The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

Brooklyn College had been my soft place to fall after a childhood of chaos but when my grant money didn’t come through for my third year, I was forced to cut back on classes and pick up any and all writing jobs offered. It paid the rent with a handful of roommates, but barely. And then dad suffered the heart attack that took his life and mom moved to Florida, giving up dark New York for the sunshine she was overdue for she said, so that left me alone but mostly happy.

It was a well-timed miracle that the ad had popped up in my newsfeed when it had. The promise of a handsome salary at the end of the residency was enough to have me submitting the application. The chance at bestselling stardom? A delicious cherry on top.

Now, only three weeks later, I was ready to soak up all of the inspiration.

I sucked in a smile as I inhaled the morning air. Foot traffic ebbed and pulsed around me. It wasn’t often that I made it to bustling Midtown, the city life swelling around me with men in shiny shoes and proper neckties. Every woman looked like she’d stepped off the runway, and every tourist looked just as gobsmacked by it all as me.

Only I wasn’t gobsmacked by Manhattan, I was gobsmacked that a place as wonderful and full of possibility as this one would now become my home away from home for the next few weeks. Flatbush was only over the East River but it felt a million miles away.

I walked along the front facade. The lifelike lion statues flanking each side of the grand stone steps leading up to the arched, art deco doorways were breathtaking. I hummed with happiness, dragging my fingertips along the rough stone as I walked and enjoying the way it brought shivers of awareness along my skin. I turned the corner, searching for the back door entrance that I’d been instructed to find.

Lush green spring leaves rustled as I hovered at the next corner, watching a delivery truck pull out of an underground dock. I slipped along beside the big wheels as he powered by, hoping to find the door I was meant to enter.

Probably more impatient than I should have been, I tightened my backpack on my shoulders and slipped through the garage door he’d just come out of, eyes hunting for a side door that would lead me into the library. I walked slowly, scanning the nooks and corners of the underground lot before catching sight of a white door that led to a stairwell.

I crossed the space quickly, throwing it open and recognizing the white marble steps that the library was famous for. I ascended the stairs, the underbelly of the library simple but no less beautiful than the pictures of the elegant facade I’d seen online. I kept climbing, surprised when the stairwell continued to curve until a plain white door stopped me. I kicked the iron doorstop up and opened it easily.

The light was dim, the smell of old paper and dusty leather and binding glue lingered, like it’d soaked into the wood-paneled walls like smoke. I ran my fingertips along the smooth edges of the polished molding, the dark hues of wood in total contrast to the pure airy marble white that graced the rest of the public space.

“Are you lost?” The three words came out in the form of nearly inaudible grunts.

“Maybe.” I turned, expecting to find a man in suit and bowtie.

Instead, a living corpse gaped back at me.

I averted my eyes from his dark and lingering ones, the sunken hollows of his cheeks a pasty white, I wondered if he pressed makeup onto his skin to intentionally match the marble under my feet. “I’m the new writer-in-residence, I was told to look for the backdoor—”

“That’s not it.” He turned, shuffling off down the hallway. I assessed his oversized black jacket, hanging off his shoulders. It looked like he’d lost thirty pounds since it’d last fit.

“Do you work here?” I hustled after him.

He grunted his reply.

I frowned. “Do you know Ms. Thornberry?”

Another grunt, and then he turned down another long hallway.

I was so intent on the man in front of me, I wasn’t registering the beautiful halls that led deeper into the library.

“Should I meet her somewhere else? If you could just show me—”

He paused, throwing me a mean side-eye before grunting again and waving his hand at a paneled wall.

I searched the intricate polished cherry wood in search of a hidden doorway.

Nothing stood out. A chill ran down my spine as I began to think I’d really, really stumbled into the wrong door after all. Were we even in the library anymore?

His fat thumb scraped across the polished wood at waist-height then, punching a tiny button that was hidden in the groove, before the paneled door opened and an old-fashioned art-deco elevator was revealed. He waved me in, then pointed with his index finger to the ceiling.

“Up?”

He nodded, then waved me off and shuffled back down the hallway the opposite way he’d been going when I’d stopped him. The silver, silken threads of his long hair, running to the middle of his back in a sharp vee angle, made me wonder the last time he’d washed it or seen the light of day.

Rickets came to mind as I watched him favor one leg while he walked away, the scraping of his shiny shoe on the worn wood echoing down the hall like the opening scenes of a horror movie.

“Creepy,” I hummed as I stepped into the elevator, its floor swaying on the old belts as I pushed the golden lever down to close the iron doors. They locked with a resounding thud, the feeling of being trapped in a bird cage bunching my muscles with dread. “Okay, up we go.”

I punched the worn button on the golden panel, surprised when the elevator took off quickly, sending