The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko

in here to clean house since yesterday? I raised my camera and clicked. My heart valves flapped like wild wings as I wandered further, finger finding the capture button for every little thing I saw. It wasn’t long before I stopped collecting the pictures, instead leaving them in my wake to come back to later. Reloading the camera from the packs in my bag became rote. I was too lost in what I saw; the books, the sheer magnitude of the space, all contained and standing away from me with apprehensive beauty. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, and only a trace of what I dreamed of.
    Aim and click. I’m suddenly girl-Hansel, Polaroids my bread crumbs in this looming forest whose trees have been pulped and printed. I stopped at the far wall, got a good close-up shot of the antler-bedecked clock, and leaned in closer to see that the antlers were attached to tiny, prancing deer, encircling the mother-of-pearl face. I suddenly realized that the clock’s ticking was counting the seconds with my pulse. I pulled out my cell phone, and sure enough, it was keeping perfect time. I leaned in even closer, impulse dictating I touch the clock face to make sure it was really there—
    Something flew across the room and smacked the clock just where I was about to touch it. I wheeled backwards, accidentally sending my camera flash in the direction of the onslaught before throwing myself behind a reading table. I breathed hard, looking around wildly and finding no one before I shakily scooped up the last five photos I’d taken.
    I shuffled the pile. There was a picture of the curving twin iron staircases snaking up to the library’s second level; another of the never-ending row of shelves captured from a strange angle, then two more of the ghostly, untouched tables . . . but I doubled back. There was something crouching behind the staircase, which was very close to my right. I looked from the picture to the stairs, squinting. A shadow. A face.
    It wasn’t clear enough, though, whatever it was. A reflection of light off a lamp, maybe. I sighed and berated myself for being such an idiot, acting like I was trapped in a Nancy Drew mystery and was about to be set upon by a flock of ghosts. I got to my feet and decided to go after all the pictures I’d left behind.
    But after taking one look at where I’d only just come from, I froze. No pictures. How could I have expected otherwise? There was something in these walls slowly eating away at the reality it inhabited, and I’d become a part of it.
    A creaking echoed from behind me. I stood mannequin-still, eyes and head swivelling around slowly.
    â€œI know you’re there! I’m not stupid!”
    My defiance ricocheted through the empty building. When it boomeranged back, it sounded almost as dumb as the idea of coming here alone. I wasn’t about to be scared into leaving, though. Not by a long shot. A role reversal of cat and mouse was imminent.
    Swallowing my suspicion, I went the casual route, strolling around and taking more pictures at my leisure. With a pause, I glanced back at the ground a few feet behind me. Pictures gone. Of course. I turned and kept on, walking down the centre aisle, aiming up.
Click.
Spit
.
Click
.
Spit
. Reload. Pause. Turn. Gone. Okay, time for plan B. I started snapping pictures feverishly, stepping backwards as the pile of fresh photos at my feet grew. They didn’t disappear, and for a second I felt vindicated.
    Almost, anyway, until I backed up into something. Someone.
    Whoever it was didn’t even give me a fair chance to turn around. There were hands suddenly pinioned around my arm and torso, pushing and trying to pry the camera out of my hands. When I couldn’t fight any longer and had to let go of the camera, the momentum of letting go drove me forwards in a half spin. I caught myself. It was
him.
    He experimented with the camera, recoiling and shocked when a picture came out. At that he grinned,