The Unnamed Room 3/4

Dec 12 19__
"Last night the weather was awfully stormy. When I finally did sleep I dreamt of the women again. I was unsettled by the recurrence of events in the archive and also by the appearance of one of them on the tram. They themselves do not frighten me; indeed I wish to know more about them, but the means by which I see them frighten me very much. I dare not return to the archive."

The next day passed without anything of significance occurring although when I mentioned the weather the previous night it seemed that I was the only one to have noticed anything approaching a storm; both Solveig and Elena, the junior librarian said they slept perfectly soundly and that the skies were as calm as they had been all month. I put the disparity down to regional differences; living in a different part of the city to most of my colleagues this is often the case, although I recalled that the ground did not show any sign of overnight rain on the journey to work. About a week or so passed and I was feeling brighter than I had for some time. I still thought of Tomas - how could I not? - but in a less despondent way. I was sleeping easier and the weather seemed to have calmed too. However, one Friday evening whilst clearing up the desk I came across a book that had been left in a deposit box and noticed, with an uncomfortable chill, that it was the same book Hansen had died reading, the same book that his sister had returned weeks after and the very same book that had been returned - by my own hand - to the archive. I questioned Elena about it. Had the book been checked out? Not by her. What about Solveig? She didn’t know - hadn’t she been away again all week? Why was there no record of it being removed? Again, she did not know. Dumbstruck I held the heavy book, feeling it weigh me down like a chain. How? There was no explanation. No-one else would go down to the archive surely. Certainly I had not been there. Had I? There were those strange experiences earlier on where I had lost all track of time. Could I have retrieved it myself? And if so, why was it left in the returns box?

Although confused and a little scared I did not wish to debate the matter further with Elena who, I felt privately, would not understand or even be sympathetic. I had already determined I would not return downstairs, certainly not at this time of the day but I was intrigued by the book, although I knew nothing of runes nor had the means to interpret them. However, upon opening a page at random I was surprised to discover that the leaves were filled with strings of modern words. There was something further unusual about this in that the words themselves were not printed by any mechanical process, rather they were handwritten, although the script and style was exceedingly old fashioned and seemed to have been inscribed as if by a quill or some similar implement. I quite fancied the hand to be that of Bernsen but at that moment did not have the time to find a sample with which to make a comparison as we were being ushered out of the library. Placing the volume into my bag I exited with Elena who was chattering away excitedly about her plans for the weekend. When she asked me what my intentions were, I stumbled, lost for words, before telling her that I would probably be spending the next few days reading.

This time the tram home was packed and I stood all the way. Taking care not to look at or near any of the windows I could feel the book hanging down by my side, the strap of my shoulder bag digging into my skin. Its weight seemed to grow the longer I stood. By the time I had reached our - my - small apartment it was all I could do to not drop it and drag it across the ground. Once inside I left the bag in the hall and drew a bath. Sitting on the side of the tub as it filled, the door closed, steam swirled around me as I breathed in tiny droplets of moisture and tasted their cold wetness. I undressed and lowered myself into the water, my entire body suddenly raw and angry and aching all over. Submersing myself entirely, the itchy feel of the hot water scratched at my face. Eyes closed I could feel my hair drifting over and above me and I imagined it floating, reaching, like the tangled reeds that wrapped themselves around Tom…

I wrenched myself bolt upright, casting water all over the floor. What had I been thinking! I removed the plug, stepped hurriedly out of the tub and, wrapping a towel around myself, removed myself to the bedroom, dripping water all over the floor. Drying myself and laying face down on the bed in the dark, I felt as though I missed him more than ever and, reaching out my hand out to his side of the bed, where he would be, I stroked invisible air and wept silently.

It was late by the time I had come round enough to compose myself. My hair was drying but matted and my eyes hurt. I pulled on a thick dressing gown and went downstairs to make a warm drink, opting for a brandy with hot water. Retrieving the book from my bag - it was no longer a dead weight - I sat down at the kitchen table with it. The first few pages were blank but soon the words appeared without precursor; no title, no publication notices, just reams of words in a relic’s hand. There was, I found, no logic or method or sense to the words. There was no structure; no sentences, no punctuation; just words following words following words. Some of them were intelligible, others were gibberish. I quote a random selection:

…ho kes d s orb shrike do lo khrisdos o rise ode…

It went on for many pages in this fashion with no sign of anything approaching a method. Halfway through a pattern appeared to emerge where similar words appeared to be rearranged like nonsensical anagrams, before the writing ended abruptly with the following sequence:

…harlo harol hlaor hlaro hloar hlora hlrao hlroa hoalr hoarl holar holra horal horla…

It was baffling. From the outside the book appeared positively ancient. Inside it was as if it were only a notebook, a journal for the scribblings of a madman. The pages themselves however were as old as the binding, only they had never been marked until some artless lunatic took ink to them. I heartily disapproved of the vandalising of books, which is what this was, but also couldn’t help feeling that these words were meant to be there. My head began to throb. I took a swig of brandy and my vision blurred while thunder crashed outside. Leaving the book on the table and removing myself to the small front room I sat next the fire staring at the blank, undecorated wall in front of me. The lights were low and an occasional flash of lightening lit up the room, transforming the scene into a negative that made the room seem like an abandoned squat. I felt myself drifting off but did not have the strength to retire to bed properly, allowing instead, my heavy eyes to close and I felt my body, my whole sinking lower and lower into the darkness.

Soon enough I found myself, with little surprise this time, inside the sparsely furnished room again. The scene differed in that the upright lady was missing. I saw only the seated figure, again with her back to me, head down on the table, sobbing. I stepped forward to comfort her, to ask what was wrong but she tensed as I placed my hand on her shoulder, almost whimpering whilst I felt a searing pain in my head. At that moment the other lady entered and I heard her speak for the first time, quite clearly. She directed herself to me, admonishing me for trying to speak to the other, telling me that I must leave, that I had no place there. The familiar hook entered me again and I was spirited away, back to my armchair where I awoke fully with a terrible headache and a pain that throbbed throughout my entire body.

I could see through the thin curtains that it was light out, that I must have slept seated throughout the night. The rain was driving down in sheets now, a watery rush the only sound to be heard. I sat there for some time, steeling myself to rise and maybe run a few errands and had been sat in dull, muted contemplation, when the phone rang, shrill and loud, jerking me out of my reverie. It was Solveig, she wondered if I was ill again as I had not turned up for work that morning. I rarely worked Saturdays, I told her, certainly there had been no such arrangements made for that weekend. She laughed, nervously I thought, before asking if I was feeling at all myself. I did realise, didn’t I, that it was Monday today; almost midday in fact? I scoffed and asked her what she meant by such a thing. Then I noticed the calendar clock on the wall. It was indeed Monday! I was speechless, gasping, confounded. Solveig asked if I wished for her to come over, if I needed a doctor perhaps? I found my voice. No, that would not be necessary, I would be at work within the hour, I would leave immediately. She made a series of noises that suggested that my attendance that day would be completely out of the question. I was clearly having a difficult time at the moment. I was not to worry, I could come in tomorrow providing I felt up to it, all would be taken care of. I should perhaps take a walk in the brisk air, she suggested, it was a pleasant day after all. I said that I would do that and would see her tomorrow. Thanking her for her kind thoughts I replaced the receiver, a faint bell tone sounding somewhere as the rain lashed down harder than ever, mocking Solveig’s last words as though the very sky itself had been upended by the gods. I lowered myself to the floor and huddled up against the wall feeling more alone in the tiny apartment than I ever had before.