When he reached the landing, he looked down the final (light of stairs and hesitated.
It was dark down there.
The globe overhead cast its light on the first few steps, laded, and left the lower ones in murky gloom. The fixture below was a dull, gray ball, its bulb either turned off or dead.
He'd seen a movie last summer, where a monster lurked under a staircase. He leaned over the railing and peered down. There did appear to be an open space beneath the stairs.
Don't be a jerk, he told himself. He took a deep breath and charged down into the darkness, more certain with each clamoring footfall that he was not alone in the stairwell. The bottom of the stairs took him by surprise, lie thought there was one more step, but there wasn't. His right foot pounded down hard on the floor, sending pain up his leg. He stumbled forward, his shoulder driving open the door, and fell sprawling as the door slammed the wall with a stunning crash.
He picked up his glasses and glanced at the lenses. They hadn't broken. He put them on, and slid the clip-ons back into his shirt pocket. Then he got to his feet. Rubbing his.ore knee, he looked down the long aisle ahead of him. He glanced to the sides, down narrow lanes between book-helves. He saw no one. More important, no one had seen him; he felt like a clumsy idiot.
Klutz.
It was like the night he'd tripped Heather.
Good thing Julie wasn't here to ride him about it.
On the other hand, he almost wished she was here, except for a buzzing sound from the fluorescent lights, the room was silent. It's supposed to be silent, he reminded himself. This is a library. But somehow it seemed too silent. He strongly suspected that nobody was down here but him.
With a glance at the lettering on the shelves to his left, he realized that the witchcraft book was probably somewhere down that aisle. He should find it, grab it, and hurry upstairs. But the thought of the stairwell sent a shudder through him.
Sooner or later, he would have to face it. Unless he waited down here long enough for Tanya to come. The librarian knew where he was. She'd tell Tanya, or maybe she'd come down herself in a while. Or some students might show up and. For all Benny knew, there might already be students down here, silently searching the shelves. If he found one, he could follow him out.
This is really dumb, he thought, as he started walking slowly up the center aisle. He glanced each way into the narrow spaces between the shelves.
There's nothing in the stairwell. I'm just yellow.
So I'm yellow. If there just happens to be someone else down here and I just happen to see him leaving, I'll just happen to follow along. No harm in that. Nobody has to know what I'm doing. Nobody will ever know, if I don't tell.
He was halfway to the end of the aisle without spotting anyone when he noticed a sound like someone panting. He froze. The sound seemed to come from his right, somewhere not far ahead. Between those shelves. If he took just one big step, he could probably see.
It was a quick, harsh gasping sound that someone might make after running hard. Then a moan that made his skin prickle.
He knew he should take that single step forward. Or better yet, stride boldly by and just happen to glance over as he passed. But he couldn't. Instead, he backed silently away.
After several paces, he ducked into the stacks to the left. Hidden by the ceiling-high shelves, he made his way quickly to the far wall. There, he turned left and rushed back the way he'd come. He passed between the final set of shelves. Crouching at the end, he peered down the center aisle. He saw no one. He glanced behind him at the door to the stairs, only a couple of yards away.
Maybe he should run for it. The stairwell frightened him, but now it seemed no worse than the room itself. He had to get out of here before. The book. He needed the book. If he left without it, all this would've been for nothing.
He eased backward. The scrap paper was a crumpled, sodden ball in his hand. He picked it open, spread it out, and compared the series of call letters to those on a book near his shoulder.
He must be close. Standing, he sidestepped away from the aisle and scanned the labeled spines. The search led him deeper into the stacks, farther and farther from the door. As his eyes moved over the books, he listened intently, ready to bolt. He heard nothing but the buzz of the fluorescent lights.
On tiptoes, head tilted far back, he squinted at the top row of books. He couldn't quite make out the lettering. It's probably up there, he thought. If it is, I'll have to climb for it. The shelves were metal, about four feet long, deep enough to hold books on both sides, secured at each corner to upright rods. They looked very sturdy. Benny grabbed a forward edge, and tugged it. There was no wobble at all. He wouldn't try climbing, though, until he was sure he had to.
He stepped to the left, dropped to his knees, and stared at the bottom row of books. The first line of letters was right, but the numbers below. Turning his head, he read the titles: Black Magic, A Practical Guide to Sorcery, Step into Darkness, Tarot Made Easy, Witches and Warlocks, Witch's Spells and Potions.
Great!
He didn't see much use for the tarot book, and he had no idea what Step into Darkness might be about. A glance at the table of contents. No, he could do that once he was safe upstairs. He'd take it, and the other four.
As he reached for them, the books shot forward, knocking into his hands and tumbling against his knees. A bony, blue-veined hand snatched him by the wrist.
The lights went out.
Shrieking, he thrust his other hand forward, ramming books from the higher shelf into the darkness, hearing volumes fall on the other side. He tried again, this time finding the shelf's edge, shoving at it, trying to brace himself as the fierce grip drew his lower hand forward.
She wants to drag me through!
With all the strength in his left arm, he tried to hold himself back. "Let go!" he yelled. "Help!" The tugging grew more powerful until he felt as if it might rip his arm from the socket. His other arm gave out. He flew forward, head bashing the edge of the upper shelf, then fell onto his back.
"No!" he cried as he was dragged between the shelves.
In a frenzy of panic, he reached out with his left hand, felt the dry stiff fingers clutching his other wrist, pried one away. There was no yell of pain. Just the sharp brittle pop, like the snap of a twig, as the finger broke off. The grip loosened. He jerked his wrist free, whipped his arms down, and grabbed the bookshelf edge above his chest. With a quick yank, he thrust himself out. The metal edge scraped the top of his head as he sat up.
He lunged to his feet, turning in the direction of the door — he hoped. To the left? Yes! It had to be! He reached through the darkness, slapping at the books to keep his bearings. Then the books stopped. He threw himself against the wall, felt along it, found the door. He flung it open and plunged into the stairwell.
Clawing blindly, he smashed his forearm on the banister. He grabbed the railing. Hand over hand, he followed it upward. The entire stairwell was dark. At the first landing, he dared to glance back. Only blackness. He blinked to be sure his eyes were open. He heard nothing but his own rasping breath and thudding heart, but a chill spread over his skin like a spray of ice water. She's there, she's coming!
He charged up the next flight of stairs, trying not to scream, and saw a thin strip of light from under the door. He shouldered the door open.