The Archive of Lost Dreams and other paranormal tales

by Lissa Bilyk

  ***

  That night, as I stand in the Archive of Lost Dreams, the old man hands me the long white quill and invites me to sit in his large chair.

  “What do I do now?” I say.

  “The name will appear here,” he says, pointing at one side of the ledger. Then he points at the books on the shelves. “The name corresponds to a book by surname. Find the book, look up the dreams, and write them in.”

  “What does correspond mean?” I ask.

  The old man smiles at me, and walks away.

  “What if my handwriting is messy?” I say to no one in a small voice. “I’m not allowed to use a pen yet.”

  A name appears on the ledger. William Thackeray. I put down the quill, and walk over to the librarian’s ladder. I drag it across the shelves until I reach the T-H section. Up three rungs and search for the book. When I find it, I pull it out.

  It is a small, green, leather-bound book with the name in gold across the front and down the spine. I take it back to the ledger and settle on the big chair, open it up, and look at the blank pages.

  As I stare, words start appearing.

  I pick up the quill, dip it in the black ink, and copy the words into the ledger as best I can. At first I am afraid I will make a mess, but as soon as my scrawling letters are complete they shift and merge into the beautiful cursive font I’d already recognised. Five dreams later, I put down the quill and admired my handiwork. If only I could write this well at school, I wouldn’t have to do handwriting exercises anymore.

  “How do I know if the dreams have been realised or not?” I again ask no one.

  On the paper, a long black line begins to inch its way across the first, second, and fourth dream I just wrote down. “Oh.”

  A second name appears under the ledger. Raymond Jones. I close the Thackeray book and take it back to the shelf, then hunt down the Jones book. There are a lot of Jones books. It takes me some time to find it.

  I repeat the process for a long time. It becomes hypnotic, a repetitive routine that I can’t snap out of. As the quill turns my scrawling handwriting into legible cursive I wish I could take the quill to school.

  Then a name appears on the ledger that I know well.

  I find the book on the shelf, and on impulse take a second one close by as well. Take them both back to the desk and settle on the chair. Open the first, and read through all the dreams. Every wish, every desire, every passing fancy.

  There is my mother’s name. It is crossed out.

  I open the second book and scan down the dreams. Sure enough, there’s my father’s name, also crossed out. A few pages later, I see my own name. It is also crossed out.

  My mother had achieved her dream of having a family.

  But there were so many more dreams that were still unfulfilled. A dream of opening her own cake shop. Learning karate. Adopting a dog from an animal shelter.

  On impulse, I grab one of the pages and rip it out of the book. I do the same to my father’s book. I tuck both pages into my jacket, then continue writing the dreams into the ledger, and return the books to the shelf.

  Time passes. Soon after, the old man returns and closes the ledger. He smiles at me.

  “Goodnight, Katie. And thank you.”

  “Goodnight,” I say, confused. Will I be here tonight when I go to sleep, I wonder?