The Custodian’s Bargain

I never truly knew my father. He was a quiet man, a custodian at the old Meridian Library, a building that had stood for over a century and was said to have secrets in its walls. I was twelve when he passed, and with my two older brothers already out of the house, it was just me and him in that creaking apartment above the library. He was more devoted to his books and his duties than to me, so I spent most of my time in the musty stacks, learning to read the spines and the dust motes.

He fell ill in the autumn of 1985, a strange wasting sickness that the doctors couldn’t name. He spent weeks in the hospital, but I was kept away, sent to stay with my aunt in the countryside. When he finally came home, it was to die. He was bedridden, and I was allowed to see him only once, the day before he passed. He looked so thin, his voice a rasp as he told me to be brave. I didn’t get to say goodbye, not really. The next morning, my aunt woke me with tears in her eyes.

In our town, it was custom to keep the deceased at home for a night of vigil, then the next night in the church alone. We set up the front room as a wake, with my father’s body laid out in the coffin, surrounded by candles and flowers. Friends and neighbors came and went, murmuring condolences, but I stayed in the corner, watching the flickering light play across his still face. As the night wore on, the crowd thinned, and by midnight, only my aunt and I remained. She fell asleep in an armchair, but I couldn’t sleep. I felt drawn to the coffin, to the silence.

I crept closer, and that’s when I noticed something strange. The candle flames bent toward him, as if drawn by an invisible breath. A faint, musty odor, like old paper and dust, filled the room. I touched his hand, and it felt cold, but beneath that, there was a whisper of warmth, as if he were not quite gone. I remembered then the tall, narrow book that sat on his nightstand, always locked, and I had never seen him open it. My aunt had packed it away in a trunk. I knew I needed to see it.

I retrieved the key from his coat pocket and unlocked the trunk. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was the book. Its cover was dark leather, worn and cracked, and it bore a strange symbol that looked like a tree with roots spiraling into a circle. I opened it, and the pages were filled with handwritten notes in my father’s scrawl, but also diagrams and words in a language I didn’t recognize. There was a section on ‘the transition’ and ‘the bargain’. As I read, I realized that my father had not been a mere custodian—he was a keeper of old secrets, and he had made a deal to protect the library’s hidden collections, even in death.

The book described a ritual that must be performed on the second night, when the body lies alone in the church, to ensure the spirit’s safe passage. But it also warned that if the ritual was performed incorrectly, or if a loved one intervened, the spirit would be trapped between worlds, bound to the earthly plane. I felt a chill. My father’s body was to be taken to the church in the morning. I knew what I had to do.

The next day, we moved him to the small stone chapel at the edge of town. The priest said a prayer, and then everyone left, leaving my father’s coffin alone before the altar. I hid in the vestry, waiting for the door to close. When the last footsteps faded, I crept out, clutching the book. I opened it to the ritual page. It required a lock of hair from the deceased, a drop of blood from the living, and a spoken incantation. I had my father’s hair, snipped from his head when he lay in the coffin. I pricked my finger with a pin I found, and spoke the strange words, my voice shaking.

As I finished, the candles around the coffin flickered and went out, plunging the chapel into darkness. I heard a faint rustling, like pages turning. Then a voice, dry as dust, whispered from the direction of the coffin: ‘You have bound me, child.’ I gasped, and in the dim light I saw a shape rise from the coffin—a translucent figure, resembling my father, but with eyes that were empty and black. ‘You should not have done this,’ it said. ‘I was meant to cross. Now I am tied to this place, and to you.’

I staggered back, dropping the book. The figure drifted toward me, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. ‘You will take my place,’ it hissed. ‘You will guard the library for a hundred years, as I did, until you find another to take your burden.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came. The figure merged with me, and I felt a terrible knowledge flood my mind—every whispered secret of the library, every forgotten tome, every shadow that lurked in its shelves.

When the morning came, the church was empty, and my father’s coffin was closed. The funeral was held, and I stood at the grave, silent and pale. My aunt thought I was overcome with grief. But I knew the truth: I was no longer just a boy. I was the new custodian, and the library was my prison. For years, I performed my duties, feeling the passage of time as a distant echo, never aging, never free. I waited for someone to unlock the book, to make the same mistake, so I could pass on the curse.

I am still here, in the quiet halls of Meridian Library, among the dusty stacks. If you ever visit, and you see a boy who looks too young for his age, with eyes that seem to hold a thousand years of secrets, do not touch the old book with the strange symbol. And if you do, remember the words I spoke in that chapel: some bargains should never be made, and some doors should never be opened.