos. Exi.”
His words hang in the air, lingering. Oliver holds his breath, afraid to make any sound lest he disturb the eerie moment. Just as he starts to believe that perhaps the passage was useless after all, a gust of chilly air whooshes through the chamber, sending rippling shivers across his skin. The candles, long dead, flicker to life, flames instantly dancing before his eyes. He takes a step backwards. A shadow falls across the alter, tall and lithe, towering over the stunned man. He watches with wide eyes as the shadow shifts into something more solid, a woman, raven hair obscuring her face. She stands intimidatingly tall, draped in a long black dress, the silky fabric pooling about her ankles and spilling over the stone floor, appearing like she’s melting into the ground. Her skin is so pale its almost translucent, decorated by a smattering of dark marks. Oliver realises these are letters, swirling upon the surface of her skin languidly. She is covered in print, a walking book.
The woman lifts her head, hair parting to reveal glassy eyes, unseeing. Her gaze bores into him, and he gets the sense she can see perfectly well for someone whose eyes resemble those of the dead. She displays a hollow kind of beauty, haunting, tragic almost. The breath is knocked out of Oliver’s chest just by the sight of her, and he isn’t sure whether to be afraid or in awe. Perhaps a combination of both? A moment passes where both stand still, silently staring at one another. Then, she closes the distance between them, and with each step she takes the sound of rustling pages echoes all around. A single, slim fingertip is pressed to the scholar’s forehead, her sharp nail resting against the soft flesh like a warning. He can feel the power behind her every movement, feel the electrical current flowing from her to him. She smells like old books, that specific scent words cannot describe. Oliver breathes her in, and the familiarity is comforting. He’s aware women do not simply appear, summoned by ancient passages, unless they belong in fiction.
“Are you real?” His voice is a whisper, lacking its usual confidence. The woman cocks her head, surveying him unblinkingly. A thin smile curves across her face, and though he can’t see any emotion in her eyes, Oliver gets the sense she’s amused by his question.
“I believe so.” She sounds like honey; thick, viscous, sweet. The kind of voice made for narrating stories, the kind of voice you’d never grow bored of. The kind of voice you could drown in. She withdraws her hand, leaving the scholar cold once more, reaching for the book he holds in his trembling hands. The woman makes no move to take it from him; she doesn’t need to. He hands it to her, earning a pleased smile, and watches as she returns it to the alter, turning her back to him. He goes to open his mouth, to ask another question, but she beats him to it.
“I don’t have a name. But I do have many titles. Goddess of Knowledge, Swallower of Words, The Inked Woman, to name a few. I’ve been here many years, met many humans, answered many questions. Just as I am answering yours now.”
Oliver mouths wordlessly, desperately searching for something to say. “How- how did you know what I was going to ask?”
The goddess smiles wryly, facing him once more, her dress slithering along the ground as she twirls about. “Oh, they all ask the same things at first. Humans are very predictable.” Her voice contains a hint of hurt, and Oliver feels a pang of guilt.
“I could tell you about myself if you’d like. Then you wouldn’t have to do all the answering,” he suggests nervously. She laughs, the sound of fluttering parchment.
“Kind, but I already know everything about you, Oliver.” Once again, the man finds himself speechless. She goes on. “You’ve been attending university for three years, studying literature. Your parents live overseas and have left their wealth in your hands. Which, you’ve put towards your latest project; re-opening this library." She slows to a halt, fixing him with a blistering stare despite her eyes remaining dead and glossy. “What are your intentions with my library?”
“Your library?” In all the records a woman was never mentioned in regard to ownership of the building. Given its historical roots, Oliver was certain women weren’t even permitted to work as staff. As if reading his thoughts, the woman sighs and smiles sadly.
“Not on paper, no. But after the old owner stumbled upon me by chance and tied my spirit to this place, I have become a part of this library. It owns me and I own it.” She gazes about with the hint of a smile upon her lips, eyes travelling beyond the stone walls, beyond the material, marvelling at the very essence of the library. “Strange I should feel bound to protect the place of my capture,” the goddess murmurs. A sigh echoes throughout the chamber; the sound of paper being torn in one smooth motion. “I suppose even prisoners grow fond of their cells, eventually.” The two lapse into thoughtful silence, the Inked Woman musing over her unexpected attachment, the scholar recalling the library’s history, searching for mention of this ethereally gothic woman.
Dates flash behind his eyes as he moves through time, flipping through black-and-white photos, newspaper clippings, records and blueprints and archives. Out of the flurry of information a headline comes forth, plastered in bold print across the scholar’s mind: OWNER FOUND DEAD IN HIS LIBRARY. The article mentioned he was found with strange symbols all over his skin. Just like hers.
Oliver stares at the woman before him in horror. He is met with dead eyes. “Mr Wentworth…the old owner.” He swallows the lump in his throat, batting his suddenly over-sized tongue out of the way. “You killed him?” The goddess shakes her head, languidly circling Oliver while he remains rooted to the spot.
“Wentworth lacked a soul. Perhaps that’s why he stole mine, tethered me to this place. ‘The Goddess of Knowledge, a blessing bestowed upon this library! Her spirit shall reside here forevermore, imparting her wisdom upon its patrons.’ To him I was a tool. So, I became one. A tool of destruction, rather than creation.” Twirling locks of raven hair around her finger, the goddess smiles coldly, recalling the death of her tormentor. “He had an insatiable lust for knowledge, willing to capture a deity to feed his greed. And that is exactly what I did. Human minds are so frail, so easily overwhelmed. Too much knowledge, too much information and they just…” she clicks her fingers, the sound ricocheting. “Snap.”
“You drove him to his death!”
“Oh, he had already tied the noose; I simply swept the chair out from under him.” She halts, cupping the young man’s face with pale hands, eyes fixed on his. “Wentworth abused my power, underestimated the toll wisdom takes. His death was inevitable.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Yours is not.”
The goddess rubs soothing circles into his cheeks. “My dear, you are not just the library’s salvation, but mine. Be my vessel, through which knowledge and power may flow. Worship me, and I shall be merciful.” Her nail scratches ever so gently against his skin, threatening to draw blood. “Forsake me, and I shall condemn you to madness, filling your mind until it bursts.” The raven-haired woman releases his face, looking down at him with a self-satisfied smirk. “The choice is yours.”
Silently, the scholar sinks to his knees, gazing up at the goddess reverently. Fear and adoration dance in his eyes, a dangerous duo. He reaches for her, brushing his lips against her knuckles obediently. Only when she tilts his head back does Oliver meet her gaze. He murmurs one word.
“Worship.”