The notebook He was shivering; the wind was blowing hard enough to make his eyes tear up, and he couldn't avoid facing into it. He tried pulling his coat tighter about himself, hoping to stop the wind getting in and stealing his body heat, but it seemed to only make him colder and uncomfortable. One foot in front of the other, then again, and again. At least his destination, a squat brick building about fifty metres away, might provide some shelter from the wind. As he thought that, his teeth started chattering. The path was gritty underfoot, and his footsteps made little crunches. Every now and then the wind would pick some up from somewhere and it would pelt him, bouncing off bare skin with pinpricks of pain, and rattling and thudding against his coat and trousers. He braced, and pressed on. The doorway, thankfully, was recessed, and he stepped into it and felt immediate relief. The lack of wind pressure against his skin alone was enough for him to feel suddenly five degrees warmer, and being able to breathe without fighting for it -- he heaved a huge breath in and sighed it out. Public library said a brass plaque on the door at waist height. It sat neatly between two large, octagonal brass handles, and he ran a curious finger down it: in the middle, almost invisible, was a seam so that Public L would be on one side and ibrary on the other. The metal was cold to the touch, even through his leather gloves, but that didn't surprise him. This was a ghost town in the Canadian north, abandoned after the gold rush discovered that the gold was mixed evenly with uranium. No-one understood at the time what the sickness was, but it was inevitable and, in the end, they decided that the gold wasn't worth that much. He pushed on the door, and to his slight surprise it opened. Maybe no-one thought the library was worth locking up when they all left -- or maybe he was too late and the notebook was already gone. He'd been out of the wind for long enough for the chill to reassert itself, so he pushed the door wide open and went inside. After looking around at the wide entrance foyer -- a long wooden counter with chairs behind for the librarians to serve customers from, several tall bookcases to showcase new or important books, a few reading cubbies -- he closed the door behind him. Better not to let the cold air in more than he had to. Two of the cubbies had skeletons in -- skulls rolled across the desks to the corner, bones dropped to the floor. He wondered if they'd come here to die, or been left here when the town was abandoned. A trenchcoat survived on the back of a chair and he went through the pockets, just because, and found a hand-carved pipe. He took it, thinking it was a lucky charm, a sign that he was the first. When he opened the door to the main room it stuck at first, and he had to tug it free. Beyond he could see why: ice had crept in from somewhere and held the door in place. It crackled on the floor as he walked across it, a thin, brittle layer. It thickened gently towards the back of the room, where the doors to the librarian's office was, and the most likely location of the notebook, so he walked carefully, stamping to smash the ice and reduce the chance of accident. And quietly cursing that there was no escape from the Canadian cold. The office door opened easily, and the spindly, tall shape behind it leaned towards him, bifurcated hands on unnaturally jointed arms reaching around him, and a smooth, egg-like head pressing up against his face.
2 comments:
Hmm. A notebook?
The notebook
He was shivering; the wind was blowing hard enough to make his eyes tear up, and he couldn't avoid facing into it. He tried pulling his coat tighter about himself, hoping to stop the wind getting in and stealing his body heat, but it seemed to only make him colder and uncomfortable. One foot in front of the other, then again, and again. At least his destination, a squat brick building about fifty metres away, might provide some shelter from the wind. As he thought that, his teeth started chattering.
The path was gritty underfoot, and his footsteps made little crunches. Every now and then the wind would pick some up from somewhere and it would pelt him, bouncing off bare skin with pinpricks of pain, and rattling and thudding against his coat and trousers. He braced, and pressed on.
The doorway, thankfully, was recessed, and he stepped into it and felt immediate relief. The lack of wind pressure against his skin alone was enough for him to feel suddenly five degrees warmer, and being able to breathe without fighting for it -- he heaved a huge breath in and sighed it out.
Public library said a brass plaque on the door at waist height. It sat neatly between two large, octagonal brass handles, and he ran a curious finger down it: in the middle, almost invisible, was a seam so that Public L would be on one side and ibrary on the other. The metal was cold to the touch, even through his leather gloves, but that didn't surprise him. This was a ghost town in the Canadian north, abandoned after the gold rush discovered that the gold was mixed evenly with uranium. No-one understood at the time what the sickness was, but it was inevitable and, in the end, they decided that the gold wasn't worth that much.
He pushed on the door, and to his slight surprise it opened. Maybe no-one thought the library was worth locking up when they all left -- or maybe he was too late and the notebook was already gone.
He'd been out of the wind for long enough for the chill to reassert itself, so he pushed the door wide open and went inside. After looking around at the wide entrance foyer -- a long wooden counter with chairs behind for the librarians to serve customers from, several tall bookcases to showcase new or important books, a few reading cubbies -- he closed the door behind him. Better not to let the cold air in more than he had to.
Two of the cubbies had skeletons in -- skulls rolled across the desks to the corner, bones dropped to the floor. He wondered if they'd come here to die, or been left here when the town was abandoned. A trenchcoat survived on the back of a chair and he went through the pockets, just because, and found a hand-carved pipe. He took it, thinking it was a lucky charm, a sign that he was the first.
When he opened the door to the main room it stuck at first, and he had to tug it free. Beyond he could see why: ice had crept in from somewhere and held the door in place. It crackled on the floor as he walked across it, a thin, brittle layer. It thickened gently towards the back of the room, where the doors to the librarian's office was, and the most likely location of the notebook, so he walked carefully, stamping to smash the ice and reduce the chance of accident. And quietly cursing that there was no escape from the Canadian cold.
The office door opened easily, and the spindly, tall shape behind it leaned towards him, bifurcated hands on unnaturally jointed arms reaching around him, and a smooth, egg-like head pressing up against his face.
Greg - yes, a notebook.
:P
This was beautifully written. That intro is especially good, I thought.
Too bad the ending lets the whole thing down.
Okay, okay, I kid, I kid :P
I knew what I was in for as soon as you mentioned the ice inside...
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