Given a rare opportunity to read an antique manuscript at his library, a rich booklover jumps at the chance to handle an original 18th-century piece destined for a museum. It’s not every day one gets to read such ancient tomes, after all. But shortly after touching the pages, things take a turn for the worse…
Flynn O’Hare arrived at Franklin Metropolitan Library precisely at five p.m. The library’s one-hundred-year anniversary celebration ended at eight o’clock this evening. The gentlemen in black tuxes and ladies in colorful evening gowns danced and mingled in the library’s main hall with its vaulted glass ceilings. The lighting was such that you couldn’t see the stars, but the moon made its presence known, reflecting off the angles in the glass.
The library had invited five special guests, twenty-four-year-old Flynn one of them, to choose among five texts to peruse for a few hours. At midnight, the antiquities specialists would crate the priceless books in hermetically sealed containers and ship them to the British Library, where they would be displayed next to such marvels as the Gutenberg Bible, Beowulf, and Da Vinci’s notebook. There, the five books would be housed under glass for the foreseeable future.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Flynn had tossed and turned every night for two weeks wondering which of the five texts he would be lucky enough to spend a few hours with. The chilly October evening matched the library’s temperature, as earlier in the day the archivists had insisted they turn on the air conditioner to remove any trace of humidity for the sake of the texts.
He’d chosen his attire for the evening based on this fact, and the fact that he wanted to be comfortable for his reading session. He’d thought he might have to have his picture taken, but no flash photography would be permitted, so he put that fear to rest. He had settled on a long-sleeved orange polo, black jacket and jeans.
He imagined his anticipation was what one might feel when preparing for a long-awaited romantic meeting with a sweetheart, but he could only imagine. He’d spent far more time with books than with people, much to the chagrin of his family.
His stomach was killing him.
He fretted over the jeans a little, then decided not to worry too much about etiquette. No one paid attention to him anyway until he started throwing money around, which is how he’d received his gold-embossed invitation in the first place. His sizeable donation from his family inheritance would add an entire wing to expand the library’s rare book and manuscript collection.
And every penny would be worth it.
Flynn stood to the side of the dance floor, nodding and smiling at couples and the library staff. One couple twirled by him, and he could make out the same perfume his mother had worn years ago, but he felt nothing at the aromatic memory.
He watched the massive clock above the stage tick away the time to the orchestra’s last song, when the masses would exit and he could finally retreat to his assigned table and immerse himself in the book currently housed under lock and key somewhere in the basement.
Flynn’s heart skipped and a bead of sweat formed on his forehead while extra security trickled into the crowd as the main festivities closed. Armed guards would grace each exit and another would patrol the reading tables while the five lucky patrons enjoyed the rest of their evening.
The last couple soon left the building, and a stern-faced security specialist supervised Dr. Sparks as he locked the massive front door. The antiquities specialist and the old librarian approached the five individuals standing in the middle of the hall.
“Welcome, welcome, and thank you each one so very much for your generous donations. Are you ready for your reward?” Dr. Sparks shook the men’s hands and kissed the ladies on the cheeks.
Smiles and nods all around and anxious glances between the five. Flynn knew they were all hoping for the same thing—to be the first to choose among the five texts. He knew it shouldn’t matter; all of them were sure to be magnificent. But still he wanted first dibs. He ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. His stomach churned and flopped.
“The conditions of zis encounter were spelled out in your invitations, but vee vill go over zem once more before vee begin.” The thick German accent of the gray-haired antiquities man lacked all emotion.
“First, zere vill be no food or drinks in zee reading area. You may not pick up zee manuscripts. You must remain seated. You must keep your gloves on at all times and refrain from touching your skin, face, hair or clozing. Your hands must remain on zee table at all times. You may not use extra lighting from cell phones, cameras or other devices. Only the provided table lamps are to be used. If you leave zee reading area, your session vill end and your manuscript vill be removed from zee area…”
Flynn’s stomach let out a giant rumble, and he felt acid work its way up to the back of his throat. Something was wrong, not just a bad case of nerves. The librarian’s assistant, Gloria, noticed he was having trouble. “Do you need to excuse yourself? You’re awfully pale. We’ll be sure to wait on you to get started,” she whispered. “I’ll explain it to them.”
“That would be amazing.” Flynn backed away from the group and turned for the restroom. He could hear the German and the head librarian going on with instructions and affirmations of what a rare opportunity this was.
In the bathroom, he relieved himself, washed his hands and splashed his face. He cupped his hand under the faucet and brought up a small bit of water, enough to wet his mouth. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he drank anything right now. He couldn’t spend all night in the bathroom.
When he returned, Gloria met him halfway to the reading tables, panicked. “I tried, Mr. O’Hare, I tried to stop them, but…” She looked over her shoulder.
The other four guests each sat at a different table. Each table held a small green-globed lamp. Manuscripts of differing sizes and thicknesses lay spread out before them. Flynn would get the leftover tome. The guard and the German ambled back and forth, one in front of the tables, one behind.
“It’s okay, Gloria. Really. It couldn’t be helped.” The words came out, but he didn’t mean them.
She showed him to his table. The German nodded to the pair of white gloves next to the blue, ragged book, and Flynn slipped them onto his slender hands. They were two sizes too big. He brushed his left hand over the cover of the book but couldn’t make out the title at all. He gently opened the spine and let it lay flat on the table, careful to keep his right hand out of his lap and away from his chin and out of his hair—a nervous habit he hadn’t known he had until that moment when he wasn’t allowed to act on the impulse.
The title page was badly faded, but he was relieved it was in English. He could make out one name in the byline: Grimm. He could also make out the date at the bottom of the page: 1702.
The stoic antiquities expert reached Flynn’s table and smiled for the first time all evening. “Zis one is my favorite. Zee ozers left it behind because zey couldn’t read the title, but it’s from my family line over 300 years ago.” He puffed his chest out and ran a wrinkled hand over his necktie. His fingers fumbled with the tie tack. Flynn made out a black wolf with scarlet eyes on the gold piece. “Vell, at least a distant branch of my family line.”
Flynn left both of his hands on the table, not yet turning the page. “It’s in English.”
“Ja. A translation. A descendant of Shakespeare fell in love with zee Grimms’ tales and wrote zem in English.”
Flynn lifted a few pages by the corners, peeked inside and frowned. “The Brothers Grimm lived in the late 1700s. They weren’t even born when this was supposedly written.”
“Extensive tests have confirmed zee age. And it’s not zee Brothers, Mr. O’Hare. It’s zee great-uncles of zose brothers.” Flynn thought he saw the German wink. “Enjoy zee text, Mr. O’Hare. I’ll leave you to it.” He tapped his golden wolf tack once more and walked away.
Flynn’s heart and stomach were thumping in time with one another. The Uncles Grimm! He gingerly opened the book to the first text page. An intricate illuminated letter B, three inches high and half as wide, began the first paragraph halfway down the page. The artwork was superb, rivaling anything he’d seen in any archival document or photo, and he’d never seen anything like it in a translation.
The B stood out in royal blue against a shimmering gold and emerald background of fleurs- de-lis. He ran his gloved thumb over the raised art and wished terribly that he could truly feel it. He got his face as close as he dared with the patrols walking back and forth and could make out the smallest of crimson serpents crawling up the letter, weaving in and out of green vines twisted around the shape of the letter. They weren’t snakes or dragons or any lizard he’d ever seen, but they were reptilian. The intricate details played tricks on his eyes, weaving and bobbing the serpents through the holes of the letter, scales shimmering, slim claws grasping.
It wasn’t until he pulled his nose back that he actually read the first word.
Beware.
Beware the tales told within. Read on with caution and trepidation.
Flynn arched his back and stretched his arms up, remembering the hair thing in time as he brought his hands back to the table. He was excited now, and wished he could remove his jacket, but that would require removal of the gloves and forfeiting the opportunity to continue reading. He glanced at the time. It was already 10:30. How long had he been staring at that letter?
Flynn adjusted the oversized gloves, which kept slipping down his hands. He flipped through the pages carefully, looking for the beginning of the next chapter, but couldn’t find it. He was hoping to see another illuminated character but had no such luck. He allowed the pages to come to rest back at the beginning, and as they fanned into place, he could smell the ages of time on the book. How many hands had this been through before the museum found it? How many children had enjoyed the tales within? Flynn was almost ecstatic and had to work hard to remain seated.
He continued reading.
We told you to beware. The Woskits are everywhere. Stealing the breath of the young and creating turmoil for the mothers.
He read down the rest of the page of the terror at the hands—or claws—of the Woskits. As he was about to turn the page with his left hand, his right went straight through his hair. A wave of horror tore through him, causing his heart to stop for a full three seconds until he realized that no one had seen him. He was too worried about the right hand now contaminated with hair and oil to realize the left hand had worked its way out of its glove and his bare skin was resting on the gold-plated B.
He snatched the loose glove off the table and worked it back on, still unnoticed by the patrol. For the second time that night, sweat covered his forehead and he really thought he’d throw up all over the priceless manuscript.
He recovered somewhat from his error once he realized no one had seen what he’d done and returned to the book to reread that first bit after the B.
Just as his heart slowed, a wail from the far end of the library broke the silence, startled the guards and caused everyone to stand. Gloria was down on her knees, cell phone dropped to the ground. Dr. Sparks and a guard rushed to her side. Flynn and the other four guests stood at their tables. Flynn first wondered if they would be penalized for standing, as they still had an hour left to spend with the books.
Then he wondered about Gloria.
Selfish.
The guards motioned for the guests to sit. After a few moments of whispered talk with the guard and the German, Dr. Sparks came to the tables to address the five guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, Gloria just received word that her ten-year-old twins were killed in an automobile accident. Out of compassion for her and the staff, we have decided to conclude this evening’s event. We will attempt to make this up to you some other way, but for now we need you to step away from the tables and exit the building with the guard.”
The two ladies in the group started crying. The other two men were solemn. Flynn stood, staring down at the B and the story he would never finish.
He read the first few sentences again.
We told you to beware. The Woskits are everywhere. Stealing the breath of the young and creating turmoil for the mothers.
Another wail. This one chilled him to the bone.
One of the lady guards slumped against the middle table, nearly landing on the ancient text. The German came running and another guard rushed to her side.
“My son,” she choked.
Flynn felt dizzy. Three children. Two mothers.
It couldn’t be. He shut the book, afraid to read any more. He pulled the gloves off and stepped away from the table. Great drops of sweat rolled from his forehead.
A burning sensation bloomed on the palm of his hand.
There, where his skin had touched the illumination, was a gold imprint. He tried to wipe it off on his jeans, to no avail. He ran his fingers across the palm of his hand and the gold wouldn’t budge.
Dr. Sparks unlocked the door for the weeping ladies. He stood there while the rest of the guests gathered their belongings and their senses and started for the exit.
Flynn stopped by the bathroom with the approval of the stern-faced guard. He looked at himself in the mirror. Pale and sweaty would be an improvement from what he saw. He turned on the faucet and tried to wash the burning gold off his hand. He let the water run over it while he focused on the sign above the sink. Employees must wash hands before returning to work.
He pulled his hand out of the water. The gold was still there, and if he looked closely, he could make out the details of the B and the serpents. He turned the handle off on the faucet, but the water kept coming.
He twisted the handle back and forth, but nothing worked.
He must be losing his mind.
The other three sinks slowly started to drip, then trickle, then flowed full force. The soap dispensers were oozing into the basins, mixing with the water and creating an overflowing cascade of bubbles that spilled onto the floor.
Flynn stumbled backward and out the bathroom door, ever so glad to see the guard motioning for him to leave the building.
He reached the door, nodded a weak condolence to Dr. Sparks and the guard, who were donning their jackets, and went out into the crisp night air. He turned back to see Dr. Sparks removing the Library Closed for Private Event sign.
And then the door slammed shut with the guard and Dr. Sparks still inside. Flynn thought it might be the wind, but there was no wind.
Dr. Sparks and the guard tried the key again. They tried yanking and tugging on the door. Flynn took the steps two at a time back to the entrance and tried to pull on the door. He saw the lights inside the building go dark, starting at the rear of the hall, then the chandelier over the entrance, and then the wrought iron lamps on either side of the entryway. If Flynn hadn’t seen what had happened, he would have thought the library was empty.
“Dr. Sparks, are you all right?”
Nothing. No movement. Not a sound. Pitch black.
He reached into his pocket for his phone, but remembered he’d left it at his apartment as he hadn’t wanted to be bothered tonight.
Flynn sank down to the steps to catch his breath and wipe away the sweat that stung his eyes. The pain in his hand increased, and he could see flashes of gold even in the dim moonlight.
He convinced his legs to stand and made his way toward the street hoping to flag down a passerby to call the police. Flynn had no idea whether the people in the library were hurt or even alive.
He glanced in both directions, but traffic was light. He finally heard a vehicle approaching from behind, and turned to see the No Parking Anytime street sign. The blue sedan rolled past, but he could see a panicked look on the driver’s face and the brake lights flashing on and off frantically. The sedan had a mind of its own and failed to heed to Flynn’s frantic waving. He put his hands on his knees and stifled the urge to lie down on the ground and give up. He’d never been strong, and now, well. He didn’t know what he was now.
The screech of metal on metal startled him. Four cars previously parked on the opposite side of the street started moving slowly, bumpers scraping against one another. The sedan joined the bumper-to-bumper roll down the street.
Flynn panicked. Then remembered all he’d read this evening…
No parking.
Library closed.
Wash hands.
Mothers’ turmoil.
Breath of the young.
Flynn turned and ran toward his apartment, four blocks away. He kept his eyes down as best he could without stumbling into anything. Out of breath after one block, legs and stomach cramping after two blocks, he paused briefly to catch his breath. He took off again at a full sprint and managed to keep his eyes on the sidewalk. A dog barked in the distance, startling him, and he sidestepped into the alley just half a block from home.
He went about fifty feet into the alley between the side entrances of the bakery and the pawn shop. Hands on knees once again, he tried to gather himself and catch his breath. The searing pain in his left hand was almost unbearable.
But he was almost home.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Flynn O’Hare saw the sign on the pawn shop door. He closed his eyes, but only after his brain had processed the images. A dark wolf, baring fangs and blood-red eyes, and the warning in golden letters:
Trespassers Will Be Shot.
