The Borrowed Book

At the stroke of midnight, the library was dimly lit, its golden glow casting long, eerie shadows. The air was thick with the musty scent of aged paper, mingled with a faint trace of decay.

Sandra sat in the farthest corner of the reading room, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the worn leather cover of an ancient medical tome. Its edges were frayed, the once-gilded letters on its spine nearly faded beyond recognition. Only a few indistinct letters remained, barely discernible in the flickering light.

She hadn't meant to take an interest in the book. And yet, there was something about it—something inexplicably compelling—that made her reach for it, flipping open its brittle pages.

Midway through, her breath caught in her throat.

Nestled between the pages was not a forgotten note or a delicate pressed flower, but a severed, desiccated finger.

It was shriveled and jaundiced, its nails blackened, its skin cracked like aged parchment. A faint, metallic scent lingered in the air.

Sandra's breathing grew shallow. When she tentatively touched the finger, she was startled to find it still possessed a disturbing pliancy—far too supple for something that should have long since turned to dust.

Her medical instincts whispered a grim truth: this finger belonged to a body that had not yet fully decayed.

The library was silent—too silent. The only sound was the rhythmic pounding of her own heart.

She glanced around.

The reading room was empty. The librarian at the front desk had dozed off, and beyond them stretched rows upon rows of neatly arranged bookshelves, casting dark corridors between them.

Yet, she was not alone.

A cold sweat formed at the nape of her neck.

The pages in her hands trembled ever so slightly, as if an unseen breath had stirred them.

Then, from somewhere behind her, came the faintest sound—

"Shhh… shhh…"

A whisper of footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate. Each step drawn out in a rhythm far too unnatural for the living.

Sandra's fingers tensed around the book. She forced herself to remain still.

And then—SLAM!

She snapped the book shut.

The sound echoed through the silent library like a gunshot.

She whirled around.

Nothing.

Yet, the oppressive feeling of being watched grew heavier, an invisible presence pressing against her senses.

Something—or someone—was far too close.

Without moving her head, she flicked her eyes toward the gaps between the bookshelves.

And that's when she saw it.

A hand.

A pale, withered hand, creeping out from behind the shelf.

Its bony fingers twitched ever so slightly in the air, as though searching for something.

Its nails were blackened. Its skin was rough and cracked.

And it was unmistakably missing a finger.

Sandra's pulse thundered in her ears. She staggered back, her every instinct screaming at her to run.

The hand jerked, fingers splaying unnaturally wide before clamping down onto the wooden edge of the shelf, its grip tightening like a claw.

Then, a voice.

Low. Hollow. Not human.

"You... took my book."

Sandra's spine went rigid.

She drew in a slow breath, forcing herself to stay composed.

She lowered her gaze to the book still clutched in her hands.

She hesitated. Was this the answer?

"This book… belongs to you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the cold dread seeping into her bones.

No response.

But the hand moved closer. Its fingertips dragged against the wood, leaving behind faint, unnatural scratches.

Sandra turned her attention back to the book, flipping to its final pages.

The parchment here was darker, stained with something far deeper than ink.

Something red.

And at the very bottom of the page, scrawled in jagged handwriting:

"Return it, or—"

The rest was obscured beneath a thick smear of dried blood.

Sandra's breath hitched.

Her fingers clenched around the brittle pages.

"You want it back?" she asked.

From the darkness, the voice sighed, almost in relief.

"Return it… my finger… my book…"

Sandra's gaze flicked back to the shriveled finger still nestled within the book's spine.

She exhaled slowly, then gave a small nod.

With careful, deliberate movements, she closed the book, holding it gently in her hands. Then, without looking back, she began walking—deeper into the library.

Her footsteps echoed against the floor.

She knew. It was following her.

She reached the front desk and knocked lightly on the counter.

The librarian startled awake, pushing up their glasses with a frown. Their gaze flickered to the book in Sandra's hands, and their expression shifted to one of deep confusion.

"What is it?" the librarian croaked.

Sandra carefully placed the book on the counter.

"Who last borrowed this?"

The librarian hesitated, then pulled out an old record book, flipping through the pages.

But as their eyes scanned the entries, their face slowly paled.

"This book…" their voice was barely above a whisper. "No one has borrowed this book in over forty years."

Sandra felt her stomach drop.

She turned, her breath shallow.

From the corner of her vision—

Through the narrow gaps of the bookshelves—

The hand was still there.

Waiting.

Silently.

Sandra forced herself to turn back to the librarian, her voice eerily calm.

"I'm returning it."

The librarian hesitated, then, with a shaking hand, stamped the return slip.

And in that moment—Sandra felt it.

The weight behind her.

The watching presence.

It faded.

She stepped out of the library into the night.

Above, the sky loomed heavy and gray, soft rain beginning to drizzle against the pavement.

For the first time that evening, Sandra let out a slow breath.

Everything had returned to its rightful place.

And yet…

Somewhere deep in the library, buried within the silence of forgotten tomes,

a hand still waited.