“Do you think I could summon God?” 

I look up from my notebook, carefully-written cursive that always leaned to the left, up into the manic green eyes of a boy perhaps a year below me. The library, ancient and older than what felt like time itself, founded in 1665 - a century before the U.S. was even conceived - was now empty. A hush reverberated around the boy’s words, a mantra, a curse.

I could feel how It craved him already.

The library was quiet but never like this, never without the sound of a mock quill scratching against paper or the librarian’s hushed whispers, the turnings of a book’s pages in an attempt to find answers. Essays, exams, all was found here. All knowledge that one could need for university was on the first floor. Everything else was in the stacks.

And the book the boy was clutching was found in those stacks - row two, section five. I had shelved it myself last night in the quiet hours, just before the Others arrived. And now he was holding it. He was not meant to hold it.

I felt my gaze turn predatory and tried to not look like I was about to eat him alive, instead cocking my head when I remembered that he had asked me something. Studying always made me slow, a little scatter-brained. It fed off of knowledge, leaving everyone smarter, perhaps, after their endeavors, but also exhausted. Most of the students did not realize that something was biting into them without ever having the need for teeth.

“Sorry, what?” I asked. He jumped a little as if he hadn’t expected me to respond, then offered the book for me to look at.

“It’s a weird question,” he said, shaking his head. I barely skimmed the title, for I knew what it would say. It was not an overly strange book, titled Alchemy & Mysticism by a long-dead author. It wasn’t even absurd for a university of such prestige to have, as it discussed the history of more esoteric beliefs and practices. More of a history lesson than a grimoire. But I knew that in the last half of that book, those symbols were marked just a bit differently, a misprint, one of a kind. It just so happened to spell Its name and now It was tied to this school. 

Miraculous coincidence, how ink can change reality.

“I’m - um - a theology major,” he explained, smiling sheepishly. “Just a joke. I didn’t think Cadridge would have an alchemy book, but I-”

“It’s not alchemy.”

He furrowed a dusty blonde brow at me, looking at the cover as if perhaps one of us had misread it. “What do you mean, it’s not-”

“It’s a history book. It’s not a spellbook or whatever the freshmen always believe. It’s just history.” I was clenching my pen so hard I could feel the plastic whine under my fingers, and I dropped it on the dark oak table before I could make a complete mess of the place. Somehow I didn’t think It would appreciate ink stains on the book. 

The boy made an amused sound, making me feel rather small despite the fact that I could have stood and completely engulfed him. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kill or kiss him - maybe both. “Clearly, it’s not a spellbook. Alchemy is closer to an ancient science, whereas spells are just that - spells.” He smirked at me as though he had said something clever. “Are you a theology major?

At this, I stood, rising to my full height and, as expected, towering over him. I made a show of packing my things as precisely and angrily as possible before facing him. “No. My major is something useful.”

An offended gasp - the boy clenched his fist but I knew he wouldn’t use it. “Business, then? Very unique.”

“Philosophy.”

The boy snorted and then, I felt It. An offer. Lead the boy to the stacks and close the doors - it would be over so quickly. I had done a good job of taking care of It - It could do me this one favor.

No. I would not let the boy die needlessly, even if he was a smug prick.

He must have interpreted my silence as hurt, for he was forcing his hand out to me quickly, his eyes wide with regret. “Um - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an ass. I’m Basil.”

“Like the plant,” I said needlessly. Basil actually laughed. “Dante.”

“Like the Inferno,” he retorted back, still smiling. 

–

A hot flash of anger surged through me as I slammed Basil’s back into the shelves of the stacks, reveling in how it took his breath away. This was how it was always meant to be. 

But this was not a fight - of sorts. This was something more, something just as feral that drove It mad. “I should-” I stopped my threat short, unsure of what I was going to say, only noticing that Basil was blushing.

“You should kiss me,” he said, ever the fool, ever wearing his heart on his sleeve. Still, I obliged him, gripping his waist and kissing him hard, hard enough that I felt the burst of pain between my closed eyes from bashing my lip into his teeth. He melted against me easily.

“What if someone sees?” He finally asked once my hand was in his pants. I’m impressed he’s still able to think.

I don’t tell him that I can sense every soul in the library as if the building were an extension of myself. Instead, I simply say, “The door’s locked.”

I had not expected to see Basil again, though this was in itself foolish. The stacks drew people in, ensnaring them, refusing to let them go. Basil was doomed the moment he stepped in, and he was further doomed when he picked up the book. 

But we were two different majors, I reasoned, and perhaps It was uninterested in a dull boy like him. I was wrong. 

We met again the very next week, after the meetings of the day were concluded and I was left feeling exhausted, hollow inside from pretending to be something human - though I suppose I never lost my humanity. I merely gained something Else. 

I was cleaning the stacks, shelf by shelf, when I felt a body draw near, watching me. I didn’t bother to look up. It was unimportant. He was unimportant. 

But he spoke anyways. “Do you ever leave this library?”

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I see you in the window when I walk by, and you weren’t far from the stacks last time. Do you leave?”

“Do you ask this of every employee, or is this your first time realizing that people work hours in a day?” I snapped coolly, leaving the damp rag hanging in my pants pocket. 

“You’re very rude, you know,” Basil said, mock-hurt. Perhaps he was actually hurt - I couldn’t have been bothered to inquire. 

“Then leave.” Was this a form of plea? I didn’t want him to be consumed by It, but was I asking him to leave for my own convenience, or for his life? Somehow, I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. 

Basil stepped closer. I could smell the cologne on his freckled neck, and I wanted - briefly - to tear into that flesh in numerous ways. “You can’t make me,” he said, his voice low, tilting his chin up defiantly. He almost looked like he was flirting. 

I only laughed, which seemed to wound him. He did not know that I could make him leave - with great ease. I almost said as much, but then I decided to toy with him. Let our silence speak for ourselves, and let him writhe in the discomforting silence of the stacks. From outside, the wind whipped against the library building, a pillar of white in an otherwise dull city. And from inside, voices from below, the occasional beeping of a book being scanned.

And from within, within Basil, I could see it. Utter, utter turmoil.

“Stop it,” he said, wiping his nose - a nervous tic, perhaps, or the beginning of a madness. 

I said nothing.

“Dante,” he pleaded. And then, when I said nothing, his hands were on me, shoving me back.

I reacted before I could think, for my temper was never anything good and I was never anything good. I grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him an inch off of the ground and slamming him into the shelf of the stacks. 

And now I was kissing him. 

Perhaps I was becoming mad with time in the stacks, too. The Cult of the Other certainly looked at me as if I had lost it completely, as if they couldn’t stand the thought of someone spending time with their god other than them. Perhaps no human was meant to spend so much time in these walls, under this influence, but I had long grown past the addiction of it. Now it was a habit, a lifeline. Too long outside of the library and I felt sick. 

Now, I felt alive. Life had come to the library and rejuvenated me, in the form of Basil’s barely-concealed moans as I thrusted into him. I covered his mouth with my hand and he licked my palm, batting his lashes at me. Insufferable. 

Afterwards, when we were both exhausted and cleaning up our mess - I could only wince at my lapse of judgment - I felt his eyes still on me. “What?” I asked, half-snapping at him.

“Oh! I just - ah - I didn’t know you liked boys - in that way. I mean, so do I, it’s just-” Basil stopped himself, shaking his head. “Thanks.”

“Please don’t thank me for fucking you. And to be clear, I don’t like men.”

“Then this-?”

“I don’t like anyone in a sexual way. This was a … lapse of judgment. Something born of anger. I wanted to punch you, but then I just - well, I suppose I lost myself.” And it was terrifying, exhilarating. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so many emotions at once, and I certainly couldn’t remember the last time I lost control of myself. I wanted to thank him, but I had just scolded him for doing the same to me. And so, unable to thank him, I reverted back to normal. Cold, uncaring. It was what was safest.

Basil looked like he understood, though his eyes were empty of thought. It was clear that being here was taking its toll on him. Still, he nodded. “As long as you don’t regret it?”

“There is very little I regret, Basil, and fucking you is not one of them. Yet. Continue to pester me and I may change my mind.”

Once again he laughed, only this time, I found myself to be enjoying the sound. When he gathered his things and sheepishly waved at me, I watched him leave, and I wondered just what our lives would have been like in another life, in a normal life.

I turned away from that thought and went back to cleaning.

–

The Others arrived at midnight, when the library had closed for the day. And, as usual, I was the one to unlock the back door, letting them in. I did not particularly like the Others, but I understood that they had a duty, just the same as I. It was not in my place to judge what they did in their ridiculous hooded outfits and silly spells. 

One by one, they filed into the stacks, filling the room to the brim though there couldn’t have been more than twelve. And, as always, the leader of the Others stopped just at the threshold of the door, turning to me.

“Care to join our worship?” He asked the same question every week. 

And, like always, I shook my head. “It isn’t in my interest.”

I was unsure why I refused, for I followed It - in a sense. My worship was looser, tied to the physicality of the stacks. I was little more than someone who kept a shrine clean of debris, though the act of cleaning was in itself an offer to a god, was it not? I offer my physical body’s services to you, O god, and in turn - what? 

I had never asked for anything before, though I could feel that I was in It’s favor. I could have had anything, but I wanted for nothing. My parents had money and as a result, I had money. I had good grades, and friends aplenty, though the latter had grown a bit distant ever since my employment. 

I was jolted from my thoughts by the sound of the screams. I looked over with mild curiosity, not wanting the leader to see that I had taken an interest, only to find the same scene as before. A record player, held in the center of the Others, with screams emanating from an old, dusty vinyl.

The only problem was that the vinyl wasn’t spinning. 

“Our God speaks,” the leader called out over the screams, though it was unnecessary. It was loud enough. “And It is angry.”

Rule number one of worshipping something that is probably a god: do not question it. 

At once, one of the newer members of the Others spoke up, his voice shaky. “But why?”

The screams got louder, more desperate - and god, almost human. The screams were genderless, without any signifier of humanity at all, but I could have sworn I could understand them - just for a moment.

“Do not question our God,” the leader snapped, trying to maintain peace. 

Rule number two: do not, under any circumstances, speak its name.

The younger member, unsatisfied with this, spoke up, rolling his white sleeves up to reveal tanned skin. He took the record player by force, clenching it with white knuckles as if it held the answers to everything in the world - and really, it probably did. But this boy reeked of desperation, ugliness seeping into his motives. He licked his lips once before speaking. “Tell us what troubles you, O’ Kl-”

My breath left me and at once, I grabbed the heavy wooden doors to the stacks, slamming them shut before I could hear it again. I drowned out my attention with the screams and prayed to something else that I didn’t hear it. 

This is what happens when you speak the name of something you were never meant to know:

Desperate, quick rapping on the door, begging to be let out. The screams of the record player growing quiet, and then, utterly silent. The chaos of the Others masking this silence until someone asks, “Did you turn the record player off?” And then panic.

And then, newer screams - this time human, this time coming from the newest, foolish member of the Others.

The sound of a body dropping on the ground, wet and unceremonious, and then I opened the doors again. 

As predicted, the boy laid on the ground, his nose, mouth, and eyes dripping of blood and pooling onto the old, wooden floor. I would be the one to clean it again. The Others were silent as they looked at the boy, having lost yet another person to It, and perhaps wondering if this was worth it at all. It had come forth into this plane of existence just enough to tear someone’s insides to shreds, reaching in and finding the flesh to be so easy to destroy.

Sometimes I imagined what would happen if It really came into this world, in the flesh. Sometimes I wake at night in a cold sweat having dreamed of that very thing. 

“Take the boy and leave,” I said, checking my watch. It was nearly one in the morning, and I had a class at eight. 

“Should we not … do more?” Someone asked. “The boy was so young.”

“Did you not sign a death waiver when you joined the cult?” I snapped. “You chose to worship an elder god, and you angered It. This is the consequence you must reap.”

“The Groundskeeper knows best,” the leader said, his tone solemn as he assisted in collecting the boy. That was the first time I heard that title - Groundskeeper. Despite my curiosity, I did not ask what it meant. 

When the body was collected and the Others were away, I proceeded in cleaning the stacks - again. Peroxide for the blood, a duster for the books, a mop. It was quick work, but something in my gut told me that something was wrong - deeply wrong. I scoured the room, my mind jumping to every conclusion - until I found it.

Or rather, a lack of it. 

The book was missing.