library labyrinth

I still can’t tell how I got here. It was just a normal afternoon, or at least I think it was. My memory feels foggy, slippery, like trying to hold water in cupped hands. I remember the library. I remember opening a book. But after that… it’s all gone.

The maze started right after that, I’m sure of it. Shelves everywhere. They rise like walls made of wood and leather-bound books, stretching into the dark like skeletal pillars. I walked at first, thinking this was just a storage room or some elaborate collection. But the shelves have no end. No beginning either. Every turn I take just leads to more shelves, more dusty books, and more paths.

At first, I thought I could make sense of it. I kept my hand on the shelves as I walked, hoping to follow a wall and circle back to where I started. But the walls move. I swear they do. I can’t prove it, but every time I look behind me, the path I just walked has twisted into something new. I can hear the books shifting—creaking—like the wood itself is settling into a different shape.

I’ve tried marking my way. I tore off the corner of a book cover and left it near the intersection of two aisles. But when I looped back, it was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar book I swear I’d never seen before.

That’s when I knew something was wrong. And that’s when I started to forget things.

It started small. A name slipped my mind—someone important to me. I knew I loved her, but I couldn’t picture her face. I tried to hold on to it, repeating her name out loud like a prayer, but it evaporated like steam. I can’t even remember if she was my wife, my sister, or just someone I once knew. Her absence gnaws at me like a missing tooth.

And the footsteps—they haven’t stopped since I first heard them. I don’t know what’s following me. I only know that it’s always there, lurking just out of sight. It’s patient. Too patient. Every time I stop walking, the footsteps stop too. And when I move again, so does it, always matching my pace. I’ve tried sprinting to lose it, but no matter how fast I run, it’s always there, pacing behind me.

I can’t sleep. I tried, once. I found a small alcove between two enormous bookshelves and curled up, hoping to rest, but the moment I closed my eyes, the books began whispering. Thousands of voices, soft and urgent, spoke to me all at once. They whispered secrets, half-forgotten memories, pieces of old conversations I’m certain never happened. When I opened my eyes again, I saw faces—dozens of them—pressed into the spines of the books. They were distorted, mouths frozen in silent screams, their eyes wide with terror.

That’s when I realized the books aren’t just books. They’re something else. They want me to open them, to read them, to know what’s inside. The moment I stare too long at one, my hands start moving on their own, itching to pull it off the shelf. I’ve resisted so far. But it’s getting harder.

I’ve started losing more memories. My name is… I think I still know it. No, wait. Do I? It was on the tip of my tongue just a second ago. It’s gone now. Something else has slipped away too—where I lived, what I did for a living, the sound of my own voice. I can still speak, but the words feel foreign, like I’m hearing them for the first time.

I tried talking out loud to keep myself sane, but it only made things worse. The more I talk, the more the books answer back, mimicking my voice in perfect, unsettling harmony.

The hallucinations are getting worse.

Sometimes I see figures darting between the shelves—people I think I know, but their faces are warped, stretched like melted wax. I ran after one once, thinking it might be someone trapped here like me, but when I caught up to him, his face turned into mine. His mouth stretched open, and he screamed a sound that didn’t belong in this world—a noise so deep it vibrated in my skull. I ran after that. I didn’t stop until my lungs burned and the muscles in my legs ached.

When I finally stopped running, I found another note. This one was written in blocky, childlike handwriting: “Open the books. Open the books. Open the books.”

I crumpled it up and threw it behind me, but the words are still burned into my brain. I hear them every time I close my eyes.

I saw her today—the woman I forgot. She was standing at the end of the aisle, her back turned to me. I called out to her, my voice cracking with relief. She didn’t answer, just stood perfectly still. When I reached her, I tapped her shoulder. She turned.

Her face was a blur—just a swirl of ink smeared across paper skin. And her eyes... her eyes were empty holes, deep as the space between stars. She whispered to me, her voice like pages turning: “You can’t leave. You belong here now.”

I ran again, faster this time, but the shelves shifted and twisted around me. I was lost within seconds. I think the maze likes it that way.

The thing following me is closer now. I can hear it breathing. I tried hiding between two narrow shelves, but it didn’t help. I heard it shuffle past, dragging something heavy behind it—maybe a sack, maybe a body. I think I saw it for the first time: a figure made of parchment, with ink dripping from its skin in long, black rivulets. It didn’t have a face, just a blank page where a face should be.

I can’t tell what’s real anymore. I think I slept, but when I woke, I had a book in my hands. I don’t remember picking it up. The title was in a language I didn’t recognize, but as soon as I opened it, the words rearranged themselves into something I could read. They were my memories. Every page was another piece of my life—the house I grew up in, my first kiss, the funeral of someone I loved. They were all there, written in perfect detail.

I tried to close the book, but it wouldn’t let me. The pages turned on their own, faster and faster, until the words blurred together. The memories started slipping away, draining out of me like ink from a broken pen. When the book finally slammed shut, I couldn’t remember what I’d read. All I know is that it was important.

I think I’m going mad.

The footsteps are louder now. They echo through the shelves, filling the air with a rhythmic, maddening beat. I’m not even sure they’re coming from behind me anymore. Sometimes they sound like they’re coming from inside my head.

I found another note today, written in the same jagged handwriting as before: “You’ve been here forever.”

I don’t know if that’s true. Maybe it is. Time doesn’t feel real here. Days blur into each other, or maybe it’s been hours—or years. I’ve forgotten so much already, and the books… the books are hungry. They’re waiting for me to open them.

I’m starting to think they might be right. Maybe there’s no way out. Maybe I do belong here.

I picked up a book a few moments ago. I haven’t opened it yet, but it feels warm in my hands, like it’s alive. I know that the moment I open it, I’ll lose another piece of myself. But I don’t care anymore. There’s nothing left to lose.

I think the footsteps have stopped.

Maybe the maze is inside me now.