Hired as the Night Librarian: A Job from Hell

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I loved horror stories and haunted legends, sure—but only for the thrill. When I saw the “Night Librarian Wanted – St. Augustine’s Archive” ad online, it sounded perfect: quiet, solitary work, good pay, and the added bonus of being surrounded by books.

The old library sat at the edge of town, a Gothic relic with gargoyle spouts and heavy oak doors that groaned when they opened. The townsfolk called it “The Library After Dark”, always with a knowing look. I thought it was just small-town superstition.

When I arrived for my first shift, the daytime librarian—a frail old woman named Mrs. Cranleigh—gave me a faded binder. On the cover, written in black ink:

“Rules for the Night Librarian.”

I laughed at first. Rules? For a library job? But the seriousness in her eyes made me stop smiling.

“Follow them exactly,” she said. “And if a book opens on its own… close it slowly and whisper, ‘Not tonight.’”

I thought she was joking, until I noticed her trembling hands.

Rule #1: Begin your rounds at exactly 10:30 PM.

When the clock struck 10:30, I did as the rulebook said. The corridors stretched long and dim, lined with thousands of ancient books. The library smelled like old parchment, candle wax, and dust older than history itself.

My flashlight flickered as I passed the East Wing, where the rare manuscripts were kept. A cold draft swept over me, though all windows were sealed shut. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a faint sound—like whispering.

At first, I thought it was the wind brushing through the vents. But the longer I listened, the more the whispers shaped into words—soft, pleading, indecipherable. I quickened my pace.

That was my first mistake.

Rule #2: Do not respond to whispers after midnight.

I didn’t know what time it was when I heard the voice say my name.
“Eli…”

It came from between the shelves of the Philosophy Section, where the lights were dimmer. I froze. My name isn’t common here—how could anyone know it?

I aimed my flashlight down the aisle, but the beam hit only empty air and rows of dusty books. Then a book fell from the top shelf.

It landed open, pages fluttering as if something invisible had touched them. My pulse thundered.

Remembering the binder, I knelt, closed the book slowly, and whispered, “Not tonight.”

The air warmed again. The whispering stopped.

I laughed nervously, telling myself it was all in my head. But when I stood, there was a fresh footprint on the dusty floor—bare, small, and wet.

Rule #3: Never let the reading lamp flicker three times.

By 11:30 PM, I was sitting at the front desk, doing my best to focus on the inventory log. The fluorescent lamp above me flickered twice.

I froze.

Then it flickered a third time.

Suddenly, every lamp in the hall went out, leaving the entire library in darkness. My heartbeat echoed like footsteps. I grabbed the flashlight and swung it toward the main reading table.

A figure sat there.

She looked like a woman from another century—thin, dressed in a gray gown, her face hidden by long hair. Before I could speak, she raised her hand and pointed toward me.

The flashlight flickered once and died.

I screamed and ran to the stairwell. The lights came back on, but the chair at the reading table was empty again. Only an open book remained. Its title burned into my brain—
“Borrowers of the Soul.”

Rule #4: Never check out a book after 12:00 AM.

Mrs. Cranleigh had warned me about this one specifically. “No matter who asks,” she’d said, “no one gets a book after midnight.”

At 12:05, the front desk bell rang.

A man stood there—tall, gaunt, wearing a long coat soaked with rain. His face looked pale under the dim yellow light.

“Good evening,” he said politely. “I’m looking for a book I left here long ago.”

Something about his voice made my stomach twist. I asked which book.

He smiled. “The Borrowers of the Soul.”

The same title from before.

I told him the system was closed for the night. He leaned forward, whispering, “Then perhaps… you can lend me yourself?”

I blinked—and he was gone. Just gone. The bell above the desk jingled softly as if someone had walked out.

Rule #5: Always end your shift with the closing prayer.

I thought it was silly superstition, but the binder insisted I read it before locking up. The prayer was handwritten, ink smudged with age:

“Guard the gate, bind the page,
Keep the restless in their cage.
Words are doors, and doors can speak—
Silence them until next week.”

I read it aloud, voice shaking. For a moment, the library seemed to breathe—a long sigh, like a building settling. Then, everything went still.

I left the binder on the desk and clocked out at 6:00 AM, grateful to see daylight again.

The Second Night

I shouldn’t have gone back. Every instinct told me to quit. But the pay was too good, and the rational part of me kept insisting it was stress, not spirits.

At exactly 10:30, I began my rounds again.

This time, the whispering started earlier. Books shifted on their own. A soft tapping followed me down the aisles, like someone walking barefoot behind me.

In the History Section, I found a chair pulled out, an old journal resting on the table. Its pages were filled with entries—each one signed by different names. The last entry read:

“Night Librarian, 1892. Last seen shelving Borrowers of the Soul.”

The air turned cold enough to see my breath.

When I turned the page, the next entry was blank—except for a single line written freshly in ink:
“Night Librarian, 2025 — Eli.”

My name. My hand trembled. I hadn’t written it.

Rule #6: Do not look at the mirrors after 1:00 AM.

I didn’t remember seeing any mirrors before, but suddenly, there were several tall ones at the end of the hallway—ornate, golden frames reflecting the dim light.

Something moved in the reflection behind me.

When I turned, no one was there. But in the mirror, I saw the pale man again—the one from the desk. He stood just over my shoulder, eyes hollow, smile stretched too wide.

“Time to return what you borrowed,” he whispered.

The reflection’s hand reached out of the glass. I dropped the flashlight and ran.

Every lamp in the library burst with a sharp pop. The whispers rose again—angry, hungry, alive.

I bolted through the doors and didn’t stop until I reached the street.

The Final Entry

That was three nights ago. I haven’t slept since. My phone rings every night at exactly 12:05 AM. When I answer, all I hear is the sound of pages turning.

Yesterday, a parcel arrived at my apartment with no return address. Inside was a single book wrapped in brown paper.