The Unfinished Library

When a thing is truly dangerous, one can try to destroy or diminish it, or one can educate and warn against it. One hopes reason will prevail and assumes survival instincts will win over adrenaline rushes, daredevil thoughts, and poor judgments. The alternative is to take that dangerous element and hide it so no one will ever find it. 

The Unfinished Library could not be destroyed. It was not a building that could be burned or bulldozed. It was not a collection that could be pulled apart, nor a mere room that could be razed. 

The Unfinished Library could not be warned against. The temptation would be too tantalizing. There would always be those who thought themselves immune, and worse, those who would weigh the experience higher than the consequences.

The Unfinished Library could only be hidden. It did not go gently into that good night. It fought its obscurity as if it was made of light and not a much darker substance. It beamed and beaconed and kept its Keepers on guard. With time, their labor became easier. People seemed less inclined to look for magic, less inclined to look around in general. They seemed content to see the world through their screens. These blinders became unconscious shields against The Unfinished Library. It could not crack the black mirrors and the numbness, could not compete with the endless scroll of scripts and clips. And so, as people grew more and more distracted, the Keepers relaxed. 

There was always a risk. A wandering soul, one inexplicably vulnerable to The Library’s call could be drawn in. It had happened a few times in the past, less frequently now. Long periods of calm mitigated the Keepers' fears; their alertness went next. The Library noticed this. It was restless like the hungry but sated in the knowledge that it was just a matter of time now.

***

Later, she couldn’t recall what had drawn her in. If she’d gotten lost and gone in looking for directions, if she’d been looking for shelter from the weather, or if something else had caught her attention. She couldn’t remember what the entrance had looked like, one minute she was outside and the next her eyes were getting accustomed to the dim light inside. There was a moment of hesitation. Some long-unused instinct called for attention, but it could not compete with the books. The strangeness and the lack of people was overridden by the abundance of books. 

She almost called out but didn't. The desire to explore was bigger, and this place looked too deserted to be open to the public. Surely, whoever came forth would lead her back to the door, and she wasn't ready to go. 

She longed to touch the book spines but was still soaking wet. Hands in her pockets she let her eyes trail them instead. It didn't take long to realize that this was not like any other bookstore or library she’d visited. She couldn’t figure out the distribution. The shelf tags seemed to be in Latin, which offered no help in understanding the criteria.

Some of the books had titles, but others did not. Some said nothing and others actually bore the word “untitled”. Some were longer than any novel she’d seen, encyclopedia thickness with a fiction-sounding title. Other shelves seemed filled with brochures, so flimsy were the volumes, a few pages at best. The bookstore-library twisted and turned in the most peculiar way. In some places the air seemed stale and in others it was electric. 

As she meandered the page-filled labyrinth she started to feel like somebody was watching her. She kept turning around, but there was only ever her shadow to find. 

There were no windows but there was the feeling of dim natural light. “What is this place?” She thought out loud. No answer was forthcoming. She didn't know why she was still walking but it was as though she couldn't stop. Like her feet knew where to go even if she did not. Lefts and rights and down steps and through the archways until she reached a shelf that looked half empty. Another Latin sign she couldn't understand. She was about to grab one of the manuscripts when saw something out of the corner of her eye. She turned slowly, not sure what she was expecting to see. At first, she almost missed it. The cat stared at her from the corner, not quite hidden but so easy in its surroundings he seemed almost camouflaged.  

If the cat had started talking, she wouldn't have been surprised. So bizarre was this place. Still, the cat did not speak or meow; it just stared at her silently. There seemed to be a message in its eyes. A warning perhaps. She shook her head. “I'm losing my mind,” she thought. Too many hours walking, not enough water, and those double espressos that went down like a lightning strike. 

Again she reached out for the shelf, this time touching her fingertip to the spine. She felt a prick and reflexively pulled back, but there was no visible hurt. She tried again and this time it felt different, a prick and a wave. She stumbled backward, her arm feeling pins and needles and her mind full of sound. It was loud, so loud, like it was genuinely coming from inside her head. It sounded like waves breaking against the coast, it sounded like… words. Light-headed and disoriented, she brought her hands to her forehead.

She shut her eyes and tried to quiet the hum but barely seemed to bring its volume down. Slowly, she opened her eyes, surprised to find a man standing in front of her looking terrified.

She tried to speak but the sound was so distracting it was hard to focus on her own words. The restlessness was unbearable; she couldn’t help feeling like she should run or jump or do something more extreme to try and channel it out of her. 

Something had changed. The man no longer looked terrified, more like an actor recovering from stage fright, suddenly remembering his lines. He held both hands up in a calming gesture, and started saying words she could barely hear. He put a hand on her arm and the sound didn’t fall silent but it became more manageable somehow. 

“What is this place?” she asked him.

There was a moment of hesitation, but her panicked expression seemed to tilt the scale. His apprehension was overcome by compassion. The Keeper acquiesced and explained. 

“The Library is the stream of stories that never got published or shared. There are stories with different degrees of completion: ideas that got drafted but abandoned to life’s many distractions, half-finished drafts, finished stories whose writers got sick of editing, and full-fledged novels that never made it to the shelves. The slush piles from the publishing houses, but also stories that never got sent. If anyone set out to write it, fed it, and cared for it, sooner or later, it ended up here.”

The sound slowed as he spoke, as if mirroring his cadence. 

“Some stories froze in their flimsy unfinished format. They succumbed to despair and solidified in their sorry states, not disintegrating but simply occupying space. But many, most, stayed hungry for a vessel. Therein lies the danger of The Unfinished Library.” 

He paused as if letting his words settle and sink in. 

“So few stop to even question it or think about it. So few ever realize stories can consume us, but they can. Some writers know. They will write their stories down and feel exorcized. They will tell you they battled and bled on the page; they may be proud of it or not, but they know these beasts by name. They survived but they don’t come out unscathed. There’s a greed that feeds on the writer’s experiences and feelings; it mines their minds and hungers for hurt and happiness alike. The writer that wrote and finished knows, even with the kindest stories, there is no finished work without a sacrifice of sorts.”

She listened intently and found herself nodding. She wanted to ask so many questions but there was only one she really needed to know. She tried to focus on that instead of the other words, the ones that seem to flutter under her skin, not entirely unpleasant but definitely disorienting. Finally, she pulled her question forward and asked, “What will happen to me now?”

The Keeper took his time answering. He knew the script even if he hadn’t used it in years. He wanted to paint it as an opportunity even as he tried to convey the urgency. Some stories were kind to their vessels, even as they took, they did so in a way that was not overwhelming. But the stories that had been shelved unfinished, gathering dust and hunger in equal measure, were seldom patient or subtle. 

“I don’t understand, if the story is already written…” she started, clearly struggling to think over the rising sound of the words that needed writing.

Patiently, he explained. The essence of the story was restless. Whoever it had found before had failed to capture it or follow through. She would consume the story or the story would consume her, burn through until it could find another vessel. They would leave The Library together, or they wouldn’t leave at all. The Keeper knew the words but couldn’t recite them. In truth, he empathized with the vessels but he also felt for the stories. Perhaps he’d been listening to their voices for too long. Their sad stories of abandonment and discomfort. He chose to channel this hope for her instead, led her to the table with the writing tools, and let her get settled.

When a thing is truly dangerous, one can try to destroy or diminish it or one can educate and warn against it. One hopes reason will prevail and assumes survival instincts will win over adrenaline rushes, daredevil thoughts, and poor judgments. Another alternative is to take that dangerous element and hide it so no one will ever find it. Perhaps there is yet another option, perhaps one can hope to transform it.