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It was dark. The humidity made his shirt stick to his skin. A thick fog covered the passageway. The bitter air made his eyes sting, and the rough floorboard caused him to lose his step.

The light pattering of coolant produced a bass line to the complicated hissing and grinding of the Mechanism. His imagination filled the halls with orchestra. The piano had just started its solo — it was romantic-era, so the emotion and the dramatic crashing of the piano sent shivers down his spine. But this was long gone. No one had played a piano in years, if not decades.

He crawled through the maintenance ducts and the ventilation shafts, all over the entire Mechanism, fixing, working, maintaining. He was an engineer. The engineer’s job was to keep the Mechanism running, to keep it at full performance and make sure it didn’t explode. He knew how it worked. The ultimate goal was to heat water to over 100 degrees and push steam through a turbine. He didn’t know why it worked. There was a central room that was always locked. Many people before had tried to open it, but nothing seemed to work: hammers, blowtorches, iron blades. Nothing prevailed. It was futile.

He heard shouting down below him, deep in the vastness of the Mechanism. It was overly complex and easily simplified, but no one would change it. No one even dared. The music was picking up again. The violins upped their tempo and volume, a canon, a series of them. He imagined the sound echoing along the tunnel walls. The echo, the resonance. He was at peace. But just like that the dream was ripped away from him. The shouting was closer, calling his name.

Descending the endless ladders and chutes, he finally reached the exterior of the Mechanism. The rooms outside were of a white concrete, well lit and ventilated. He breathed a breath of air, and even if it was better than in the Mechanism, he could tell this was manufactured here. It smelt simple, and basic; the failed attempts to make it fresher only made it smell even more synthetic. Before descending once again into the main break rooms, he looked out of the window — darkness. A speckle of light here and there, an eternal night. He reached the break rooms, and a smell of food and people blasted through the door. There were two hundred and seventy-five people here, all manning the ship. On the far end of the rooms, past the grimy tables, were some stalls, with people handing out a beige sludge: lunch.

After the standard meal he decided to take a pause. The longest time he was allotted was 10 minutes. He was hesitant, but decided to finish his weekly relaxation time. He went up near the front, to the rooms behind the cockpit, and sat there for a bit, looking out of the few circular windows. He saw the blackness again. A few more specks. Stars. Planets. This was space.

There is a man who drives along a road that hasn’t been used for a long time. He picks up hitchhikers along this road. He doesn’t travel alone. He has his wife alongside him on the desert road. They pick up hitchhikers out of a sense of kindness; it gives them purpose. The light is starting to fade. No hitchhikers tonight. He and his wife are the only life to be seen here. He keeps driving for several more miles, neither of them keen to return home yet.

The world feels empty to him in these hours. Suddenly out of nowhere a trail of white glowing dust somehow starts to blow across the middle of the road. It makes no sense to him, nor can his wife explain this unusual occurrence. They are irrationally scared of this unusual glowing dust.

Yet on they drive; the glowing dust still trails on with no direct source or link to help with the growing mystery. But the man is intrigued and drawn inexplicably to find out where it is coming from, and what this glowing dust is. Hours and miles seem to slip past, seemingly without meaning to the man now as he drives on, following the glow ahead in the darkness. His wife is confused, aware they are lost and drifting in the darkness.

The old man now seems obsessed by one objective — to find the source of this glowing dust. But his wife has had enough of this horrible experience so, in desperation, she opens the door while the car is still moving and begs her husband to stop and let her go. And so he does. She gets out of the car and starts walking back in the direction they have just come from, in the hope of finding her way back home. He drives on, almost oblivious to her now, the woman distraught by his actions. She bends to inspect the dust, hoping to find answers to her husband’s behaviour but, when she gets close enough to the ground, she finds the glowing dust isn’t dust — she rubs it against her fingers, pinching it. It is actually chalk.

The man is now edging closer to the source. He can feel it, a warmth like the sun. The man sees for himself the source of the glowing chalk. It is a huge glowing orb that has crash landed. The markings of a small burnt crater can be seen under the glowing orb. The man steps out of the car. He feels a strange sense of relief now that he seems to know he isn’t going home tonight. The orb needs him, and there is no way back now.

Dust-shot sunlight entered the Library through the windows on the ceiling and walls, as if vibrant galaxies had shattered in fragments and now adorned the sequestered archive. The rays seemed to brush every crack, every crevice, and caressed each book, each title in an affectionate embrace: an eternal companion, always providing warmth and hope.

Murmurs and whispers, quiet and intimate enveloped the shelves in the athenaeum. The susurration was unified, a sinfonietta flawless in pitch and tone. Books lined the ledges and racks, threatening to spill onto the floor, grumbling in low voices like the ancient and weary souls they were. Some even did, adorning the cracked linoleum in wavering piles, their bickering and consequent shuffling always prevalent. Some cowered behind table legs and beneath shelves, intimidated by broader tomes and volumes with their pompous vats of information. Some were nestled comfortably with their respectable counterparts (sequels, prequels, etc.) and floated in a tranquil slumber.

—

Rani’s hopeful jaunt in the rain had gone from abysmal to downright depressing. She had always cherished the monsoon — it was exquisite, being outside in the rain while everyone else fussed inside; it was her solo rebellion against the world. The rhythmic sounds brought calm to the chaos of her mind. Drops filled her hands and she forgot the report due last Thursday. Pearls landed on her eyes and her breathing slowed; the overwhelming scent of mowed lawns wafted through her nose, and her harried list-making and timekeeping halted.

Clearly, this was not the case today. The rainfall was the pitiful kind, indecisive even — the moment she thought it would transform to a soothing blast, it ceased. The rain fell in gasps and flutters: an unswerving impermanent state. Nevertheless, she powered on; she had reserved books waiting for her.

As she rounded the corner, a peculiar feeling overtook her, an uneasiness coupled with…curiosity? Abruptly, she stopped in front of the decrepit building. She squinted adamantly at it, as if it would reveal something more than a brick wall.

It was titled so simply: Library. Blankly, she stared at the generic word. Library. How simple, and completely innocuous. Library.
Curiosity boundlessly piqued, she pushed the rusted handle and slipped in.

—

The bell jangled sharply, and for the first time in eons rang its euphonious melody. The sounds reverberated across the Library like echoes upon echoes. These mellifluous layers awakened the dozing books and startled the arguing into a shocked silence.

The woman stood in silent awe at the scene, mouth agape, head swivelling all around the antique structure. Wandering through each aisle, she reached out and assessed each book, inquisitively, and leafed through the pages with care, consuming their words voraciously.

The books also regarded her collectively, investigating this human who had stumbled upon their age-old home. They relished her nurture towards them; and her mind was so resolutely perceptive. Enveloping her in a synchronous sigh, a gentle breeze flew through their crinkling pages, and they embraced her in spirited bliss.
Finally, the Library had found its Librarian.

The wind blows hard in this enchanted place. I have been here for centuries, standing my ground. I fall asleep with a white blanket covering me that disappears when the days get warmer. I am a god reaching up high, hitting the thin atmosphere. Sometimes I wait and just look, looking far, far ahead of me in this magical land.

I see water and ice shining beautifully from the dazzling sun. That sun disappears when darkness comes. The sky, blue like the water below; but clouds cover it sometimes, especially when I have my white blanket with me. I tower over the emerald trees like a giant making his way across this enchanted place.

The wind flies past me again. I feel the most wonderful breeze and wondrous smell of fresh air. I am a mountain but sometimes feel dwarfed by the sky above. This enchanted place has green land like the emerald trees. It makes me feel happy and comforted; it makes me feel part of this magical world.

I do not understand something when I look miles beyond me. I see hard brick mountains like me, only smaller. There is grey ground instead of emerald green. I am scared that in the future I will no longer see my emerald trees and sparkling water that make me feel special.

“We’re going to die. We’re going to die. Oh, my god, help us!” Emily shrieked, grabbing onto me like I was her life ring.

“Breathe, while you still can.”
“Oh, my god! Oh, my god!”

The water was creeping upwards to our ankles; slowly approaching, like a tiger ready to pounce on its prey. It was ice-cold, and it hit my skin like knives.
I crawled over to Emily, so we could share body heat. She gasped at the warmth — or was it out of realisation that my wound had grown? My blood was rippling through the water, like a trail of red, staining our wet clothes.

Would this be my last day? My last minute? With Emily, in a cold, dark, small space? My last breath as I drown? I closed my eyes. It was comforting, like a cape of darkness taking me away to a space where there’s no hurt, yet no colours, but no fear, no hate. It almost took me away. Then I opened my eyes. The water was up to our necks.

My head exploded with my screams as the freezing temperature kicked in. Every inch of my body was on fire. Emily was screaming, or shouting. It became more clear every second. These moments were probably my last, I couldn’t help thinking.

“I thought you were dead. Oh, my god, don’t do that again! Talk to me! Oh, my god, talk to me!”

I wasn’t dead… Or had I been? No, I’m already dead. I’m a dead person standing.

“I’m here…I’m here,” I whispered shakily. My body was numb from the cold, and I felt like a block of ice floating on the waters of Antarctica. The water was rising — fast. We both pulled back our heads to breathe the remaining oxygen.

I could already imagine my lifeless body, like a mannequin, drifting in the water. My eyes motionless, my expression the last I had: gasping for air. The feeling of just wanting more air — gulping in water and just wishing you could breathe. It was enough to make me sick. Make me scared. I was about to realise it. My worst fear. Drowning…drowning to death.

“Listen. I have — I have a vision!” Emily gasped, looking like she’d just discovered what happens when you die. I nodded, showing her to carry on. She’d been having visions for the past few months, and they always were right. Not like we needed it anyway. We both knew what was going to happen next.

But her expression shifted. She frowned, but then it clicked. She stood motionless in fear.

“Emily. Emily, what is it? EMILY?”

She struggled for words, tongue twisting in her mouth. Then she looked at me, with the strangest expression. The water was past our ears now, but I could still see it in the corner of my eyes. She smiled.

Emily closed her eyes and whispered into my ear, her breath tickling my ear softly.

“He’s here.”

There was a thunderous bang, then a deafening silence. My ears rang with a screeching noise. I could just make out my brother’s deep muffled breath. I slowly tilted my head but, too scared to look at the damage, I kept my eyes tightly shut as a tear fell down my face. I swallowed nervously. I could feel a lump move deeper into my chest. Still hugging myself tightly in a ball, I jumped at the sudden touch of my mother’s warm hand on my back. Her hand remained resting there, and I began to relax and ease myself out of the ball. Still terrified, I gradually moved out of the shelter and stared at the damage. As I saw what had happened to my home, my heart jumped, and I collapsed to the ground in horror. My heart was in my mouth. I was gasping for breath. The home I had been born in, the home where all my memories were, the home that I loved, had been destroyed in one breath. My brother, who tried his best to stay strong for me, was screaming, punching the ground, bawling his eyes out. I knew that this time I had to stay strong for him. I steadied my breath and got to my feet, then cautiously walked over to my brother and laid my hand on his back, just like my mother had done for me. I could feel his breath slowing. He fell into my arms and whispered, “It’s not fair. Why us?” I didn’t say anything and instead just hugged him tighter to let him know it would be okay.

My brother got to his feet and walked over to our mother. You could tell she was heart-broken; she wasn’t crying or screaming, just silent and lifeless. We sat on the ground for half an hour or so trying to come to terms with what had happened. Starting to shiver, we went to look at what was left of our home. I looked around the side and could make out what a few things were. Nothing was salvageable though. It was gone, all ruined.

I felt like I was living in a new world; a place where fear and horror controlled me. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I saw something amongst the pile of rubble. I picked it up and immediately knew what it was. As I was holding the picture, it felt like my father was there with me. I knew he wasn’t, but the comfort I felt from the presence of him brought a slight smile to my face. I thought back to the countless times that my father had picked me up when I was hurt, made me laugh when I was sad, and played with me when I was lonely. I wanted to cry but instead I went limp. I was standing on the spot rocking myself side to side. I knew then that nothing would be the same.

Heart throbbing, teeth clenched, blood pumping — running — we all run from something in our life. I’m running from someone, chasing me with blue and red lights. I need to hide…buildings. Making a sharp turn, I slide into the nearest skyscraper, running aimlessly up the stairs. I don’t have a plan. I’m just running. Thinking what to do, I lose track, my body on auto pilot. I slam into the railing of the top floor, nearly falling. “Dead end,” says a voice behind me, “Grab her.”

“I won’t go down like this,” I scream, turning around. “There’s nowhere to go,” the police officer says. “Well, there is one way: down,” and with that I lean over the railing and push. The cold night air rushes past my head, whistling in my ear.

My life flashes before my eyes; a distant memory comes to mind — my older brother in space, floating in his suit, and a crackly voice coming in over the radio: “You have two minutes of oxygen left.”

“Can we change that to something happier?” he says.
“No problem. What do you want?”
“Cookies.”
“The cookies will be done in two minutes.”
“Oh, yay, I love cookies,” he says in a quiet voice. Suddenly it fades away.

A voice comes into my head; a familiar quote: ‘There are many types of monsters in this world: monsters who will not show themselves and cause trouble, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood and monsters who always tell lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance; much more cunning than other monsters. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart. They eat even though they’ve never experienced hunger. They study even though they have no interest in academics. They seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such a monster, I would likely be eaten by it because — in truth — I am that monster.’

The cold concrete hits my back. My head feels a jolt of pain. My eyes grow heavy. I want to sleep. Slowly moving my hand to my head, I can feel my back turn wet; from the faint reflection of the mirror shop opposite I can see blood seeping slowly from my head, turning my black hair and white top crimson red. People yelling, kids screaming, mothers crying, the world is fuzzy. I just want to sleep. Medics rush up to me, trying to stop the blood. Someone runs to me crying, “Don’t go to sleep. Stay with me. I don’t want to lose you, not again!”

“Just leave me to sleep,” I manage to say. Hazy images move around me, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. I can’t keep them open for any longer. Darkness wraps around me.

I trudge half-heartedly through the sludge, the fields of upturned earth and musty rust of the barbed wire fences. We hear the cry of dawn breaking. This is the last time we soldiers will walk together. The cries of death, hunger and, most of all, regrets. They surround us, trying to warn us not to keep going. Turn around, RUN!!! It’ll be fun in the army, they said. More play than work in the army, they said. This was all gonna be a jolly good laugh. Whatever fool’s idea this was, it will be a joyful day when someone slaughters them. The soldiers marching next to me seem more nervous than I do. I don’t know a soul, picked out from the rest, good potential apparently — should I be taking that as a compliment? Some of them are singing the national anthem, I think to distract themselves from the life just starting. I’m not joining in. If this is what King and country has given us, then they are as bad as the people who started this. They’re just raising us like pigs to be slaughtered. Slaughtered — that’s my destiny.

We have reached the base — the dark, damp, life-draining trench. The deathtrap. Nevertheless, my order is where I go, and my order is here. The rats are laughing, I can tell. They provide no company, only bring hell. Their spiteful mockery stings as much as their lice.

The stone slabs, cracked and crumbling, carry me down to what is meant to be my home. This isn’t a home. These aren’t my friends. How could I ever consider this bunch of murderers my family? It’s like stepping willingly into a mouse trap, with the worst stench I have ever smelt.

As my foot sinks into the sludge, I feel the soft goo oozing into my feet. These socks won’t last for long. My sergeant hands me a rotting, musty tin. That’s lunch, my only way of survival!

I am blind with regret, fumbling with the others for a space on the small ledge that won’t hold us for long. The murky air surrounds me. Before I came here, to this — this place — I believed that no one deserved to die, no matter what they had done. Now I’m not that sure.

It’s closing in on us — sludge, rats, fleas, and worst of all the lice that get everywhere. It’s like they are having a war of their own. Corpses serve no purpose to us now. They form a barrier from our enemies, but they won’t protect us for long. The mud is squelching, sagging, searching out every crevice of my feet to infest. I look at my watch — the gift my father gave me when he found out I had joined up. I have been here five minutes. Only five minutes. Imagine what five months will do to me… I won’t have to imagine for long. Time ticks, and the mud thickens.

I walked through the hallway, startled at the greenery that had crept up over the years, hiding this place from sight. It had been ages since I had last visited, so long that despite its location being etched into my brain, it had taken a minute to find. Despite the overgrown state, the beauty of this place still lingered, as well as reminders as to what had once been here. I jumped down the rickety steps until I reached the bottom, where a small stream bubbled as it made its way through the room. Along the river were mounds of dirt, overcome with weeds and grass, but when summer came they would burst into bloom, for the copious amounts of bulbs poking through the undergrowth showed as much.
This had always been a special place for me, especially when I was younger, and it had become my refuge over the years.
It saddened me to see the disrepair that had fallen upon this place, and yet it filled me with hope as I heard birds singing around me. As a child, I had been certain that a ghost lived here, and even now, twenty or so years on, I could still feel the creeping sensation down my spine. I turned, looking up at the great arched windows through which light was streaming in, and shivered. Outside the first traces of spring were appearing, but here it stayed trapped in winter.
I roamed my eyes to the ceiling, where huge beams vaulted overhead. Birds of all kinds stared back at me, not making a sound, listening. I took their lead and, cocking my head to the side, heard the gentle footfall of someone else, not far away. I tensed, for this was my domain, and anyone else was — in my eyes — an intruder. Yet as the footsteps grew closer, still no one appeared, and I started to wonder whether I was going mad. It wouldn’t be the first time. I had been so certain of what I had heard, positive that someone else was going to appear any second. But time passed, and the hands on my watch continued to turn, and slowly, slowly, my breathing returned to normal. Then, out of the blue, a shadow cast over me, coming from the centre of the window itself. In the corner of my eye, I saw a silhouette, perched on the ledge: not doing anything, just watching, waiting. Waiting for what? A million questions blinked through my head, and one had only just formed when another came to take its place. The shadow moved, extending an arm towards me. Instinctively I backed away, and yet the figure wasn’t threatening. It was welcoming, as though extending an invitation. Unsure as to what thought possessed me at that point, I started walking towards the figure, and, walking along the small ledge that used to be part of some decorative pattern, I reached the figure, vanishing away, into the light with her.

Myra was perched on the rooftop of the little church in the village, looking down into the graveyard below. It was dark. The only light came through the tall stained glass windows beneath her feet, flickering firelight pictures onto the gravestones and grass, like it was trying to animate a story. The smiling oak tree beside the spire shaded a row of stone tombs, looking like a clown at a party of miserable people dressed in grey.

A slight breeze chilled the back of her neck. She looked down onto the graveyard and saw three silhouettes that had been mysteriously absent until that moment. Two were skinny and tall, like a pencil before it has been used. The third was much shorter and squatter, a little bit more pig-like. Myra watched them, her eyes tight slits, her brows frowning deeply.

The pencils were laughing, their voices rough. The little pig was backing away from them, its entire body shaking, trembling like jelly.

“Go on, Timothy,” one pencil said in a patronising voice. “Hand over the cash.”
“I — I can’t,” the pig replied, his words stumbling over each other, as if each one was a foot trying to escape as fast as possible. “Mum said to bring back all the change.”
“A tenner? What did she give you, a fifty pound note?” snarled the other pencil. “Coz you bought like thirty pounds of crisps for yourself, dincha, you greedy pork pie…”

The pencils laughed cruelly.

Myra’s scowl twisted steadily into a horrifying glare. She looked at the fence that ran round the edge of the churchyard, half wondering if she could get help from someone and save Timothy the pig from being robbed. No, she decided, the pencils were in the way of the exit. Instead, she flattened herself out onto her stomach, tucked out of view, and called out in the most hollow voice she could: Leave this boy alone!

The laughter stopped instantly. She repeated herself. Leave this boy alone!
“Who’s there?” came a voice.

Myra smirked. I am the ghost of — she paused, thinking, and then hurriedly continued — ten pound notes! Leave this boy alone or I will haunt your dreams!

There was the sound of shuffling feet. Then, a high-pitched voice whispered, “Can ghosts actually do that?”
“I don’t want to stay and find out!” wailed someone else. “Run for it!”

A series of echoing thumps followed, gradually fading into the distance. Then, a more gentle voice called, “Who is actually there?”
Myra lifted her head up, and looked down at the boy. He looked less pig-like now that there were no incredibly slim people to compare him to.

“You go to my school,” he said suddenly. “Thanks for helping me.”
“No problem,” she replied. “But get going, before more thieves show up!”

The boy nodded, like he understood. “Alright. See you on Monday.” And, almost as cheerfully as the smiling tree, he walked down the path, and was lost to sight.