At 9:47 PM, three of the fluorescent lights in the reading room's dome had burned out. The remaining ones hummed overhead, casting a sickly white glow on the tile floor.
I was alone on the second floor, pushing the book return cart. Starting from the backmost shelves, I stuck labels on spines and pushed crooked books flush with the shelf edge.
I'd been a temp at this district library for three years. Reshelving before closing was my job—no skill required, just mindless work that felt satisfying for an obsessive like me.
Literature, social sciences, natural sciences—I swept through each section, returning dog-eared, reversed, and misfiled books to their rightful places.
The shelves stood 2.1 meters tall. I had to tiptoe to reach the top row, where dusty old books lived—county records, bound volumes of local literary journals, 1980s photography collections. They crowded together in a gray row, untouched for years. I always finished the top shelf quickly, just aligning the spines outward. No one ever pulled those down to read.
That night, as I ran my hand from left to right across the top row, something caught my finger. A book. Standing upright.
A red-brown hardcover book, standing in the middle of a row of flat books—like a soldier at attention in a line of sleeping men. Gilded letters on the spine had faded almost to nothing, but I could just make out: *Civic Folk Tales*.
I didn't think much of it. Probably a reader had pulled it out, read halfway, and stuck it back carelessly. Happened all the time. A quick fix.
I pulled it out, laid it flat on top of the others, and pushed the row straight. A fine layer of dust came off on my fingers. I brushed them clean and moved the cart to the next shelf.
The following night, before closing, I reshelved again. The top row was flat as before—but the red-brown hardcover stood upright again. Same spot, same angle. Like a person standing rigid among a row of lying bodies.
I froze for a second. Maybe I hadn't set it properly last night, and gravity had pulled it upright. Thick-spined books sometimes wobbled when laid flat, looking like they stood.
I pulled it out, laid it flat again, and wedged it between two thick books to keep it from slipping.
Third night. 9:50 PM. I reached the top shelf. The red-brown spine jutted up from the flat row again—straight, like a thorn.
I stared at it for several seconds, unease creeping in. This time I didn't rush to fix it. I moved the adjacent books aside and looked. My skin crawled.
To the right of the standing book, there was a gap—palm-sized, maybe three or four centimeters wide—like someone had just pulled a book out.
The gap was fresh. The dust patterns on neighboring spines were broken, revealing a dark, dust-free strip of cloth—the shelf's original color, exactly one book-width wide.
Last night, that spot had been full. I remembered pushing the row straight.
I stood in front of the shelf, the old fluorescent light buzzing overhead. The air smelled of old paper, dust, and faint lemon cleaner. The reading room was dead silent except for wind rustling through sycamore leaves outside. My breathing sounded heavy.
I pulled out the standing book. It was heavy. The gilded letters on the cover felt concave to the touch. I flipped to the back—a worn checkout card was taped inside, white cardboard yellowed and brittle.
Every slot on the card was empty. No checkouts ever. I could even see the library's founding date in tiny print at the bottom: 1987.
This book had been sitting here like a decoration, waiting for over thirty years. Waiting for what? I didn't know.
I laid it on top of the row, turned to push the cart away. Two steps.
*Snap.*
The sound was soft, but crystal clear in the quiet reading room—like something being flipped from flat to upright. It came from behind me, from the top shelf.
I stood there, hand on the cart handle, not turning around. The muscles in the back of my neck tightened. *Snap*—a common sound. Books spring upright sometimes. But I'd laid it flat. No external force. How could it spring up on its own?
I took a deep breath and turned around.
On the top shelf, the red-brown hardcover stood upright again. Perfectly straight, perfectly still—as if it had always been that way.
I laid it flat again, stared at it for two full minutes. It lay there quietly, motionless.
I stepped back. Two steps, then more, until I reached the reading room door. Looking back, it was still flat. I turned off the lights, locked the door, and went downstairs. My steps were quick. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway clicked on ahead of me, then off behind—click, click, click.
The next afternoon, I sat in the break room with a tea cup, staring into space. Old Zhou, who worked the same shift, pushed the door open. "Early today?" he asked. I grunted, then said, "Zhou, does anyone ever touch the old books on the second floor's top shelf?"
Old Zhou was fifty-eight, worked here over twenty years—knew everything. He twisted open his thermos and blew on the tea leaves. "What old books?"
I told him about the folk tales book—standing upright the first night, standing again after I laid it flat, the empty gap beside it, the *snap* sound when I turned away. My throat was dry as I spoke; I sipped water twice.
Old Zhou finished, screwed the thermos cap tight, and looked at me. His expression was hard to read—flat, but with something else underneath. "That book—the one on the far right of the top shelf, red-brown hardcover?"
I nodded.
"Don't touch it again," he said.
"Why?"
Old Zhou leaned against the counter, looking up at the ceiling like he was searching for words. Finally, he said, "That book is reserved for someone."
"He comes every night, after dark, leaves before dawn. No one's ever seen what he looks like. The old director set the rule—leave that book standing on the top shelf, don't lay it flat. It's saving him a spot."
I stared. "Comes every night? No one's seen him?" I said, "Zhou, you're scaring me."
Old Zhou laughed—a dismissive laugh, the kind you give when someone's overreacting. "Scare you? I've worked here twenty years. The old director told me this, and he repeated it when he retired. Just that one book—leave it standing, don't touch. You move it, it just waits for you to put it back."
"Has anyone moved it before?" I asked.
Old Zhou thought. "Yeah. An intern came a few years back, didn't know the rule, laid it flat. What happened? That kid quit after three days, said family issues. When he left, his face was white as a sheet. Didn't say a word to me."
That night before closing, I pushed the cart as usual. When I reached the top shelf, the red-brown hardcover stood there quietly. The surrounding books were neatly flat—no gaps, no empty spots. Like nothing had happened.
I stood in front of the shelf. The light buzzed overhead. Air from the vent ruffled the edges of the labels in my hand. I reached out and picked it up.
Opening the cover revealed yellowed pages—brittle, flaking at the edges. Inside were folk tales: water ghosts taking victims, headless sedan chairs, midnight bells. The type was lead-printed; some pages had ink bleed, blurring the text.
I closed the book, flipped to the checkout card. Blank. Thirty years blank.
I wanted to put it back, standing, in its spot. But my hand hesitated. If I put it back, was that the end? I reshelved here every night. What if it fell tomorrow? Or the next day? Would I keep fixing it?
I don't know what came over me. I slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat. The book was small enough to fit, bulging slightly. I wanted to take it home, see what kind of book waited thirty years on a shelf.
I locked the reading room, went downstairs, and rode my bike home. The night wind was cool. I rode fast. The book bumped against my ribs with every pedal stroke. At a red light, I stopped and touched the pocket—hard, still there.
Home at 10:40. I lived in a single room in an old apartment complex. I turned on the light, pulled out the book, and set it on the table. The fluorescent bulb was even dimmer than the library's, casting a dull glow on the red-brown cover. The gold letters looked dead.
I boiled water and made instant noodles. As I ate, I flipped through the book. The folk tales were poorly written—just transcribed oral stories, some paragraphs disjointed. After half an hour, something fell out.
A bookmark—yellowed cardboard, with a few lines in fountain pen. The ink had faded to pale blue, but readable: "I borrowed this book and was unable to return it. My sincere apologies. Also, the story on page thirty-seven is my own experience." The signature was blurred, water-damaged—only a faint stroke remained.
I turned to page thirty-seven. The story was titled "Night Shift."
It told of a night watchman at some office building who heard page-turning sounds from the next room every midnight. He'd go check—no one there, lights off.
But a book on the shelf always stood upright. He'd lay it flat, next time it stood again. Eventually, he asked an older colleague, who said an employee used to read there at night, and came back after death.
That book was kept for him. The watchman didn't believe it—he took the book home. That night in his dorm, he dreamed someone was rummaging through his nightstand drawer, searching, searching, but never finding what they wanted.
In the dream, he tried to call out but couldn't. When he woke, the book lay right next to his pillow.
I finished reading. The noodle soup had gone cold. The plastic fork still stuck in the bowl. I stared at the last line on page thirty-seven, fingers tingling.
The story was about a night worker, a book.
I closed the book, set it on the table corner, and splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom. In the mirror, my face looked greenish, temples damp. I told myself not to overthink—folk tales were just scary stories. The bookmark writer claiming it was their experience? Just a gimmick to add credibility.
But that night I couldn't sleep. The book sat on the table, about two meters from the bed. Moonlight leaked through the curtain gap, catching the red-brown spine, the gold edge glinting faintly. I lay on my side, facing the wall, but my ears stayed pricked. For a long time, nothing. Eventually, I drifted off.
The next morning, the first thing I did was check the table. The book still lay there—red-brown cover looking thick and solid in the morning light. Just an old book. I exhaled, got dressed, slipped the book back into my pocket, and rode to work.
At the library, the morning was slow. I sat behind the desk, lost in thought. All morning, I weighed it: put the book back standing, and accept it. Keep it with me, and fight it.
During lunch, I checked the library system. Scanning the book's barcode showed no checkout history—status: in library, location: second floor reading room, top shelf, section six, row three. I stared at the screen for a minute, then closed it.
Before closing, I went up to the second floor early. Pushing the cart, I reshelved section by section, finally reaching the top shelf. The spot was empty—the books on either side had shifted together, narrowing the gap, but it was still noticeable. I stood there, hand in my pocket, feeling the book's hard cover.
The entire top shelf was silent. Fluorescent lights hummed. Air from the vent carried the smell of old paper. Dust covered the neighboring spines evenly; sunlight slanted through the window, catching dust motes swirling in the beam.
I pulled the book from my pocket, held it, weighed it.
*Snap.*
I spun around. Behind me was empty—rows of shelves stretching to the reading room's end, no one there. The sound came from the adjacent shelf, but those books were flat. They wouldn't make that sound without being touched.
I turned back, looking down at the book in my hand. The temperature felt wrong. When I pulled it from my pocket, it had been room temperature. Now the spine was slightly warm—like someone had been holding it.
I placed it in the empty spot, standing upright. Unlike the flat books around it, it stood rigid—like a person.
I stepped back, staring at it. The light flickered. I blinked. In that split second, the book to the right of the standing one shifted outward—just a millimeter, maybe. I saw it because a thin gap appeared between spines.
Like someone had squeezed in sideways, standing next to the book I'd returned, reaching for something.
I turned and walked quickly out of the reading room, closing the door behind me. Locked it. *Click.* The bolt slid into place. I stood in the hallway outside, hand on the doorframe, catching my breath. The motion-sensor light flickered on—white, harsh.
Old Zhou poked his head around the stairwell corner. "You okay? You look terrible."
"Low blood sugar," I said.
"Oh," he said. "Go home early, then. I'll finish up." I didn't argue. Going downstairs, I passed the first-floor lobby. Xiao Liu at the front desk looked up. "Leaving so early?" "Not feeling well," I said.
Outside the library, the evening sky was gray. Sycamore leaves rustled in the wind. I stood on the steps, looking back at the building.
The second-floor reading room windows were dark—I'd turned off the lights. But I could have sworn there was a figure inside, standing by the shelves, facing the window. Faint, indistinct, just a blur of gray.
I got on my bike and rode fast, wind stinging my face. Two blocks away, I slowed down, exhaling. My back was soaked—undershirt sticking to my skin, clammy.
That night at home, after dinner, I sat at the table, staring into space. The book wasn't with me, but it felt like it didn't matter. I thought about page thirty-seven—"my own experience."
What happened to the bookmark writer? He took the book home, dreamed of someone searching his drawer. Then what? Did he return it?
I opened my computer and searched for the book title: *Civic Folk Tales*. Results were sparse. One mentioned it in a local cultural archive—published in 1987 by the city's Folk Literature Association, 500 copies printed, distributed to cultural centers and libraries.
Another result was a blog post: the writer said they'd read this book as a kid at the district library, and one story was terrifying—about page-turning sounds in a night office. The blogger said the book disappeared later, borrowed and never returned.
I stared at the blog post for a long time. Posted in 2003. Two comments: one said, "I read it too—my dad's coworker wrote that story, it's real." The other said, "Quit spreading rumors. That book was disposed of ages ago."
I closed the computer, stood up, and paced the room. The apartment was quiet—faint traffic sounds from below, neighbor's TV murmuring through the wall. Everything normal. So normal it made the library events feel like a hallucination.
But I knew they weren't.
Third day at work, I made up my mind. The book was back, standing in its spot. As long as I didn't touch it, it wasn't my problem.
I pushed the cart through literature, social sciences, natural sciences—avoiding the top shelf entirely, not even glancing that way. Finished, I pushed the cart downstairs. Passing the second-floor hallway, I walked fast—footsteps echoing loudly in the empty corridor.
Fourth day, fifth day—same routine. I reshelved other sections, avoiding the top shelf. Every time I passed the reading room door, I forced myself to look straight ahead, not toward the top shelves.
But my peripheral vision always drifted that way. Through the shelves, I couldn't see clearly—but I knew that one book stood upright among the flat rows.
Sixth day. Before closing, literature done, social sciences done. I pushed the cart past natural sciences, heading for the door. As I reached the entrance, a sound came from behind.
*Rustle.*
Page-turning. Soft, like someone flipping a single page.
I stopped, gripping the cart handle tight. The sound came from deep in the reading room—from the top shelf direction. I stood at the door, listening. No second sound.
I told myself to ignore it—go out, lock up, go downstairs.
But that night at home, I had a dream.
In the dream, I was on the library's second floor. Rows of shelves stood silent under bright fluorescent lights. I pushed the cart, reshelving—labeling, straightening.
Reaching the top shelf, the red-brown book lay flat. I reached for it, and it stood up suddenly, hard and rigid, right in front of me.
The book opened by itself, flipping to page thirty-seven. The page was no longer text—it was a mirror. In the mirror, I saw my own face, but behind me stood a figure. Gray, indistinct, just a shadow. It looked down at me, chin almost resting on my shoulder.
I woke up sweating. The blanket was on the floor, pillow soaked. I grabbed my phone—it was 3:17 AM. The room was dark, faint streetlight leaking through the curtains. I lay there gasping for a while, then sat up and drank a glass of water.
The water was cold. I stood at the kitchen window, looking out. The street was empty, streetlights yellow. An old locust tree's shadow swayed in the wind. As I watched, I realized something.
When that figure's chin rested on my shoulder in the dream, I smelled something. Old paper, mixed with a faint musty odor—exactly like the smell of those old books on the library's top shelf.
The next day at work, I went straight to Old Zhou. "Zhou, tell me the truth about that book."
Old Zhou was sorting returned books, didn't look up. "What truth?"
"The one standing on the top shelf. What's really going on there?"
Old Zhou put down the book, looked at me. His expression was different now—serious. "You haven't been sleeping, have you? Look at those dark circles."
"Never mind that. Just tell me."
Old Zhou sighed, pulled open a drawer under the counter, rummaged around, and pulled out a small notebook. Hardcover, leather worn white. He flipped to a page and pushed it toward me.
Taped to the page was a yellowed slip of paper—a memo, fountain pen handwriting, similar to the bookmark I'd found.
It read: "Second floor reading room, top shelf, sixth section from east: red-brown hardcover *Civic Folk Tales*. Keep standing permanently, do not lay flat. If misfiled by reader, return to standing position before closing. Signed: Director Sun. Date: 1991."
"That's it?" I said. "Who made this rule?"
Old Zhou took the notebook back. "Let me tell you. This Director Sun—he worked here in the '80s. He said when he first came, that book was already standing there.
The even older director told him: there used to be a regular reader who came every night, never checked books out. Then one day he stopped coming, but the book stayed standing—saving his spot.
No one knows if he ever came back, but the book stayed. Director Sun said once he laid it flat, and the next day he found an empty spot beside it, like someone had been there. He never touched it again."
I was silent. Old Zhou said, "You moved it before, right? Just put it back and leave it be."
I nodded. "Okay. I got it." I turned and left the break room.
That noon, I skipped lunch. I sat alone in the second-floor reading room. Few people were around—two or three readers at distant tables, heads down.
I stood in front of the top shelf, looking at the standing book. Fluorescent light hit the red-brown spine; the gilded letters were faint but visible. A crease ran down the spine—worn from years of standing, slightly white.
I stood there watching. About ten minutes passed. A reader walked behind me, footsteps soft. Then I heard it again—page-turning, one page.
This time I heard it clearly. The sound came from the top shelf right in front of me. But the red-brown book—closed, standing, not a page turned.
The page-turning stopped. I stood there, hair standing on end, holding my breath. Then, on the shelf to my left, among the flat books, one spine jutted out slightly. Like someone had pulled it halfway out, then stopped.
I turned to look. The protruding book was *Local Gazette, Volume Three*—dark green cover, year printed on the spine. I stared at that protrusion, fingers clutching my shirt until my knuckles whitened.
The gap was small—maybe a knuckle's width. But I'd reshelved that section earlier; it had been straight. Now the gap was there, fresh, revealing a strip of dust-free wood on the shelf board.
I don't know where I found the courage. I pulled out the *Gazette*. It was heavy. Opening the cover, a folded slip of paper fell out. Larger than the bookmark, folded neatly. I unfolded it. One line, same handwriting as the bookmark:
"Thank you for putting the book back. I've been looking for it a long time."
Underneath, drawn in ballpoint pen: a smiley face. Round face, curved smile, carefully drawn on the yellowed paper.
I stood there holding the slip, fluorescent lights buzzing, air from the vent fluttering its edges. A reader turned a page somewhere—*rustle*. Sycamore leaves rustled outside the window.
I folded the slip, put it back in the *Gazette*, and slid the book into place. Pushing the cart, I left the reading room and locked the door. On the stairs, motion-sensor lights clicked on one by one—click, click. My footsteps echoed, steady and loud.
As I passed the large mirror at the stairwell corner, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye. Someone standing next to me. Gray, blurry, standing just behind my right shoulder. I stopped, turned around. The hallway was empty—only the motion-sensor light still on.
I looked back at the mirror. Only me—pale face, dark circles under my eyes.
But the smell lingered. Old paper, faint mildew—like it had seeped out of thirty years of shelf cracks. I sniffed. The smell was gone, like it had never been there.
Downstairs, outside the library, afternoon sun blazed on the steps, dazzling. I stood there for a minute. Autumn wind blew, carrying the sweet, cool scent of osmanthus.
My phone vibrated in my pocket—Mom, asking if I'd come home for dinner this weekend. I replied yes, then added: "Doing okay, just tired from work."
I put the phone away, walked down the steps toward the bike rack. Halfway, I looked back at the library. The second-floor windows glinted silently in the sun—nothing visible inside.
That red-brown book stood on the top shelf, unseen by me, perfectly straight. The surrounding books lay flat, no gaps anywhere.
That spot was saved for him.
Whether he still came or not—no one knew. But when he found his book again, he left a thank-you note. I'd put it back where it belonged.
The slip in the *Gazette*—I didn't take it, didn't tell anyone about it.
Every night before closing, I still pushed the cart and reshelved. Literature, social sciences, natural sciences. When I reached the top shelf, I glanced at the red-brown standing book. It stayed there, motionless.
Sometimes, after finishing and pushing the cart out, I heard a soft *rustle* behind me. I didn't look back. Lock the door, go downstairs. Motion-sensor lights clicked on and off. My footsteps echoed steadily through the hallway.
Some spots are reserved for people. Some books stand waiting. You lay them flat, and they just wait for you to put them back. No rush, no scare—just waiting. Waiting until you understand, and turn around to set that book upright again.
I worked at that library for two more years, until last summer when I quit. On my last afternoon, I reshelved one final time. Literature, social sciences, natural sciences. At the top shelf, the red-brown hardcover still stood there, gilded letters faint. I stood for a moment, reached out, and touched the spine lightly.
It was warm.
Like someone had just flipped through it.
I pulled my hand back, pushed the cart out of the reading room, locked the door, and went downstairs. The motion-sensor light turned off. The hallway went dark for a second.
Then it turned on again.
I stepped into the light and walked out the library doors. Sycamore leaves littered the ground, crunching underfoot.
That book still stands on the top shelf.
Whether the person it waits for comes or not—I don't know. But that page-turning sound that day was real. *Rustle.* Soft, turning one page.
Like someone sitting there, reading quietly.