He’d warned her about the book, now it was too late

Every day they came and went, my books I mean. The people came and went too, but that’s another story entirely. Some days, Jules Verne was in the V Room, awaiting its next reader, awaiting the next person who’d eagerly flip through its pages. Other days, you’d find Ten Thousand Leagues Under the Sea in the M Room for no apparent reason. Other days still, it’d be in that room, and I’d have to lie. I’d have to tell people the book was checked out. Even as the disappointment spread across their faces like a wave, I’d hold tight to my story, smoothly recommending another book I thought they’d enjoy while they waited.
Some books were in that room for but a day, while others stayed there for months and months, gathering dust in the darkness. It pained me to keep the books from the joy of being read, to keep the people from the joy of reading them. But every time I grew close to giving in, to saying I just might have another copy in the back, I forced myself to remember what happened that one time I did give in.

****

Mindy had been a dear friend of mine, always coming ‘round Saturdays to pick up her next escape from life. The books she borrowed were always returned cleaner, brighter, and all the more beautiful than when she’d walked out with them a week before. Her bright blue eyes smiled at the prospect of another well-spent week in Wonderland. Never had she come in without a smile on her face and a book in hand.
We would sit for hours, save the occasional customer, talking about whatever book she’d just finished. What she had liked, what she would change, and where she wanted to go next. I had waited with bated breath all week for my brunette bookworm to return. The highlight of every week being the slow Saturday hours we spent in the K Room armchairs.
It was on one such Saturday she’d come in, her kind smile on even before she’d opened the door. Softly placing Animal Farm on my desk, she was on her way toward the K Room before I was out of my chair. Walking slowly past the shelved in each room, we made our way past the dust-jacketed hard-covers and the wrinkled paperbacks in silence. We never spoke until we reached the blue armchairs.
Sitting with her flip-flopped feet up on the old cushion, she always made me feel like the stuffy old man I was in my suit and tie and polished shoes. As normal, we talked for hours on the foolishness of the sheep, the blind faithfulness of Boxer, and the sheer clever trickery of the pigs. The ending had, unsurprisingly, caught her off guard, but she realized how true it was to the author’s goal. After this long discussion, she proudly proclaimed she wanted her next book to be set in a jungle, and she wanted all the characters to be human.
Knowing just the right book, I calmly stood, waving for her to follow, and headed for the room I knew it would be in. To my surprise, when I reached the spot where it should have been, the books on either side lent in on empty space. Frowning, I turned to Mindy with sad eyes.
“I’m afraid someone has checked it out, I-” when I looked into her blue eyes, I knew no book other than my first choice would please her. Finally finishing my sentence, I spoke the words I’ll forever regret,
“I may have another copy in the back.” Turning away, I walked slowly, contemplating the dangerous choice I’d made. Reaching that room sooner than I would have liked I had no trouble finding the title I wanted, Robinson Crusoe. I had loved the book as a boy, and I knew without a doubt it would become on of Mindy’s favorites, but taking a book from that room was foolish to say the least.
Unfortunately, an old man’s heart grows soft, and the sad look in her eyes had hurt me deeply, so I pulled it down, grimacing at the feel of the cursed books. Returning to the front, I
placed it in Mindy’s hands.
“Now Mindy, I want you to promise me something, you must never leave this book lying
open while you sleep. Promise me you won’t.” She looked at me a little strangely, but nodded.
She smiled and turned away from my desk. As the door jingled her departure, I prayed she’d
follow my advice, that her promise would stay solid. If only I’d known what would happen, I
would have run after her and taken the book despite her disappointment.
It was three days later when a man in blue came through the door, a sympathetic look on
his stubbly face.
“Mr. Linden, I have some bad news for you. Earlier today, Miss Mindy Hawthorne was
found dead, strangled in her sleep by a jungle plant with no apparent origin. The officials are
shocked and lost as to the cause of her strange death, and all I can say is I’m sorry. This book
was on her bed, and I assume it is yours.” I nodded my thanks as he laid the book on my desk,
and I watched his back as he left. Once he was out of sight and the door had jingled shut, I rested
my head in my hand, knowing it was my fault, knowing I’d never see Mindy’s bright blue eyes
in my library ever again.
That room was cursed. Books entered and left it, for no apparent reason, of their own
accord. If any of them was read while in residence there, and was then left open while the reader
slept, some part of that book would kill the reader. In Mindy’s case, a book about the jungle
heralded death by a jungle plant.
Cradling my head in my hands, I sobbed. It was all my fault.