The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

“This looks like a good place to bury a body.” I poked my head around the corner of the first row of metal shelves to peer down a never-ending hallway that networked under the streets of the city.

“First up: Astronomy. Archaeology.” Thax read off the small signs posted on top of each metal bookshelf as we walked. The stacks, as they were called, hung on metal tracks at the ceiling that allowed the librarian to push a button along the wall and swing the shelves side to side.

“Cryptography.” I paused, letting my fingertip linger on the spine of one book that stood out to me. I pulled it from the shelf, the tattered fabric cover faded and crumbling into soft bits in my hands. “The Ancient Cipher. This could use some TLC.”

Thax didn't reply, only sauntered deeper into the darkness as he passed the metal stacks.

I opened the cover, surprised to find the first page stamped in elegant scroll: From the Library of Usher House

“I heard there’s a famous ghost that haunts the stacks, he lurks in the shadows and pushes the stacks into each other, stay on your toes.”

“Are you joking?” I half-laughed as I jogged to catch up to him.

His grin was wide, eyes twinkling as he assessed me. “Bet your ass, you scared?”

“Only for your sanity.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, baby.” Thax tugged my hand and took off, forcing me to run up an elevated ramp that brought us deeper into a darker and colder part of the underground stacks. “Listen, you can hear the cars above us.”

We paused, the gentle rumbling of traffic over our heads vibrating the steel support columns. “This is kinda creepy.”

“I hope we don’t find the last writer’s body back here.”

“What are you talking about?”

Thax shook his head. “You really didn’t do your research did you?”

“You’ve mentioned that already.”

“Well,” he waggled his eyebrows at me, “if you had, you'd know the last writer is dead.”

PAST

Zara - Spring 1964

“This place stinks.” Yarrow held his palm over his nose and mouth. “I can’t sleep here.”

“It’s the cleanest room we’ve got at the moment.” Mother wheeled one of the twins’ suitcases into the dusty corner of the basement bedroom.

“I had no idea basement bedroom really meant basement bedroom…” I traced a fingertip along the grimy stone and homemade brick walls that made up the foundation of the basement.

“I guess grandfather didn’t really have time to fix it up.”

“I guess.” My eyes trailed the cobwebbed corners, the urge to resist the smile on my face was strong when I caught the fear in Yara’s eyes.

“He only lived here the last few years, before that it was a boarding house for runaways and homeless kids. The organization paid him a small stipend to rent the house while he worked in the city for years. Otherwise, it would have just sat abandoned. The Usher family has a legacy of generosity that runs deep on Shelter Island.”

“What did they do with the house before that?” I cringed, picking up an old stethoscope, rubber edges cracked and crumbling.

“It was a medical facility of some sort, I think.”

I nodded, a pit of dread lodging in my stomach for the first time today. “Well, I’m going to hunt for my lair, I mean bedroom.”

Mother’s annoyance was obvious in the pinched angles of her face.

I didn’t wait for her reply, only pushed myself back up the creaky stairs. I wrapped a hand around the worn wooden banister, only to have a piece pull off as I reached the top step. I groaned, dropping it at my feet. It clunked a few steps and then landed peacefully. “Railing broke!”

I heard the soft whine of one of my siblings before slamming the basement door before me. Peace at last, I walked through the ancient kitchen. Vintage white tiles were darkened with a century of grime. I reached the main stairwell and climbed the steps two at a time, then the first landing and was pleased to find I couldn’t hear a peep from the twins in their basement lair.

I continued to climb to the next level, the hallways drawing darker and dingier as I went. I didn’t bother to explore the floors, only continuing up the stairs until I reached three small steps and a door that led to presumably the widow’s walk bedroom.

I turned the knob, prepared to find another neglected living space, when my lips turned up in surprise.

Bright sunlight warmed the room, the space tidy and neat. Natural sunlight lit one wall from the circle window in a small door that must have led to the terrace Mother had mentioned. A worn oriental rug covered the bare floorboards, unlike the rest of the house, and a white shag rug was layered on top of that one at the base of a neat twin bed. A stack of blankets sat folded in a rocking chair in one dusty corner, but otherwise, it was homey.

An upgrade from the bare, windowless affair I’d spent my first fourteen years in at the library apartments.

“All mine.” I stepped up to the window and pushed the sheer white curtains aside. The overgrown garden, fountain in the center, ornamented the foreground; a path through the formal evergreens to the cliffs and ocean beyond stretched to the horizon.

“Home sweet home,” Mother appeared at my shoulder, “it’s small but perfect for you.”

“It’s not small at all.” A smile turned up my lips. “It’s just right.”

“You should check out the gardens, you never know what you might find.”

“I will.” I tossed my backpack on the bed. “I think I saw some medical specimens on the shelf above the stairwell.”

“I wondered if you’d caught that.” She pressed her lips together in a restrained smile. “Always the observant little thing, aren’t you?”

“I try.” Just then a shriek rattled up the stairwell and the echo of a door slamming carried up to the old roof. “There they go again.”

Yara and Yarrow ran into the garden, licks of overgrown ivy