“I had only been an archivist at The Interior Museum for a couple of weeks. Everybody I worked with warned me about working too late in the library. The warnings were always vague and seemed childish: like they wanted to give me a scare.
It was sometime after 9pm when it felt like somebody was watching over my shoulder as I read. Several times I looked behind me but I saw nothing. As the night went on and I kept reading, my eyelids got heavier and heavier. Then, when I was about to close the book, a small, shadowy, black tendril lightly tugged at the corner of the page and turned it. I immediately snapped out of my stupor. Startled, I looked behind me again but I didn’t see anything except the shadows receding from the light of the desk lamp back into the rows and aisles.”
Deborah Gomez, 2017