The Library of the Dead

by Brian Keene

  “Yes,” I said. “I certainly can.” It was a true statement, because (of course) I’d seen the box before, in a dream, and I recognized it down to every strap and buckle, ones that matched the buckles on a certain walking nightmare’s collar.

  Next to the autopsy kit was another box. This one was wooden. I’d never seen it before, but it was definitely a style with which I was familiar.

  The director picked it up. “Judging from what I’ve found on the internet, this is a Japanese puzzle box—well-crafted, practically a museum piece. I believe it’s in the Koyosegi style. No idea what’s inside it, however. Who knows … maybe it’s a diary or something. They say our friend the doctor spent a few years in Japan before immigrating to the States. Could be a find. Maybe he hung out with Lafcadio Hearn and took notes.” He sighed. “Anyway, want to give it a look and see if you have any luck opening it? From what the students tell me, puzzles are your thing. Stephen told me you can knock out a Rubik’s cube in less than thirty seconds.”

  “Actually, I’m not very good at puzzles,” I said, realizing quite suddenly that I spoke the absolute truth. “Not at all.”

  There were a million things I should have done that night, but I suppose the only one that matters is the one I did. I paid a visit to my main storage unit, where I butchered Rebecca’s frozen corpse and placed the parts in individual caskets. This itself was an exhausting process, and afterwards I embarked upon my usual ceremonies for secreting the caskets that held my victims. But in truth that was little better than indulging an avoidance mechanism. There were far more pressing matters at hand, most of them involving Mr. 364.1523 and/or Daphne.

  I should have called Daphne … or perhaps kidnapped her. I should have found out if the game we were playing was of her design, or Mr. 364.1523’s, or perhaps both. I should have found out if she opened Dr. Nakamura’s puzzle box, or if it was opened by ghostly hands. And then we should have had a frank discussion about statistical improbabilities of certain coincidences involving serial killers both dead and alive, and the dangerous course (and absolute, incontrovertible outcomes) of certain obsessions. Namely those that fell within the parameters of 364.1523.

  Or I could have done research about the infamous killer who dominated that particular number, and plugged the dead doctor’s name into any number of search engines along with “Jack the Ripper.” A little history lesson, if you please. And perhaps a lesson in connect-the-dates, because I was more than familiar with the timetable of Jack the Ripper’s crimes. If the doctor were indeed a suspect, dates and places would not be hard to match.

  Perhaps I could have even gone to the college and opened the doctor’s puzzle box, still waiting for me in the Archives on the third floor. Perhaps there really was a diary inside. If that were true, it no doubt held answers.

  In short, there were many things I could have done.

  Many questions I might have answered with just a little effort.

  But none of that was to be. As a result, many of those questions still haunt me today. Perhaps I could never have answered them, but I would have liked to say that I tried. I didn’t. For one night, at least, I had hit my limit. So I washed Rebecca’s blood off my hands, and I locked the caskets in my storage unit and drove home.

  Then (in the manner of Mr. Poe) I quaffed Nepenthe and slept the sleep of the dead.

  But not the dreamless.

  This time the dream didn’t take place in the library. Instead it was in the graveyard, outside the columbarium. Mr. 364.1523 stood there among the tombstones, his double-buckled collar cinched tight, his top hat perched above the little mountain of worms that masqueraded as his head.

  “So, you’re beginning to understand now?” he asked.

  “I’m beginning to see a larger picture,” I said. “I’ll admit that. But I’m not sure I understand much at all.”

  “Come, come. You’re a bright lad, and it’s all very simple. I won’t have to draw you a diagram, will I?”

  “No. I’m perfectly capable of adding to three.”

  “Bravo. So nice to hear.”

  “Then you’ll like this even better: I make my own choices, and I always have.”

  He laughed, as if highly amused by my audacity. The sound shook him from within. The worms ringing that familiar black hole in his face circled it the way gore-flecked water circles an autopsy table drain.

  “It’s funny, is it?” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Dreadfully so.”

  “I’m not so sure I see the humor in the situation.”

  “Perhaps not. But you must realize there’s much I can teach you. And we obviously share common ground—a very nice patch of it. On that subject: Did you like it? The three of us? I suppose that is the primary question, simply put.”

  “I can’t say as I did.”

  “Oh, now you’re lying, sir. Shame, shame. Or perhaps you’re simply not the kind to admit the particulars of your pleasures. Perhaps, in the end, that evening’s work put you exactly where you belong. You’re simply not accustomed to tucking your tail between your legs as of yet, but this too will come. You’ll learn your place in the new order quickly enough … just as a well-used knife finds a new home in the barnyard when a sharp new blade arrives for the china cabinet.”

  “The fact is I’ve always seen myself as a lone wolf.”

  “You’re not a wolf, my friend. That is my particular prevue. But perhaps you’re a dog. Yes, I think that’s the role that would suit you best. An obedient and loyal servant. After all, you learned all the tricks, just as a good dog does. You learned from books, from histories of true wolves like myself. Not a lot of originality in your methods, but you’re quite the talented imitator. In that role, I can use you.”

  “You’re asking me to fetch and carry?”

  “No. I’m saying you already are.” Again, those worms were twisting where his lips should have been. “Would you like me to show you?”

  “I wish you would.”

  The dream-wind was higher now, scoring my skin, brushing the worms across Mr. 364.1523’s brow. He removed his top hat and held it aloft … just for a moment. And then his fingers set it free and it tumbled on the wind.

  “There’s a good dog,” he said. “Fetch and carry.”

  I stood there for a moment, not believing the words he’d spoken. The top hat tumbled through the air, traveling between wind-twisted boughs, and then it touched down between the tombstones. Before I knew it I was chasing after it, running through the graveyard. For a moment I even dropped to all fours, charging ahead without a care for whatever came afterward … without a care, forevermore.

  And then I stopped, quite suddenly. I knew what had happened … what was happening. Mr. 364.1523’s laughter whipped me like the wind and rang in my head. That sound chilled me as nothing ever had. And suddenly I understood just how it would be if things stayed that way … just how it would be, forevermore.

  I couldn’t allow that to happen. So I fought the dream. I started to awaken. I know I did. I tried to swim up from deep black water, the way you do when you rouse yourself from a nightmare.

  But something held me back. Or someone. At first I thought it was Daphne. She stood at the edge of the graveyard, in shadows that hung from the trees. Her pale face was flushed with excitement. “Can you imagine what it will be like?” she asked. “Using that kit? Carving up a victim with his knives? It’s time to get started. Hurry and join me … I’m ready. Let’s go to the library. Let’s get that case—”

  I wanted to warn her. I wanted to tell Daphne what Mr. 364.1523 had asked. I wanted to tell her what life would be like as a hunting hound, and say that I’d never spend my life in a dead man’s kennel. I opened my mouth, ready to tell her everything. I ran my tongue over my lips, for that graveyard wind had dried them. But all I tasted on my lips were the slick excretions of carrion worms, and the words that came from my mouth were not my own.

  “It’s time to make a new start,” he said, his voice coming from a hollow place
inside me. “A red parade—that’s what it will be. Meet me at the library. We don’t need him at all. Tonight it will be just the two of us. That’s all we really need …”

  When I awoke, I found myself standing in the kitchen of my apartment. The handset of the wall phone was wrapped in my fingers, and my mouth was open. But the words he’d spoken were gone and it was too late to replace them with others.

  A dial tone buzzed from the receiver.

  Daphne was gone.

  I dropped the phone, grabbed my keys, and left my apartment in a rush. I was barely awake when I started the car and headed for the library. But soon my mind was ticking away, running different scenarios the way it always did, searching for a way to come out on top in the confrontation that lay ahead.

  Of course, in truth I was still running like a dog in a dream.

  I just didn’t know it yet.

  I have wondered if I was the one responsible for everything that happened that night. I mean, if I was the real murderer. Certainly, I might have been. Certainly, my brain didn’t function the way other brains function, and I was clearly capable of the acts which occurred. So I won’t blame you if you read this and think: “That’s it, exactly. He was crazy. He imagined half the coincidences that led up to that night. He probably imagined half of everything. Hell, he was probably alone when he ate that picnic lunch in the graveyard. And I’ll bet he barely spoke to that Daphne chick at all, just stalked her like a creepy little mouse. Just listen to what he says, do the math, and it all adds up to beyond batshit. Even if you go best-case scenario, that Ripper stuff was already hard-wired in his head… and if Daphne really was tuned in to all that supernatural jazz the way he said she was then she was probably a couple cans short of a six pack, too. And when they bumped up against each other it was dead-on destiny that it’d end up badly… in no uncertain terms.”

  And who knows? If that’s the way you read the cards, maybe you’re right. I can’t convince you otherwise. After all, they say that perception is everything. But so is honesty. And while I understand there’s no real reason that you would accept the latter quality as part of my makeup, I can assure you that it is.

  Or was.

  I can also assure you of a few other facts of which I’m absolutely certain.

  First: When I arrived at the library that night, the front doors were already open.

  Second: Daphne was already on the second floor, screaming bloody murder.

  I wish this were another kind of story. If it were, I could provide you with a more satisfying ending. One that involved pulp heroics, or noirish anti-heroics, or perhaps a Hitchcockian twist or two. One with full measures of shadow and darkness and a triple-play of bad business and murderous intent. Or, to put it simply for those who appreciate the classics, I’d love to be able to provide you with a twisted version of “The Most Dangerous Game” times three.

  But doing that with the facts at hand would be just as impossible as making a butcher shop display case seem exciting. No matter how hard you try, you can’t do it. In the end, it’s just dead meat. And that’s the kind of ending I found at the library. I didn’t have to see what the man in the top hat left upstairs to know that was true, for I’d studied his methods for years. I could imagine well enough what remained of Daphne after he finished with his knives and assorted autopsy instruments. To paraphrase a comment from my dream: I didn’t need him to draw me a diagram.

  Not that he would have. Not that he needed to. Not anymore. If I’d been useful to him at all, the time had passed. At that moment we’d circled back to the beginning. Meaning I was frozen in place when he descended the library staircase—I had been for several minutes as Daphne screamed her last—frozen just the way I had been that first night he appeared on the landing after the library was closed. He wore no leather apron, just the black clothes he’d worn that very first night. And for a ghost he seemed to handle material objects just fine. In one hand he held the old puzzle box that might have contained a diary, and with the other he carried the autopsy kit. It was buckled and secure the same way his collar was buckled, and swung in his gloved hand the way a pendulum swings in a funeral home, marking time that no longer matters.

  He spoke as he approached me, his head writhing and alive now, no longer approximating anything human at all. “You don’t realize what I offered you. The secrets I know, the things I was willing to teach. The nightmares we might have shared, the three of us. The boxes we might have opened, together. But now they are shut, forevermore. For you, for her … for eternity. I will always walk alone.”

  The words washed over me. I stood there like a statue as the Ripper’s smile writhed across those lips one last time. It was almost wistful. I couldn’t say a single word. Not as he patted my cheek with a bloody hand. Not as he crossed the lobby to the Circulation Desk. Not as he picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Public Safety. Not as he reported a murder using my voice.

  In a moment, he was gone.

  The darkness closed in—for seconds, for minutes—and then sirens rose in the distance. And soon I was running. Just as I had in my dream, like a starving dog in a cemetery, charging over bones that lay buried much too deep to be enjoyed.

  I ran farther than you’d expect, and finally the sirens and lights closed in on me.

  The light was followed by bullets.

  In some measure, that was another ending.

  And a beginning, as well.

  Of course, you can probably guess how the remainder of my journey progressed. Autopsy table, crime lab, a long blast of crematorium fire. All of it leading to a final destination that is a given: the cemetery where I picnicked with Daphne, and a box in that very same columbarium chapel where hallways led one to another, and the rooms did the same … all of them (given the circumstances) ultimately leading nowhere at all.

  Who knows about Daphne. Perhaps she’s here, too. If she is, I haven’t found her yet. I’ve checked the shelves at least a hundred times, scoured every room searching for a golden box which bears her name. But perhaps that isn’t the kind of box I should be looking for. Perhaps I should look for a puzzle box made of laurel. In a perfect world (or a perfect myth), I’m sure that’s exactly where Daphne would be.

  As for my own box, it’s really no different than all the others here. That may surprise you, but it really doesn’t matter to me. There have always been boxes hidden away, in my life and in my mind. But I have never really inhabited a single one of them. I have never shut myself in. I won’t change by doing that now.

  Instead, I think of the boxes here as books. Each one holds a story, and I’ve come to know many of them. I am their curator. Of course, if you asked anyone on staff, they’ll tell you there is no librarian here. But there is. It’s me. I walk the halls, and I know the stories. You’ll learn a few of them soon.

  For my own part I listen carefully, searching for another story that will inform my own. One that will tell me more about Daphne, or answer the questions which remain in the Ripper’s wake. Was he ghost or demon or something stranger, I don’t know. Maybe I never will. But you can never tell where an answer might be hidden, or the unexpected places a tale might lead. In life and in stories there’s always another panel to slide, another puzzle box to open.

  Perhaps it’s that way in death, too.

  For here, in this place, there are always more boxes, always more stories.

  They arrive every day.

  Maybe someday I’ll find the one I need to finish my own.

  Until then, there are other stories.

  Listen, and I’ll share some of them now …

  THE LIBRARIAN

  1

  Stars hide behind late-rolling fog as you make your way around the winding labyrinthine paths of Mountain View Cemetery. Crocker Mausoleum casts lighthouse-like shadows over the semi-paved walkway called Millionaires Row, which you follow to a more straightforward path you recognize, leading back to a fountain near Piedmont Avenue, leading further to a small circular p
ath near the main gate, which may or may not be locked at this hour, you realize.

  And hold your breath.

  Chapel of the Chimes glows in the distance as the night rolls into early morning, but as you approach, the color of the building is not so much white, but golden in hue. Interior light escapes the multitude of windows behind arches and cloverleaves and other such carved patterns in the exterior, giving life at night to this sizeable yet plain-looking adobe building in the day. Before the sun died, you remember an ordinary gray—perhaps stucco—exterior beneath a roof of burnt-orange clay tile. Now, with the moon taking the sun’s place, the building nearly breathes with color, and pulls you toward its warmth to escape the chill Oakland night, and you breathe out, realizing the gate is still open.

  All is silent but for the trickling and splashing of water from the fountain, the soft buzz of old streetlights, and the yelping of a faraway dog or perhaps a coyote. Your car is parked somewhere on the street, and on the way to it you pass the first of what appears to be three entrances to the eerie building at your side. Above a high arch, the first entrance reads:

  CHAPEL OF THE CHIMES

  Each capital letter, carved intricately into the stone façade, follows above and along the arch. A dozen or more paces leads to the second entrance, which, like the first, has a small fountain and is nearly identical, with the same arching capital letters. The only differences are those same words as above, newer, displayed in black on the left-hand side of the entry, followed by ‘Oakland,’ and below that above six Asian symbols:

  Funeral Home

  Crematory

  Columbarium

  The third, and what appears to serve as the main entrance to the building, stands nearly twice as high and twice as wide as the others, and the archway leading to the main double doors is even more intricately carved in stone. In large capital letters above this impressive gaping maw is a single word: