Writer's Journey

 Elara had always believed that books held power. Words strung together in just the right way could make a person weep, laugh, or tremble with rage. But she had never imagined that books could hold something far more tangible than emotions. When the letter arrived informing her of her uncle's death and her subsequent inheritance of his position as keeper of the Ashworth family's private library, she had pictured dusty shelves and moth-eaten pages. Instead, she found herself standing in a cavernous hall of polished mahogany and gleaming brass, where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling like soldiers awaiting orders. Lady Ashworth, the family matriarch, had greeted her with cold civility and a single instruction: maintain the collection, and never open the books in the eastern wing. Elara had nodded politely, assuming the restriction concerned rare or fragile texts. She was wrong. The books in the eastern wing were different. She noticed it immediately when curiosity d...

  “And.. the door creaked open. I went to see what it was. I thought.. I thought it might be a rat, or the wind. But..” The woman broke down into tears, sobbing hysterically. Through her hiccuping breaths, Maria could see the wild fear in her eyes. There was silence for a few moments, the only sounds in the room were her choked gasps and the soft scratch of a pen against paper. Then, Maria finally spoke. “It’s alright, Janet. It wasn’t real, it was just a dream.” She comforted, telling her patient exactly what she needed to hear. “Would you like to tell me more, or would you rather we speak about something else instead?” She said kindly, offering a way out of the difficult conversation. It took a minute or so, but Janet managed to calm down. Wiping away her tears, she continued her story, albeit in a softer tone. “A kid stood there, knife in hand. I was so confused. I remember thinking, ‘How did he get here? We’re in the middle of the woods’.” Here, Janet almost begins to panic aga...