Bump In The Night
The house, built around 1900, was old and creaky, in stark contrast with its current owner: a slightly plump 20-something girl in tight jeans and a pink blouse that revealed her navel. She was currently sitting in a huge chair, long blond hair dangling in front of her eyes, talking slowly to the young man standing opposite her.
"Come on, you know me better than that. I'm used to old houses. Besides, it's not the first time I sleep over."
He admired the room while listening to her. The library was impressive, walls plastered with bookshelves all the way to the ceiling. Everything was in perfect order too, a filing cabinet next to the door overflowing with index cards.
"So you're saying someone was in the attic last night. Did you check?"
She shook her head. "The lights aren't working up there. Didn't think to bring a flashlight."
"And this morning?"
"I was too afraid."
He nodded and shifted his grip on the walking stick -- a plain carbon fiber model with a wrist strap. His coal-colored trenchcoat rustled as he went out in the hallway, then up the stairs.
The steps to the attic were covered in a thick layer of dust which continued unbroken along the floor. He stopped for a moment to take in his surroundings. It was then that he noticed the curtain. A once-white piece of tissue hanged in a low door frame, billowing in a strong air current. He squinted. That shadow...
"Who's there?" He raised his cane, holding it with both hands, feeling hindered by the low, slanted ceiling.
A moment passed. The silhouette behind the curtain shrank away from the doorframe, floor creaking. The man hesitated, and then a door slammed downstairs. "Are you all right, Victor?" The curtain was blown open, and he rushed forward...
Towards a small, empty room. A tree was swaying back and forth on the other side of the window, casting strange shadows, and a broken glass pane allowed a constant stream of cold air in. The dust was undisturbed, except right in front of the door, where two small footprints -- not his -- were clearly visible.
"Who are you talking to?" The girl was hesitantly coming up the stairs.
"Nobody," he answered at length. "Let's go."
It was on the way down that they noticed the message freshly scrawled in the old, cracking paint on the top floor wall: "N-35124". It could only refer to one of the books in the library.
