The Unnamed Room 4/4

Dec ?? 19__
"I am no longer sure of the days now. I trust neither calendar nor newspaper; not the sun nor the stars. I have returned to work once again and things seem to be as they were. But the nights. My dreams are constantly of the poor woman in the room and they are incessant. Each night it rains, each night it thunders and yet, in the morning, the sky is clear and the ground is dry."

It was the week before Christmas and the library was quiet, save for a small number of students who had stayed behind to study in solitude. I had little to do and so fell to browsing through the books that had been returned that morning. I came across a text with a familiar sounding title. It took some moments for me to realise that it was the very book the late Herr Hansen had requested shortly before his passing. It was, as he had said, a history of national culture, specifically relating to the Kalmar Union; Ibsen’s “four hundred years of night”. The book had a strong focus on occult groups who actively opposed the union. Detailed evidence of their operations was scant but it was believed that they “worked their ways in magick and diabolism in order to bring about the end of the union; perhaps even the end of the world”. It was also thought that the groups were obsessed with writing a document “so potent, so powerful, that it would bring all these things to pass and more.” Members were known to be heavily influenced by ancient divination practices in Norse mythology, in particular rune casting and letter shuffling. I thought about the day I had been asked to find the volume. Closing the book and examining the spine I inserted the catalogue number into the library’s index. According to the records the book was part of the open collection and, as far as the catalogue showed, had never been stored in the archive. Its number did not even remotely match the one I had noted on that day. I was at a loss to explain the discrepancy for I was sure I had checked the index thoroughly before searching for the item.

Perplexed and upset I stood at the counter for a few minutes, arms hung loosely at my sides. I had to check, I had to know. First I told Elena where I was going and to call for me if I was longer than half an hour. She seemed puzzled but did not question anything. I did not want to be there long and wanted someone to know exactly where I was this time. The click of my shoes on the stone steps echoed as a stark reminder of previous visits and the cold air of the archive caressed my face as I opened the doors once more. I left them open although I did not bother to pin them back as it seemed to make no difference either way. In my hand there was the index card for Hansen’s book and the volume itself, both of which corresponded to the other. I walked straight to the room which seemed to become more obvious and apparent on each visit. The door swung open, silently, as ever and I stepped tentatively inside. Shining my torch around, casting uncomfortably familiar shadows I saw for the first time the extent of the room which was small in circumference but stretched almost twenty feet upwards. From my understanding of the layout of the archive this was not possible as immediately above was a mezzanine floor which was used by the cleaners as a supply room. Where the stacks ended I could see the walls were made up of a dark yellow brick, quartz glinting and winking as the light shone upon them. I trained the torch ahead of me and immediately saw what I was searching for. I reached for the book, almost hesitating before pulling it from the shelf. Staring first skittishly then almost defiantly at the gap it left I saw nothing. I turned the book around and looked at the spine. The catalogue number was not what it had been, I was sure of it. Tucking the torch underneath my arm and hastened to open the pages. They were alien, unintelligible, stained in ancient runic script. I ran my thumb across the outer edges once, twice. I set the book down and turned each leaf one by one. There was nothing of what I had previously read. The book was simply a book just as darkness is always darkness.

I heard a voice calling from without. Elena. I returned the book, closed up the room and left the archive. The two of us secured the internal library rooms and left together. Elena invited me to join her for a drink before we parted for Christmas and I accepted. After a pleasant hour chatting over a small glass of Juleøl. I left her on the platform waiting for her tram while I settled down in a crowded carriage, head against the window. I felt relaxed, relieved. It was a cold but cloudless evening, the sky was beautifully black and my companions on the train were in good spirits. Once home I made a small meal of rice and potatoes and thereafter sat down with a book. It seemed as if I had not read for pleasure in forever and when I next looked up at the clock it was almost midnight. I had been invited to spend the holidays with a group of friends. This would be my first Christmas without Tomas and although apprehensive at first, I had accepted. Sitting there that night I was glad that I had. I marked the page of the book, returned it to its place on the shelf and retired to bed. I left the window and curtains open and fell asleep with the clear sky in my eyes.

That night I dreamt of Tomas. He spoke to me. He told me that everything was alright, that one day we would be together again. Then he kissed me and left. Soon after I found myself in the room again. The woman in the chair was there, alone. Once again she was weeping into her arms. I approached her again, quietly, cautiously. I knelt alongside her, the hard stone floor digging into my bone and I put one arm around her neck. She stopped crying and turned her tear strewn face to me. I saw… I saw…

I awoke with the black sky still looming and a chill running through the room. I rose, closed both curtains and window, returned to bed and pulled the comforter up close. The room, the world, was dark and dry and silent and I slept once more, for the last time.

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From the morning edition of the Osloposten 28 December 19__

“A female body was found yesterday on the shore of Lake Maridalsvannet and has been identified as Hedda I__, a librarian at the University Library of Oslo. Mrs I__, a recent widow whose husband took his own life some months previously was found tangled within reeds near the ruins of the Magdalena Church, almost the same spot where her husband was found. Eyewitness say they saw Mrs I__ in the early hours of the morning leave her house during that night’s thunderstorm and walk in the direction of the lake. Preliminary police reports suggest suicide as the cause of death”.