The Library Voyeur

My dearest readers, how kind of you to join me on this fine evening. What am I doing here and what are we observing - you ask? Well, we are here for my favourite subject. Don’t be fooled by how ordinary he looks; I promise you he is worth the watch.

Hm, sorry? Oh! Oh, his name, of course. His name is Russel. Very plain, isn’t it? Oh well, they can’t all be fantastic.

It is so thrilling to have an audience with me tonight. Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. My name is Narrator. Yes, I am sure you have heard of me! I have watched many people before, some are quite disappointing but Russel is a curious character and tonight he is going to discover something very important about himself. Well. . . that is the way I imagine tonight going.

Shh! Look. His car is just pulling up outside the library.

Yes . . . yes, lock your car, Russel - oh!

He dropped his keys! Observe the way he glances around with that terribly cautious expression before he picks up his keys? Yes, yes, I know you do that as well but I assure you this is different. You see, our boy Russel here doesn’t think a local serial killer is going to get him while he looks down to grab his keys, he thinks a vampire is going to kill him. Or a werewolf. Or Mike Meyers. Or a Wraith. Or Roswell. Our boy Russel has an overactive imagination. What better person is there to run a library full of fantastical tales of mystery, love, drama, betrayal, terror and comedy? You and I both know that the fiction section is where it’s at and so does my boy Russel.

What - sorry, dear reader? Yes, you noticed correctly: Russel has a beard. Look, I might be a little attached to the young man, okay! He is my boy. I have helped mold him. I have helped build that paranoid psyche from the ground up! He is my creation . . . my child, if you will. He has read countless books and comics and watched hundreds of movies that yours truly has narrated. The tiny facets at work in that racing brain of his, that thumping nervous heart; it is such a pleasure watching my impact rise to the surface of his behaviour. He is scared. Heuheuhehehe - ahem! Hm, sorry, I had a maniacal laugh stuck in my throat, excuse me.

Tonight is a milestone because Russel has never been to the library at night before. I was ecstatic when I noticed he left his wallet in the top drawer of his desk and now the stars are finally aligning. At long last, the moment is approaching where Russel must face the library. At night. Alone.

Minus us, of course, but he doesn’t know we are watching.

He is a spectacle during the day, let me tell you. In the mornings he takes the books that were returned during the prior day’s late afternoon and flips through them, grabbing any forgotten bookmarks for his personal collection like a serial killer collecting trophies from his kills. He treats it like a reward for convincing someone to loan that particular book. When the students fill the library in the morning he finds himself lost in a video game he tries (and fails) to hide on his laptop. By early afternoon he has driven most students away with his intense ramblings, all except the horror kids - they seem to worship young Russel here like a cult leader. He assumes the role nicely, corrupting them with horrific media and recommendations that would make your stomach churn. I am almost proud of him. Ah, and then his mind begins to wander and he starts talking to himself, and in the barren afternoon his head flicks up at any small sound, his eyes dart around the room when he thinks he saw someone, and sometimes he will spiral far enough that he begins to hunt ghosts between the bookshelves.

Russel . . . he is anything but simple although he is possibly the most ordinary looking man on earth. Physically he is very unassuming but that mysterious brain of his is what I live for. Ahhhh, excuse my swooning.

The man of the hour is approaching, fumbling with his keys again in the library doors (the poor guy was never one for hand-eye-coordination, you see). The first bloom of hesitation has begun and the doors have only just closed behind him! His feet are like lead, so heavy he can barely move them. His pupils are dilating as he scans the large open space for signs of life. His hands are already starting to fidget so he tries to casually push his curly hair from his eyes. See that behaviour, trying to act casually and upkeep a social standard despite the fact he is alone? It is almost like he has some elevated awareness, a sixth sense alerting him that he is being watched by us. Fascinating.

Hm, he seems okay crossing the room, very confidently in fact. Maybe he is still trying to seem outwardly casual. I swear he is usually more strange, just keep watching.

Come on Russel . . . don’t fail me now . . .

There! Did you see it? Look, his palms are sweaty; he has to wipe them on his jeans. His chest is barely moving since his breathing is so shallow and his mouth is dry with his lips parted like that. His eyes dart to the left and back to the right and - shh! Do you hear that? A bump in the night? Two bumps?

Russel hears it. Every muscle in his body is locked in place as he waits with bated breath, listening to the creaking of the window sills in the freezing night air, refusing to move lest he let anybody watching him know he heard them. Have you ever seen someone locked in place with fear before? Well, that is what it looks like. His eyes are wide, he has lost the ability to blink. He still hasn’t breathed since the creaking noise drilled into his psyche and frayed his delicate nerves. Slowly but surely he is regaining some composure as his fingers twitch and he finally grabs his wallet and slides it into his pocket.

Face your fears Russel - turn around.

I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. He peers over his right shoulder towards the dreaded non-fiction section obscured by thick shadows swimming in the heavy darkness. His eyes have locked on something hidden in the void of blackness and he squeezes his hands so tightly into fists that his knuckles turn a ghostly white. He inches forward nervously, one tiny step at a time, and cranes his neck to peer around the shelves.

Russel, be careful, you are about to leave the grace of the moon’s light shining through the windows.

There he goes, creeping into the dark maze of bookshelves that stretch high above his head. He knows his vision is impaired but it is also the only reason he has been able to come this far. If he can’t see them, then they can’t see him - that is his logic. Unfortunately, that logic is flawed for we are the watchers and the unwatched.

Poor Russel, your greatest enemy always has you in his sights.

What are you looking at me like that for? I didn’t mean me! Tsk tsk tsk, you are a judgy bunch. No, I am not Russel’s enemy, give me some more credit. My boy Russel is right, though: there is a monster that preys on him tonight.

Is that a glowing-eyed ghoul waiting in the back corner for you, Russel, or just the dim glint of the moon reflecting on the steel bookends? Why don’t you move closer?

He creeps forward, crouched, one foot in the grave now, and his breaths are coming short and sharply. His skin is ice-cold as his breaths exhale into a plume of fog in front of him and the colour has drained from his face. Two mice shoot out from a towering book shelf, small claws scraping the floor just behind Russel’s feet and Russel lurches forward.

Run, Russel, run!

He dives into a nearby aisle and reels around in a panic, feet carrying him backwards quickly while he searches the darkness for his hidden stalker.

Russel, you are looking the wrong way!

His foot catches on a large book on the bottom shelf overhanging into the aisle. In an instant he tumbles backwards and his head slams hard on the floor. Did you hear that sickening thud!? Wow that nearly knocked him out; he is barely conscious and groaning quietly as he lays on the floor. His eyes pop open and he scrambles backwards - back, back, back, back hitting the library wall.

What are you going to do, Russel?

They are coming for you, Russel.

Their clawed paws are going to grab your ankles, tearing into your skin and ripping you toward their grotesque figures into the darkness, Russel.

They will drag you into their feeding den beneath the library before bearing their dripping fangs and devouring you, Russel.

THEY ARE GOING TO KILL YOU, RUSSEL!

Yes! That sweet, delicious terror! The paralysing fear. The heart-stopping, gut-wrenching horror of it all! Break, my boy, break. This is your moment. Fall apart, crumble, cry, give up, DIE! DIE! FOOOOOOL!

Hahaha! Look, he can hardly move, he is defeated. He is no match for the night library that has swallowed him whole . . . such a tasty morsel for the beast within. Well, that was the most entertainment I have had in years.

Russel, you always deliver the goods. It’s a shame your shrink will scrub your soul with bleach to erase this experience and make you as good as new . . . pfft! They are just deleting all the fun parts of you, my boy.

Hm? Sorry, dear reader - wha - standing? Russel’s standing?! Oh, so he is. This might not be over yet. I wish I had a chair that I could sit on the very edge of while we watch; this is so exciting it is hard to express anticipation in my formless existence.

His feet are steady . . . his hands aren’t shaking . . . he isn’t hyperventilating . . . I am impressed. He scans the area carefully. It looks like he has pulled something out of his pocket: it’s garlic! The idiot thinks there are vampires stalking him. His eyes flick towards the double doors that seem so impossibly far away from him and he takes off at the closest to a sprint as he can manage, charging through the aisles of shelving, past the moonlit desk, past the study area and crashes through the double doors, body slamming it in a way that sounds painful. His frantic footsteps echo in the outer hallway. He is so busy escaping that he forgot to lock up the doors again.

Dear readers, maybe I expected too much of Russel. Unfortunately, Russel has learned nothing tonight. What a shame he was looking the wrong way the entire time that he never caught sight of his predator. Do you see it? Let me give it a physical form for you. There at Russel’s desk is an image of Russel with slightly sharper features, lips twisted into a grim snarl, eyes glowing yellow and fingers clawed and bloody from the conflict. Russel’s greatest adversary is his own overactive imagination. It is the many-faced and the faceless. It drives him to the brink of insanity and terrorises him like a predator playing with its prey before it eats it alive. He won this battle, but he won’t win the war. I was so sure that tonight would be the night his imagination would defeat him once and for all . . . oh well!

Next time, I’m sure.