Sam was lambasted by her creative writing professor for never having read Moby Dick, but why should she? She’d read the phenomenal Whalefall by Daniel Kraus, and that felt like a sufficient amount of brine for one lifetime. Besides, she wanted to write something fresh—something cutting-edge. Why the hell would she want to be corrupted by stuffy—required reading—yellowed-paper shanties from dead square-bearded seafarers?
“They’re all relevant,” her professor said. “If you want to be cutting-edge, you need to know what’s already been done.”
“It just feels like…sometimes…these so-called classics are being shoved down our throats, is all.”
“I’m not asking you to swallow the words whole. I’m imploring you to taste them—spit out what doesn’t ring true and savor the rest. Goddamnit folks,” the professor said, turning to address the class. “Pardon my language…it’s just—please don’t discount books because of their age or what you think you know about them. Your experiences in life will personalize every book you ever read. Never base your read list on the writer you want to be. Read it all. Learn from it all.”
“That’s fair,” said Sam, but inside, she was thinking, yawn.
“Hi,” said Sam, setting her purse on the kiosk counter at the university library.
“Oh, hey,” said Brown Cardigan, scanning the inside sleeve of a novel and then putting it onto a cart with stacks of recently returned books. “We’re closing in five minutes.”
Sam had seen Brown Cardigan around the dorms, and they’d always smiled when passing each other in the halls. She didn’t know their name, so she always identified them as the sweater they wore.
“I know what I want—can I just run grab it?” Sam asked, biting her bottom lip. She wanted to have Moby Dick sitting out when the professor walked past her desk tomorrow afternoon, to show him that she was only joking when she’d said Whalefall was “probably just as good as the other whale book,” even if she wasn’t joking at all.
“Hmm. Do you have your student ID?”
“Sure,” said Sam, pulling out her card and sliding it across the counter to Brown Cardigan, who wrote down her name and student number in a small notepad.
“Sam. I like that name. Take your time. The door will automatically lock behind you. Just write down what you’ve borrowed and leave it on this counter before you go.”
“I didn’t know that was a thing. We have after-hours privileges?" said Sam.
“No, not really, but I don’t care—what are you going to do, steal the free books? It’s a library. You can borrow as many as you’d like. I’ll track you down in the dorms if you steal all the books. Don’t tell anyone I let you do this though, deal?”
“Promise—mums the word! So…is it just me in here?” Sam looked around. She couldn’t help the large grin; to be left alone in a library sounded too good to be true.
“Just you and the books,” said Brown Cardigan. “Mind shutting off the lights on your way out?”
Sam smiled and walked toward the fiction section. “Will do! Thanks again. See ya around!”
She had no trouble finding Moby Dick and was on her way to the front when she slowed her pace and thought, why leave? Sure, she had an essay on Gogol’s The Nose due in the morning, but when would she ever have the chance to be alone with so many books again? Then she realized she was in the Ks.
King. Maybe just a quick peek.
Sam picked up IT and thumbed through the pages of the novel, which made Moby Dick look the size of a novella by comparison. She’d always been curious about the clown book, and if she didn’t end up reading it, she could always use it as a weight during her morning workout.
Crash. Click. There was a loud sound, and then the lights went out.
Sam stood there for several moments in the darkened library, holding IT in one hand and Moby Dick in the other, before shouting a friendly, “Hello? Someone is still in here!” Enough light came from outside in the quad to allow her to navigate the room without much trouble. Perhaps Brown Cardigan had forgotten she was still here and turned off the lights on their way out.
She made her way to the front, intending to write down the titles of the books she was taking, but something caught her eye in the Mythology section: a shelf had fallen over, and there were books scattered about, some splayed facedown, others flipped open.
She set her books on the kiosk counter, then tentatively walked toward the mess. “Everyone okay?” Sam called out, but there was no reply. She picked up one of the books lying open, studying an illustration of a Cyclops. Its lone eye seemed to stare up at her, but she couldn’t help but envy its beautiful eyelashes.
“Jeepers creepers, where’d you get that peeper?” Sam said to herself.
She closed the book and placed it back on the ground where she’d found it. She was about to walk away when she saw another book lying face up. She squinted: there was a place for a picture just above the caption, but the mythological beast was absent, as if it had strolled right off the page. She picked up the book to have a closer look. The caption read: Xphis: The Swallower. Humanlike creatures that inhabit libraries and places of worship.
Xphis. That’s a new one to me, thought Sam, and closed the book.
A series of thudding sounds came from the opposite end of the library. Something was running across the room, jumping from table to table and whining like a worried dog.
Sam was moving toward the kiosk as if her body inherently knew this danger, but her mind was at a loss for what this thing could be.
Is there a guard dog in here?
Whatever it was, it spotted her at the exact moment she spotted it; they both froze, staring down the length of the library at each other.
It was standing on its hind legs in a patch of white light that shone through the window. Its body was humanlike, but the way it jerked and twitched resembled the movements of an injured bird. Its face was pale and gaunt, with two black—no, red—oblong eyes, and when it yawned, its mouth opened wider than seemed possible, like a Tasmanian tiger. But there were no teeth, just a beckoning black hole. Xphis, Sam thought—The Swallower.
It rubbed its long, thin hand over its pale face. Sam felt sick as she witnessed sharp bones extending from its fingertips. It gazed at her with something akin to lust—or hunger.
It was silent in the library; Sam’s heart thrummed in her ears.
It sniffed the air, then sneezed, a fine mist catching the light as it shook its head.
Sam looked to the entrance. Something was lying in front of the door, blocking it. Her eyes expanded in terror when she realized it was Brown Cardigan. There was no need to check their pulse because where their head should have been, now there was nothing.
She covered her mouth but did not scream. She needed to get out of here. But how heavy is a human body that’s been robbed of life? How many seconds would it take to roll Brown Cardigan away from the door? How much stomach—how much courage—would need to be found within her?
As if the creature sensed her intentions, it launched itself from where it crouched to the adjoining conference table and ran snarling and whimpering down the length of it.
Sam screamed for help, dashing into the center of the kiosk to look for something to use as a weapon.
Scissors, there has to be some here somewhere, she thought.
The beast jumped to the kiosk’s countertop and leered down at her. Its stomach bulged, full of what?
Brown Cardigan’s head.
There was nothing to save her. Not even a sharp pencil. Just paper, stamps, and—her hand felt something beneath an office supply magazine; it was a boxcutter.
The creature dove at her, letting out an unfathomable shriek.
Sam thrust open the boxcutter and slashed upward at the Xphis as it came crashing down upon her; its weight was too much for her; she fell to the ground, and the boxcutter tumbled out of reach. But she'd caught it in the face, hadn’t she?
She scrambled to her feet and tugged at Brown Cardigan’s body with all of her strength, but it was too heavy for her to move.
The beast was up now, too, moving toward her, slowly, methodically, its pink, wet gums glistening in the low light. White puss bubbled out where the boxcutter had sliced just above its eye.
“Stay back!” screamed Sam, picking up the hardcover copy of Moby Dick from where she’d set it on the counter.
The beast came at her—she slammed the tome into the creature’s face, knocking it to the ground. Seizing the moment, she jumped onto its back and repeatedly slammed Moby Dick into the back of its head.
It let out a bark, then violently twisted its body around, grabbed Sam by the hair, and flung her off and onto her back.
The creature picked up the whale book and tossed it aside.
Sam made it to her feet, then hid behind the backside of the kiosk, but it wasn’t long before it found her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her toward its gaping maw. The smell of brine and fish made her retch. Like Whalefall. Like Moby fucking Dick.
She thrashed as it pulled her close. A string of syrupy drool extended from gum to gum as its mouth opened wide, pulling her head toward it. She gazed into the void as her hand grasped for anything, a pen maybe, a stapler, but then she felt it—it was a book, a big one—it was the clown book. She snatched it from the kiosk counter and smacked the creature on its face.
It pulled away, letting out an aggravated yelp, and then came back at her.
Sam stuffed the book into its mouth; the Xphis tried to work it down its throat, but the shape made it difficult.
She ran and picked up Moby Dick and pushed that book into its mouth, too. Then she ran to the nearby cart Brown Cardigan was putting the returned books onto and grabbed The Goldfinch, and Madame Bovary, running back, shoving them into the mouth of the Swallower.
It gagged and pushed its arms out for her to stop.
She returned to the cart and snatched Proust, Link, Vonnegut, and Flannery O’Conner.
It gagged.
Back and forth, she ran, laughing, shoving books into the creature’s overextended mouth. She crammed in Tidbeck, Toni Morrison, Gaiman, and Daphne du Maurier.
It fell to the floor, choking, trying desperately to swallow the books, and kicking at Sam like a child having a tantrum.
She pushed in Demon Copperhead, Cousin Pons, Lust for Life—Whalefall—it fell to the ground, its mouth stretched like an oversized garbage bag, stuffed to capacity.
Xphis, The Swallower, stopped moving. It was dead.
Sam felt dizzy; the world went dark.
Sam pulled the blanket up to her chin. It was perpetually cold in the hospital room, but she didn’t complain. At least there were people coming and going at all hours of the day, taking vitals and bringing food, all while urging her to sleep. Since the ‘incident,’ as the authorities, faculty, and everyone else liked to call it, she didn’t enjoy solitude as she once had. She didn’t want to talk; no, that was the last thing she wanted. But she also didn’t want to be alone.
She stared at the assortment of get-well bouquets at the foot of her bed. They could just have easily been funeral flowers. She wondered if Brown Cardigan’s flowers were just as vibrant. She tried to picture them, but her mind always went back to the headless body lying on the floor of the library.
Xphis, she thought. Or was it indeed just a rabid dog, as the detectives had insisted and as the media had documented as truth? But what type of dog would behead a human? And why was this terrible detail not mentioned—not once—in any news outlet? Besides, she saw what she saw…she did…
When the nurse came to take her vitals, Sam asked if she could stay awhile.
“I have a few other patients to check in with, honey, but I might be able to sit with you for a bit after that. How does that sound?”
“That would be wonderful,” said Sam. “Are there any books available for patients to borrow? I’m not much for television.”
“We have quite a few, hun. What’s your genre of choice? We have mysteries, romance, horror…”
“Can you bring them all?”
If you enjoyed this story…well…you’re a weirdo like me, and you might also enjoy these:
I saw Brown Cardigan at the cafe the other day. They were reading Pale Fire and taking notes in a moleskin.
"She returned to the cart and snatched Proust, Link, Vonnegut, and Flannery O’Conner.
It gagged."
Made me chuckle.
Now, that library will have a ghost problem next. Who you gonna call?