The Unnamed Room 1/4

I had recently become a widow at the age of thirty seven. My husband suffered from clinical depression and in a fit of uncontrollable blackness, under the cover of total darkness, he walked, fully clothed, into the murky depths of Lake M___. My grief was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that he was no longer in pain. I missed him terribly, but truly, yet sadly, believed that his actions were for the best. Naturally I did not communicate such a view to anyone, assuming instead the expected persona of the inconsolable wife. This at least had the advantage of allowing me to collect my thoughts alone and in peace. I returned to work soon after the funeral despite exhortations from colleagues for me to take an extended leave of absence. The apartment was cold and empty without him. I needed something to keep me focused and, somewhat reluctantly, they assented to my intentions.

I am an assistant librarian at the University Library of O__. My duties are mainly administrative although I also take care of any special customer enquiries; if a person is having difficulty tracking down a particularly rare book, or wants a little more information about a volume or author or has any other special requirements then they come to me. Thus it was, one day in November I was asked to attend to the custom of Hansen who was looking for assistance in locating a text; a dry history of national culture from the last five hundred years according to the catalogue guide. It did not form part of the open access collection and necessitated a journey to the closed stacks of the lower ground repository where we housed the older, more fragile collections. The patron was not in a hurry and as the library was closing shortly he made arrangements to return the following morning, by which time I promised to have it waiting for him. The repository itself had not been opened in almost a year. It had been curated for years - many years - by an ageing relic named Bernsen, a direct descendant of the library’s founder. He was an educated, if uncommon man with an interest and grounding in the literature and antiquities of the Kalmar period. Bernsen oversaw the management of the older texts within the library and was exclusively in charge of everything within the archive. He spent every day within, going so far as to take his day-to-day work downstairs where he would labour undisturbed until someone from above required a specific volume from below or had an unusual or difficult request. Bernsen was an institution within the institution and cast a low, solitary figure wherever he went. He died in his sleep one night last year and his body was found when Solveig, one of the Directors, realised that he had not arrived one morning. He was never ill, never absent and this was enough for us to alert the authorities who called upon him.

Since that day no-one had been downstairs. This was partly because no-one had needed to go there. The occasional visitors who required Bernsen’s assistance suddenly ceased to call, as if they knew their journey would be fruitless. The other reason was that no-one wanted to assume his role. The archive although not large, was wall to wall, floor to ceiling inhabited by books that were complete, that were catalogued, but that were also foreboding and the knowledge required to master them was beyond any of us. The library board advertised his post once, requesting someone of a similar stature and education but no-one applied. It seemed Bernsen’s knowledge was a dying art. As we had no immediate need to monitor the collection it simply remained closed up until the day Herr Hansen came in. As I anticipated that it might take a little time to find the book, I suggested he return in the morning; in the meantime I would locate it after closing hours and have it waiting for him on his return.

Later that evening I made my way down to the basement, my shoes clicking on the bare stone steps, the air below cold and dry. Pulling the heavy oak doors toward me, there was an escape of musty air, a whiff of wax and leather and long dormant, interred inertia. The temperature was even lower within and the high ceiling above me blinked and hissed as I flicked the fluorescent lights on, their dull anaemic glow casting distorted shadows around the stacks. The last time I had been inside the archive was several years ago. I recalled its basic layout but the shelves themselves were in no real order; they were a minor labyrinth with gaps in between that led to anonymous dead ends and cul de sacs. The stack I wanted wasn’t obvious to me and in the dim, uncertain light it was difficult to make out the markings. As I walked further toward the back wall the light diminished even further and I swore under my breath, colliding with walls and corners. The air was beginning to get to me, making me feel dizzy and nauseous so I abandoned my search, intending to return early the next morning armed with muffler and torch. It would not take long to find the book thus prepared and I would still be able to keep my promise to Hansen.

Nov. 12 19__
"I have been unable to sleep tonight. There is a high wind howling and rattling the windows and an unaccountable icy draught that wakes me every time I drift off. I find myself thinking often of Tomas. I imagine that night he took his life was much like this. Instead of dreaming I think of how he felt as he walked through the driving rain, to the M___ ruins and then into the unbearable cold of the lake; unbearable yet still preferable to his cold life."

My restless night meant that I awoke late and arrived late, entering the library at the same time as Hansen. Apologising for my poor timekeeping I asked him if he would take a seat; in the meantime I would return to the archive immediately, making his request a priority. The temperature inside was lower than the previous day but the odour inside was not as overpowering. I wrapped my scarf close around me and stepped inside, leaving the double doors wide open in order to illuminate the interior as much as possible. The inadequate overhead lighting seemed to hum louder than before and flickered with a greater insistence; still it was easier to see than it had been the previous evening. I walked around the outer shelves for several minutes, but could not find the corresponding stack number noted on the enquiry card. I had checked it several times before leaving the previous day and so could be certain that there was no error. The strange thing was that there seemed to be no order to the stacks; Bernsen was known to be particularly fastidious about library regulations - it was inconceivable that he would have maintained the archive in such a way although in reality he could have carried out his duties any way that he saw fit; he was never monitored and no-one ever visited him in his sanctuary. Still, his methods were not making my job any easier and although loathe to think ill of the deceased I could not help resenting him a little as I searched in vain.

I had been looking for almost an hour when I remembered that Hansen was still waiting for me. I made to leave in order to ask him if he wished for me to forward the book as soon as it could be found. Turning, I saw a niche in one of the walls that had so far gone unnoticed. It was a slight, but definite rectangular outline. Upon closer inspection I realised that there was a door cut into the wall in such a way so as to completely conceal its existence from the casual observer. Astonished, yet curious, I reached into a small recess that was hollowed into one side and pushed. The opening appeared as the door gave way with surprising ease and in total silence. Within was utter darkness. I switched on the torch I had brought and illuminated the gloom. What I saw was a tiny room, populated by three stacks on three sides, all holding a mixture of heavy looking leather-bound tomes that looked older than any of the other books in the library. Moving closer it was clear that these stacks were the ones I had been searching for and by slowly, methodically moving my torch from left to right I found the correct catalogue number. I reached out in front of me and removed a thick volume, bound in blue leather with gilt trimmings. Its title was incomprehensible, printed in an unfamiliar script that could have been runic. It was clearly not the title that Hansen was seeking but the serial number on its spine was correct. As I looked to its neighbours to check their numbers I was distracted by a slight light, emanating from the space the book had just vacated. I moved closer, curious and stood almost with my nose between the two other books. The stuffy smell that had made me nauseous the previous evening was all pervading and I stood dumbly as the light grew and slowly formed a scene that removed everything else from my vision.

I found myself standing in a small room constructed of what appeared to be large blocks of sandstone. There was a tiny barred window through which a bright ray of sunlight shone; a small door in the wall opposite and in the middle there was a simple wooden table. On one side of the table a woman stood, wearing a plain brown dress and a white shawl that only allowed her face to show. Across from her and with her back to me there sat another woman in a similar outfit. The first woman appeared not to be aware of my presence and appeared to be addressing the other. I say appeared because I could not make out any words; all around me , there was a low buzzing, a heavy washing as if there was some slow, glutinous substance moving about in my head. A low drone indicated the woman’s voice. Although indistinct her manner suggested she was not happy with her companion. I don’t know how long I had been stood there for but I felt that I moved, shifted perhaps from my position and this attracted the attention of the upright woman who looked over at me, sharply. The other woman made to turn around and as she did, I felt myself being pulled backwards, away from the scene, as though a hook in my gut were being wrenched by some unseen angler.

I came around to find myself standing breathlessly back in the hidden room of the archive, book still in hand, feet numb from the cold, darkness all around. Suddenly scared I walked quickly from the room and stumbled around the archive, unable to find the exit. The lights were flickering more ever and I was enclosed by reams of books, ancient texts that refused to let me escape. My heart was pounding within me, blood rushing through my body, a strange horrid gurgling sound in my ears. I found the exit, wrenched the doors open and collapsed helplessly at the foot of the stairs.