Find your tribe in a Sea of Creativity
Books are scary...
A story I wrote about someone stuck in a strange library.
TW: Psychological horror, gore
Only darkness.
No memories.
No thoughts.
No feelings.
No 'me'.
All of a sudden a bright light fills the place.
It is so bright that I can't see anything.
I?
Me?
As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice that I am in a library.
It is not a normal library, the bookcases look like trees, with their branches reaching far up.
Their leaves, all different, give the room a dreamlike feeling.
The roots which are growing all over the floor are connecting all the trees together.
The floor where I awoke is covered in a beautiful mosaic.
The light is coming from two big windows with stained glass, one above me and the other on the wall I'm facing.
It is not like how it is in a church, the stained glass is in much more colors and the image is something I can't really understand
It looks really vague, but maybe that was the intention.
Carefully I stand up and walk towards the nearest bookcase.
There are many, many books.
None of them seem to be sorted in any way, the genres couldn't be any more different and none of them are in alphabetical order. Not the titles or the writers.
It's a bit of a mess honestly, some of the books aren't even placed properly on the shelves.
As I walk around the room, I notice that there are no doors present.
How did I even get here?
I have no bruises or wounds and I don't remember being kidnapped, so that probably isn't it.
But neither do I remember coming here out of free-will...
I should investigate more.
As I look around I notice one other strange thing, it's one of the bookcases.
Just like the others it looks like a tree, but it looks like it has been dead for a long time. There are no leaves on the finger-like branches and it almost looks like it has been burned.
Still it is connected to all the others by the roots.
When I take a step closer, I can unexpectedly feel something...
Something bad.
An emotion?
A memory?
I don't know, but for now I shall leave it be.
I walk to another bookcase, this one has many children's books.
From bedtime stories, to those of wild adventures.
From fairytales to informative books.
And then there are the books without an author.
Carefully I take one out.
It is heavy and rather dusty, so I clean it off and open it with care.
It is someone's childhood.
Mine maybe, but it could also be someone else's.
I just don't know.
The pages are filled, everything is written to the furthest detail.
Every day, what happened, what they ate, people they met.
As careful as I took it out, I place it back in the bookcase.
I take out another, but similar book, again it is about the same child. Most of the other characters in it seemed to be the same as in the last book.
I can see now, why there are this many books, they must all be about this person's life.
So all these books are sorted! Not by genre or writer, but by date!
Quite proud of myself for figuring that out all by myself I continue on to another bookcase.
In it are a lot of schoolbooks and a couple of story books, these don't look as much for children as the previous. Most of them are too difficult or scary.
And again I open a random book from the ones without an author.
It is about a teenager, I think this might have been the child from the other bookcase before.
The same as before, everything is written to the finest detail.
The places they went to and the lessons they learned.
The bookcase after is about an adult, whom most likely has been the child and the teenager at some point.
This is by far the one with the most books, they must have enjoyed reading very much.
Same as before, the authorless book I take of a shelf is written into the smallest details.
About where they traveled to where they bought a house.
About losses and new lives.
I truly wonder who could have written these and all I am left with is the ability to wonder about who all these people are or were.
Although all of this is quite nice to read, my curiosity grows towards the 'dead' bookcase.
It has started making noises.
Scratching.
And something like speech.
I can't understand it though, it is all too muffled.
Quietly I walk towards the tree, step by step I get closer.
When I am close enough, I can see that none of these books have an author.
As I stand close enough, the sounds suddenly come to a halt and I place my hand on one of the books to take it out.
Slowly and with as much care as the others I take it from the dead tree.
This book is different from the rest, it is way heavier than it looks and the cover has been all scratched up. I am not sure if it was done with a knife or fingernails.
Or maybe it could have been teeth?
Vigilant of anything I can think of, I open the book.
As soon as I do, the scratching starts again and the muffled noises sound more like screams.
In this book are bad memories.
Fear.
Discomfort.
Sadness
Jealousy.
Pain.
Hate.
The handwriting in this book is terrible, more like someone scratched it in.
As I try to read what the words say, the tree starts to shake.
Quickly I take a few steps back.
Veins start to appear in the tree, filled with a strange growing color.
The roots of the other connected trees start to die, causing them to all drop their leaves.
Before they hit the ground they turn red and then turn into blood as they fall, splashing and making the mosaic disappear underneath the dark liquid.
Suddenly the first bookcase catches fire, burning all books with it in an instant.
Then burns the second and after that the third.
Before I can do anything, all the bookcases have been burned to ashes.
The blood washes over them, making even the last bits disappear.
All the books are gone and now I am only left with the dead tree.
The roots grow rapidly and start to cover the windows, until I am back in complete darkness again.
Only this time with all the awful memories.