The Fourth-Floor Draft

I was in the basement level of the Northgate Library’s archival annex, a windowless room with a single, bolted door and a bank of industrial drying cabinets used for preserving rare manuscripts. The machines had just finished their cycles, and the hum died into an oppressive silence. I was alone, leaning against the steel table, staring at the door.

My right shoulder pressed against a stack of acid-free boxes, and to my left was the door, sealed tight. The air was still, heavy with the smell of old paper and chemicals. Then, a slight disturbance—a breath of coolness on my left ear, as if someone had leaned in close. A voice, neither fully adult nor childlike, whispered, ‘Hey, you.’

I spun around, heart pounding, but the room was empty. The only exit was the locked door. There were no vents, no windows, no ducts. The sensation had come from nowhere. I told myself it was a draft from under the door, but the door was sealed with a rubber gasket. I forced myself to inspect the room, checking every corner, every shelf, but found nothing.

Then I noticed something odd on the floor near my feet: a small, crumpled piece of parchment that had not been there before. I picked it up, and written in faded ink was a single line: ‘They forgot the last one.’

I turned the paper over, but the back was blank. A chill ran down my spine as I realized the message was in the same handwriting as the archival inventory logs I had been cataloging—but that handwriting belonged to a woman who had died in a fire twenty years ago, when the annex was still a normal library. I had seen her name in the records: Elara Voss, a conservator.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped, and the fluorescent light above me flickered. The door rattled, as if someone outside was shaking the handle. I rushed to the intercom to call the front desk, but the line was dead. I pulled out my phone, but the screen showed ‘No Service’ despite being in the middle of the city.

I retreated to the far corner, pressing my back against the cold wall. The rattling stopped, and a soft, rhythmic scratching began from inside the walls—like fingernails dragging along plaster. The scratching moved in a slow arc around the room, circling me. I watched the walls, but there was no sign of the source.

Then the voice returned, but this time it was clearer, and it came from directly behind me, inches from my neck. It said, ‘You’re sitting in my chair.’ I spun around, but there was nothing. My heart thrashed. I tried to calm myself, remembering that Elara Voss had a reputation for meticulously organizing her workspace, and the chair I had been leaning against was the one at the cataloging desk.

I looked at the chair, and for a split second, the image of a woman in a grey dress appeared, her back to me, sitting in the chair, hunched over an open book. She was writing, and as I watched, she turned her head slightly, revealing a scorched, featureless face. The pen in her hand scratched across the page, and I heard her voice again, this time in my mind: ‘Don’t leave before the job is done.’

The light went out. I fumbled for my flashlight, but it wouldn’t turn on. I stood in the pitch black, hearing the scratch of the pen, the rustle of pages, and the low murmur of a conversation in an ancient language I didn’t recognize. Then, just as suddenly, everything stopped.

When the light flickered back on, the room was empty, and the message on the parchment had changed. Now it read: ‘One more to add to the shelf.’ I looked at the shelf to my left, and there, among the archival boxes, was a thin, leather-bound book that had not been there before. The spine bore a single word: ‘You.’

I didn’t wait. I threw open the door, ran up the stairs, and didn’t stop until I was outside in the cold night air. The sky was clear, but I could still feel a cold breath on my ear, a whisper that said, ‘See you tomorrow.’ I never went back to that annex, but I still hear that voice in my dreams, always asking, ‘Hey, you… are you ready?’