In the Library

  In the Library

  By

  Kim Iverson

  A Few Other Titles By Kim Iverson

  Always Consequences

  Anora

  The Culling Cycle

  Dark Moon Dynasty Universe

  Dark Illusions Series

  Dark Illusions: The Beginning – Extended Edition

  Dark Illusions: The Next Chapter – Extended Edition

  Dark Illusions: The Final Chapter – Extended Edition

  Enchanting The Moon Series

  Don’t Go Far

  Witness to the Moon

  Claiming the Enchantress

  Dynasty Of Moirae Series

  Blood By Night

  Law of the Beast

  Birth of a Princess

  Eternal Souls series

  Fury of a Queen

  Discovery of an Enchantress

  War of the Lycaen

  The Guardian of Life Series

  Hope of the Future

  Daughter of the Red Planet

  Ancient Scars

  Under Empty Stars

  The Alchemist Series

  Cessation

  Mitosis

  Novelettes

  Immortal Separation

  Short Stories

  Her Soul’s Destiny

  Trust Your Instincts

  At Night They Come

  The Boy with the Lighter

  Story of Her Career

  Compilations

  Into The Midst

  In the Library is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, stories, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Kim Iverson

  Published by Kimberly Sue Iverson

  Edited by Creech Enterprises

  Cover design by Kim Iverson

  Image used for cover from Pixabay

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at the website below.

  http://kimberlysueiverson.com

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About The Story

  About Kim Iverson

  Chapter One

  FAINT, IT CAME. NOTHING more than a whisper. Nothing more than the barest of fomps. Opal turned toward it, allowing it to guide her through the deep inky chill. No time existed. No noise. Nothing at all.

  She waited.

  Once more it came. Not as faint as it’d been. Fomp. A thud without echo. Not as gentle as before, stronger. Opal took a step, but stopped. For a long moment she was concerned she stepped the wrong way. Wasn’t sure whether or not she’d even heard it.

  Her nose tickled with the scent of the balsam fir in front of her. She took a deep breath in, so grateful for that beautiful encouraging hand from God, from whoever, wherever. The scent eased down inside of her and filled her with a touch of warmth. Not much, but so little she appreciated it in ways there were no words to describe.

  That . . . that was a scent that twitched her lips.

  Fomp . . . tick.

  She felt her eyes mist over. Actually felt her heart skip a beat. It was beginning. Again. There was truly no guarantee that it would happen. That he’d be there. That she’d know where to go. No guarantees were made in this place she called home. Didn’t really know how to define where she was, in truth.

  Fomp . . . tock.

  The intensity of the fir drifted around her. She took another slow step forward and as she did, caught site of her bare feet appearing through the veil. The white dress that forever adorned her body swept back and forth.

  Fommmbbb . . . donggg.

  Louder. It was getting louder. A crack of a log in the fire. She reached out and there they were. Hands. Attached to arms, attached to body. She slid her hands up her arms, feeling the stirrings of warmth in her flesh. Didn’t feel it inside, but she could feel it through the flesh on her palms. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of gratitude for the guides. For this one more time on top of all the rest.

  The grandfather clock thrummed ever louder as the long golden pendulum tick-tocked back and forth, and the old piece sounded its seventh note. Then came the scent of the fire. Ahead of her, as she slowly stepped forward, the inky gloom gave way to the barest glow.

  A gentle smile touched her lips. Here and there to the right of that glow, in another corner of gloom bloomed the smallest fairies as the tiny bulbs flourished into view. Over and around and deep inside the branches the golden glow of the lights filtered through the shadows, glowing brighter and brighter with each step forward.

  Ding . . . donnnnggg. . . .

  The sounds of the clock thrummed through the murky haze, sounding far more like the actual grandfather clock she’d known and loved all her life. Every night when her grandfather would sit down in front of the large fireplace, he’d begin to read a bedtime story, just for her.

  “One more story, Papa!” she’d beg and plead.

  “One is all you get, child,” he would chastise, with his large chest and booming voice that would intimidate so many of his colleagues. But the merriment in those eyes, beneath that trimmed and kept neat white beard and mustache, never failed to express his true feelings to his favorite little grandchild.

  Oh, how she loved those times so. How she’d close her eyes and listen to his voice, sometimes sitting on his lap, breathing in the scent cast from the fire. The smoke from his pipe as it sat idly by, awaiting a renewal.

  Ding . . . dong. . . .

  And there the smoke lazed about her legs, drawing her toward the fireplace blooming in front of her. Out of the shadow grew a large wing backed chair to the right with a man holding a book in his lap, his legs crossed, lost momentarily in the story.

  His melodious voice read the passages in the book slowly and carefully. The hazel eyes intent on the words. He always began to read a chapter previous during the chimes of the midnight hour. Knowing she would not hear it until shadow gave way to light.

  The Christmas tree all decorated in red and green. With toy soldiers marching, coal train chugging merrily along. Spread out before her the balsam fir was as grand as it ever was. Beside it, beyond that window filled the snow white landscape. Small flakes lazed about beyond the small wooden panes, taking their time to pile above old iron rails, large green hedges. The edges of the window were frosted over. A large balsam fir garland adorned the window, the small needles strong and steady.

  The grandfather clock once more thrummed loudly through her body. Her eyes watered and there he was. Dressed in white collared shirt, black pants, black shined shoes as he always sat. Every Christmas Eve as the clock struck midnight, heralding in another Christmas, as he always did. This time in his hands was A Christmas Story.

  Apt, she mused, in joy. Joy that she could feel at last. Not that nothingness she had grown far too used to. Not that everlasting chill that remained inside of her bones until the striking of the midnight hour by t
he old grandfather clock.

  Christmas. It was really Christmas.

  Once more the grandfather clock chimed, welcoming her into his library, bringing her back to life, to him. Her husband, her partner, her everything. She remembered so much more than he, but even then, her memories hiccupped at times.

  His head raised from the book as she appeared in the library, his eyes capturing hers. Once a study that once belonged to her grandfather. A slow smile spread over his features and he set aside the book, stood, and came to her, embracing her in a hug that stole away everything. All loss, all pain.

  “God I’ve missed you,” Carl whispered, pressing a kiss to her head.

  Opal tightened her arms around him. “I miss you every minute.”

  The grandfather clock reminded them they were on borrowed time. Carl cleared his throat, then moved back to the seat to grab the book. This time he didn’t sit back down and begin to read there. Instead he stood next to her, slid an arm around her and began to read.

  She said, “I love you,” as he did. He returned it between two sentences, but continued to read. Then paused quickly to kiss her on the mouth. Finally, he did sit. Crossing his legs, he lay the book on open palm, reading aloud. She sat in front of the warm fire, legs tucked beneath her, and listened to the voice read her the story of the old scrooge. Breathing in the wondrous smell of the fire, the tree, a man who could easily look to be her grandfather at times.

  The rules were simple. At midnight, he must be in his library reading aloud. As the clock struck midnight and the thrumming began it would lead her back home. If she had his voice to guide her and the chimes from the grandfather clock to lure her to the library, she’d make it. Otherwise, she drifted in the darkness she created, suspended in time from that fateful night.

  He read for one hour. One hour was all they had. If he paused more than five minutes, then the flames would begin again before their hour was up. One by one the flames licked at her flesh, burning and aching. Over time she’d learned to suppress outward signs of the pain, but then had no need to. They had learned very well how to take a moment’s break for them to connect, but get back into the story.

  And they’d learned. After three minutes and thirty-three seconds the flames began. By the five minute mark she would be back in shadow. Mindless, numb, nothing, darkness. Drifting. No noise. No others. Absolute maddening nothingness.

  As he read her the story, he uncrossed his legs and she lay her head against his knee. Needing to touch him, needing to be near him. They always had so little time together. It never felt like enough.

  A shadow flicked past her field of vision outside the window. Opal flinched. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed back into the story. Heavy thump thump thump sounds came from behind the chair her husband sat in. They paused beyond the door.

  Beneath the frame the light flickered in and out. Go away! Leave me be! She reached up to her husband’s fingers and pulled his hand into her own. It wasn’t enough. She climbed up onto his lap and sat in his lap, curling into his body, lying her head on his shoulder. Not as little as once she’d been with her grandfather in this same place, but it still brought her comfort.

  Carl adjusted his body and her, the book, his arm, so he could wrap his arm around her waist to steady the book. “You all right?” he asked between passages.

  “Yes,” she whispered, watching the shadows among the floor. She could not see the frame any longer, but the shadows danced there, listening, waiting.

  Leave us!

  At last, the black splotches along the deep-toned wood curled and twisted, sliding away, growing fainter, then were replaced by a light. Demons, everywhere.

  Opal reached to kiss Carl’s cheek. He caught her chin in his hand, feeling her shakiness. She hadn’t even noticed he set the book down. “You’re sure?”

  Her eyes misted over. “I’m just incredibly happy to be here.”

  “I never meant for this to happen. Never,” he said, his own eyes misting over.

  All this time. For so long he was of the belief of his guilt. Her bottom lip trembled. She wanted so much to take that away. To erase whatever it was his mind convinced him of time and time again. She wrapped her hands around his face, feeling time slipping away. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  Carl grabbed hold of the book, also sensing the time disappearing. In between sentences he said, “I have everything to apologize for,” and the hard businessman truly believed his words. She eyed the black formal jacket lying over the back of his chair. Dropped to the face filled with stubble from days of grief and no shaving.

  If I told you the truth, would I lose you forever?

  She wondered. Wondered time and again what would happen if she told him what she knew. What she remembered. Would he hate her for lying to him? Would he think she’d been because of her omission of truth? Would he punish her and refuse to read ever again? What would happen to him?

  This she faced. The worse of all questions . . . what would happen to him?

  She blinked and the shelves behind his head were blackened, covered in soot. She ducked her head into his shoulder, risked another look, and took a deep breath. Beautiful golden binding, leather bound hard books. Years of collections, years of memories, centuries of lifetimes lived. Time was wasting away. No more discussions to be had. Inside of her she knew . . . time was coming to a close again.

  As he read, she told him, “I don’t want to go. I want to stay.”

  In a deep grating voice, filled with aggravation, he held back no more and stormed, “And we both know you can’t. All because of me. Just say it already.” The anger grew and he stood, taking her with him, then flopping her down to her feet. “Blame me as you wish. Tell me all the things that you’re refusing to say, Opal!”

  Her frustration blew and her tears formed. “What am I to? Would you rather I say what you want?”

  He’d quit reading. He threw the book aside. It hadn’t happened this way in too long. And this time her pain touched her feet first, but she didn’t hold back. Their time was already up anyway.

  “Yes!” he bellowed. “Just say it!”

  “Fine!” she yelled more from the pain of the fire than anything else. “You killed me!” she said what he wanted, gave him what he thought he needed to hear. It destroyed her to say it aloud.

  And then the hour was up. Around the edges of her vision the beautifully decorated Christmas tree began to fade into flame. The shelves of books wrapping the length of the room. The snow beyond the windows.

  All but Carl faded to black. His eyes held her as if hoping to keep her there. “I don’t exist without you,” he whispered, fading, fading, gone.

  As long as they obeyed the rules, she didn’t face the pain of the fire all over again. She didn’t face the consequences of their actions. The consequences of his.

  Chapter Two

  TIME DIDN’T EXIST FOR her. It simply was. Now was all she ever knew. Not necessarily in thought, but in all else. In thoughts she could think away to her heart’s content at times. Other times her mind seemed to disappear as well. Those were the moments which worried her the most. If she did that on occasion, would it happen more? What would happen if she lost more and more time that way? What if one day she was never to be again?

  Wasn’t as if she existed anyway. She was caught in the in between. Between life, between death. Suspended in time, suspended in this everlasting nothingness. It came with the book she’d read, and she didn’t know if there was an expiration date or not. She hadn’t got that far, hadn’t read the details. Only attempted to suspend time with the book she’d found.

  On that fateful night, she’d been grabbing for anything. When she saw, suspend time, she began to read aloud. Not knowing that suspend time didn’t mean save her life. It meant in the literal, suspend time. Exist in the in between. That was the thing with dark spells. One had to be careful. They could be the most literal things ever on the planet.

  The book was old. Beyon
d old. It was near ancient. She should’ve known better, should’ve thought. But at least . . . at least she was still able to hold him, touch him, be with him. Despite being a huge reason for her being here.

  It was Christmas Eve that changed her life and brought her to this place. Christmas Eve that changed her world forever.

  Carl had met her in the hallway of her grandfather’s home. It had been such a grand home in its day. Filled with balls and lavish affairs, dinners, and gatherings around the holidays. Families came from all over to celebrate. Her grandfather and grandmother had been inviting and warm guests before Ruth Browning, his wife, had passed. Then . . . then Edward had grown bitter, cold, a real scrooge.

  A man she cursed so many times, but once had loved so dearly. Her grandfather had given her and Carl this home. Then wanted to take it away. She would never allow that to happen. She’d never allow him entrance to the beautiful place she knew!

  Carl was so happy that night. He’d smiled and asked her if she would meet him in the library. There was something he wanted to show her, but first he wanted to get her a present. Once a study, Carl had converted it into a full-on library and sitting room for the two of them to sit by the fire, read, talk, and enjoy the place she’d enjoyed the most while growing up.

  She’d agreed.

  It began shortly before midnight. The scent of smoke filed the air, but she didn’t think anything of it. After all, there was a fireplace in the room. The entire room smelled of it. Until it was too late.

  She’d been waiting in anticipation, walking barefoot in her white dress, having almost went to bed. They’d had a beautiful party earlier and she’d just cleaned up, then headed to get ready for bed. Carl was known for little surprises, so she was happy, so so happy, just waiting to see what he’d had planned.

  A little trinket? A new necklace? Something he’d found in one of the old rooms of Ruth’s that he thought she may enjoy? More and more of the rooms were locked down after Ruth’s passing so Opal and Carl constantly found little presents in the rooms when they ventured through the house, as if Ruth was saying hello.