A Stack of Books

I’ve spent long hours unpacking and cataloguing the items sent from the European university, but I enjoy being busy. While I personally find the reason for the collab and the exhibition ridiculous, occultism is a major part of the study of both history and religion. And, I run my gloved fingers almost reverently down the spine of a 15th-century old leatherbound volume; the books and objects are exquisite.

Outside, the main library is bristling with quiet activity in preparation for the big event. Professors and doctorates from Europe had arrived at the same time as the crates, filling the place with anticipation and excitement.

The security door buzzes open, revealing Professor Kawano, the man in charge. As always the impression of his tailored black suit is marred by the too loose tie and the slightly messy hair. He really should cut it shorter to uphold his image as head of the prestigious Department of History. I turn with a polite smile. Being part of this --  doing an excellent job-- could earn me several points for my next promotion. Appearing professional, suitably friendly, and respectful is key. 

“Welcome, Professor. Can I help you with something?”

“Just checking in. I trust you’re on schedule.”

“Of course. Everything should be ready on time.”

“Excellent.” He nods, eyes lingering thoughtfully on me. “New hairstyle?”

I nod, one hand going up to touch my bangs. The man is observant, I give him that. It had taken Mika two days to notice.

“It suits you.”

“Thank you. Was there anything else?”

“Actually…” Suddenly he looks nervous, fingers picking at his collar, loosening the tie even more. “As you know, one of the students I was mentoring, Ms. Ward, passed away.”

I nod, hoping the chill in my chest doesn’t show on my face.

“I was told she was your tenant. Do you perhaps still have her laptop?”

“She was. But I’m afraid not. Her parents collected all her things.” Or, thought they did…

“Of course. You wouldn’t have their number?”

“No,” I lie smoothly. “But student administration should have it. I’m sure they’ll be happy to help. Especially if it involves retrieving important research.”

“Yes, of course. While someone else will continue her assignments, I’d like to publish Ms. Ward’s part as well. Give her the credit she deserves.”

“She would like that. Bun… Nin…” My tongue trips over the names before I find the appropriate one. “Ms. Ward always spoke very highly of you, and I know she was proud to be part of this project.” You were so happy and so flattered that he’d asked you, a mere second year, to help. But it also took its toll…

“We just need to find it first.” He looks around the room, eyes landing on the pile on my desk. He smiles wryly. “Wouldn’t it be convenient if these worked? Then we could just ask her.”

I try not to roll my eyes at the volume on the ‘use of Tarot cards to commune with the dead’ he points at. Surely a well-renowned, down-to-earth professor doesn't believe in this kind of superstitious nonsense? 

“Ask?” My voice sounds shriller than usual. I need to get a grip. “You mean like a seance?” Foolishness. I purse my lips to show my disapproval.

Still, to hear your voice again… I’d do anything…

“You’re not a believer then, Ms Mori?” he asks, then shakes his head. “Well, neither am I. But, having studied these subjects for so long, seen how similar theories and practices developed across the world, sometimes I wonder… Is it possible there is some truth to it?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” I say neutrally, and he nods. Checks the time.

“I should go.” He bows politely. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Mori. Keep up the good work.”

I wait until the door clicks shut behind him, put on a fresh pair of white cotton gloves, and get back to the pile of returned, rare books. Now, they either need to go back to storage or be prepared for the next person waiting. These precious books don’t have any QR codes glued or taped to them for easy scanning, so I do it manually. Book by book, placing them on the correct trolley, depending on their next destination. Wrapped either in soft white fabric with a freshly printed tag for storage, or a practical plastic cover, equally tagged, for the ones going to some students’ grubby hands.

I reach for the next one, a beautiful, ancient-looking thing, type in the title, only to stare at the screen in disbelief. Last user: ‘Nina Ward’.

The last person reading this was… you. I reach for a fresh sheet of fabric. The book is going back to storage; there are no requests for it in the system. Yet I hesitate. Let my fingers linger on the leather-bound cover… then I open it.

It's in a language I don’t know, but the lettering is beautiful. Spindly and round, some lines ending in intricate shapes, as if filling the yellowed pages with spells other than those formed by actual words. Is this a language you can read? It bothers me that I don’t know. 

There’s something compelling about this volume, something beyond the fact that you studied it, that your gentle hands handled it. Amidst the delicate text, there are pages filled with abnormal, twisted beings in dark landscapes of tormented trees and tentacle-like plants. Gruesome, yet realistic drawings. I don’t recognize the technique used, but it’s impressive. Even now, after almost a millennium, there’s a darkness and depth to the ink that’s impressive. Had I been more artistically inclined, I’d have gone as far as calling it mesmerizing, alive.

Leaning closer, I carefully, ever so lightly, let my cotton-covered finger trace the outline of one of the pictures. Had your fingers traced the same lines? A drop of red suddenly lands on the page. Dark red, a circle with jagged edges. Immediately followed by another.

What? My hand flies to my face, wipes at my nose. Red. The glove is red. Fuck! A nosebleed now?

Nonononono.

Holding my nose, I stumble to the corner with the metal sink and reach for some tissue. Blood on white cotton. Blood on white tiles. So much blood. So much… The floor spins, turns into wild waves under my feet as I cling to the cold metal. The world turns red. 

Red like roses. Red like your lips.

Red like blood.

Foolishness! It’s just a nosebleed. Nothing strange. I’ve been sleeping badly for weeks, and the air in here is arid, hard on the membranes in the nose. It's understandable, but the panicked chill still has me in an iron grip. An invisible corset squeezing the air out of my lungs. It takes a moment too long for my mind to catch up. The book! Accident or not, this can cost me my job… I must save it!

Hastily I peel off my spoiled gloves and toss them in the garbage. Stuff tissue in my nostrils. Soak more tissue in cold water and wipe my face. There’s no mirror here, so I can only hope I get all of the blood off me.

The book!

I wipe my hands dry and pull on a fresh pair of white gloves as I hurry back to the desk with a wad of soft paper towels. Stare dumbly at the page.

It’s spotless in all its aged glory and imperfection. No red. Not a trace of blood. How? Had the pages turned? With shaking fingers I turn a few pages back, but there’s nothing. Besides, I know the page. Know the image where the drops fell. Drop. Drop. Drop.

Gone.

The creature in the center of the image is staring up at me, eyes like dark voids. Spinning, like black holes in space. I really should ask someone about the technique. It’s spellbinding. I lean closer once more, as if my eyes are capable of unravelling whatever secrets the pages keep hidden. As if drawn by weights around my neck, my head leans down, down, down, until my nose almost touches the paper. It smells of roses and lilies. Bunny…?

But you’re not here. Only the macabre creature on the page. With eyes that are following my every thought.

I jolt upright. Snap the book shut. Press my hands against my eyes until I see red.

Red like roses. Red like your lips.

Red like blood.