To see or to stay

I didn’t go back to the library the next day.Before you congratulate me on a single rational decision: I went that night instead. Because apparently my survival instincts clock out at sundown.
The streets were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that makes you suspect you’re in a low-budget horror film. The glow of the streetlamps barely reached the steps of the library, and the windows reflected back nothing but darkness.No footprints this time. No paper taped to the wall. Just me, my nervous stomach, and a backpack containing: one flashlight, one jar of pickles (emergency rations and spiritual weapon), and one extremely poor sense of judgment.
The door shouldn’t have been open.It was.
Inside, the library was even more silent than the streets outside, like the shelves were listening. The air tasted stale, like dust and secrets. I told myself I’d just check the history section again—quick, in and out, like ripping off a bandage.
The circle was back. Same spot. Same faint chalk lines. But this time, I didn’t get a whisper.This time, the floor just… gave way.
One blink: library carpet.Next blink: stone steps spiraling downward.
I didn’t remember choosing, but apparently hesitation counts as a yes.
The stairs were damp, slick with something I hoped was just condensation and not, you know, liquefied regret. My flashlight caught fragments of murals painted along the walls: masks, eyes, hands reaching. Some were scratched out, others faded like they’d been waiting centuries for me specifically to ignore every instinct for self-preservation.
At the bottom of the steps, a door waited. Not metaphorical. Actual door. Heavy wood, iron handle, carved with a single word: “Soon.”I hate this place.
Naturally, I opened it.
The room beyond was circular, lit by faint bluish light coming from symbols on the floor. More circles. Inside the largest one stood a figure—hooded, faceless, but definitely watching me.
“Curiosity,” they said, voice too low and too many voices at once. “You’ve spent freely.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly keep a savings account,” I muttered, because sarcasm is cheaper than therapy.
The figure tilted its head. Shadows along the walls tilted too, like echoing puppets. My own shadow stretched toward the circle without my permission, eager, hungry.
“You must choose,” the figure continued. “To see, or to stay.”
“And if I pick ‘stay’?”
The light flared. My shadow grinned.
“That option is closing.”
I didn’t like how that sounded. Actually, I didn’t like anything about this. But before I could decide whether to sprint back up the stairs or throw a pickle as a distraction, the floor rippled again—this time pulling inward, like a drain.
The last thing I saw before everything went dark was my shadow stepping into the circle without me.

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Diary Entry #10
Dear Diary,
1. Stairs to nowhere are now stairs to somewhere, and that’s worse.

2. There’s a cult, or a club, or possibly a cosmic customer loyalty program happening under the library.

3. My shadow has gone freelance. Again.

4. There’s a door marked “Soon,” and I’m starting to think that might also apply to me.


— Me
P.S. If anyone asks, I regret nothing. Except maybe the pickles.