Ari Ress
Otho sat, attempting focus, failing miserably. The library was crowded today, and the smell of old urine and older socks was thick. Masks were one of the few silver linings to the most recent round of Covid variants; at least they partially blocked the bouquet of humanity that surrounded him. That, and they offered a feeling of at least partial anonymity which Otho very much appreciated.
The librarian, a tired looking man approaching middle age, sat on the other side of the room, encased in a flimsy wall of plexiglass. Otho hadn’t seen him before, but the library staff had been experiencing a lot of turnover lately. This one gave him the heebie-jeebies something fierce, though he couldn't put his finger on why. The man seemed pleasant and helpful enough, if a little beaten down by life. After three years of pandemic, rampant corporate price gouging disguised as inflation, food rationing, and various wars and skirmishes around the globe...Otho figured everyone was probably feeling about the same, even if some seemed to glide through life as if coated in Teflon.
Otho was not one of those. Life’s shit had definitely found an easy target with him, and where it hit, it stuck firm. His recent attempt to pull himself up and start his own business was, if nothing else, keeping him distracted from the majority of his worries. The library was holding a business plan competition with real prize money that could keep him going for at least a few months, and so here he sat trying to block out his surroundings and focus on his future. It was slow going.
Looking up at the librarian again, he began zoning out as thoughts of all the work he should be doing danced through his mind. There were books to read, he had to go over the notes he took during the first of the competition's mandatory lectures, he had to secure at least some--
And that's when two things occurred to him simultaneously. First, that he'd been staring at the librarian while lost in thought, which was kind of creepy, and he should look somewhere else. Second, he figured out what was spooking him about the otherwise unassuming man: the librarian had not blinked once. He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring while mentally going over his procrastination schedule, but he himself had blinked a handful of times.
So he watched, The Startup Playbook forgotten on the table before him. When a patron approached, the librarian blinked normally and otherwise acted entirely as one would expect. When no one was interacting with him, he typed or scanned books or clicked around like anyone else behind the desk, but his eyes never even flickered closed.
Otho used the timer on his cell phone to see how long the strange breaks in autonomic function lasted, but the answer was always simply until the next interaction. He tried to match the man, forcing his eyes to stay open, but the longest he lasted was 42 seconds. He googled how long someone could keep their eyes open and read in disbelief that in a professional staring contest, one "Stare Master" Stagg had bested "Eyesore" Fleming at 40 minutes 59 seconds, though both men were in agony by the end of it. The librarian just looked tired.
At the end of the day, Otho gathered his mostly unread books and headed for the door. As he rounded the corner to head outside, he gave a quick glance across the desk and found that the librarian was already looking at him, as if waiting for this over the shoulder glance. The knowing wink he gave Otho and the slight sly upturn at the corners of his mouth looked knowingly predatory. It seemed like more a promise than anything, and Otho had to keep himself from bolting out the door.
That night, he lay awake for hours, the neon glow of unblinking eyes beaming down from the ceiling in the darkness of his small room. He wasn't sure if he slept, but the only clear thought in his head when his alarm did or didn't wake him was returning to the library.
The Librarian (the man's title had grown to be official enough to be capitalized in Otho's mind) was nowhere to be found, and Otho's disappointment had an edge of fear to it. It was the same feeling he got when a spider vanished from sight before he had the chance to trap it. In truth, nothing had changed: the spider had been there before he saw it, posing the same possible danger, but knowing about its existence without knowing where it was triggered a strong panic reflex. The Librarian was out there somewhere, or possibly in one of the back offices, his unblinking eyes tattooing themselves on the inside of Otho's eyelids regardless. There would be no concentrating today.
Otho fled to the morning light outside and wandered in a daze, only realizing what he was doing when a nearby streetlight buzzed to life in the evening gloom. It was as if he'd been asleep, though clearly, he had not; his feet were sore and blistered, his throat parched, and his stomach empty. The need to urinate was blinding, the nearby alley a godsend. When he zipped up some time later and tenderly stepped back from the spreading lake he'd pissed into existence behind a dumpster, he noticed a shadow darkening the narrow opening.
"It's time." The voice that came from the figure before him was flat and colorless, but Otho's nose began to drip a steady beat of mucus-thinned blood. He staggered back, unsure if the alley behind him had an open egress. The Librarian didn't move. "We must begin if you are to succeed." Pressure began to build in Otho's sinuses, increasing with every beat of his now laboring heart. "This place shall do, and time is short." Every flat word drove a spike through Otho's skull until his one, singular thought was to make it stop. He stepped forward instead of retreating, and the figure before him mirrored the advance.
By the time they were within arm's length, Otho's vision had narrowed, and only the primary colors remained vivid, the rest simply shades of grey. Up close, The Librarian was wholly unremarkable but somehow entirely wrong. Had Otho's mind been processing details, he would have noticed that they were the exact same height, had the same hair and eye color, and that with every step, the two grew more similar. That his revulsion was steeped in recognition and self-loathing.
He reached out and wrapped one hand firmly around the creature's throat, using his other to steady himself on the gritty brick wall next to them. "Stop... talking," Otho managed, though his own throat felt tight as well. Where their skin met, it rippled, vibrating so fast the border blurred, the pigment and textures of both swirling and blending.
It felt as if his fingers tightened around his own throat. The flat, tormenting voice croaked from Otho's own lips. "Yes... finish... it..." Even as blood began to well up around the fingers he was slowly burying in this creature’s flesh, his grip tightened steadily, the meat beneath and between his fingers melting gossamer at his touch, wetness running down his arm.
Without him telling it to, Otho’s other hand left the wall and plunged into the figure, passing easily through the flesh to the molten center of the unblinking mirror before him. With both arms, he drew The Librarian towards him, their embrace culminating in a screaming kiss, teeth grinding on teeth before finally giving way and slicing their way down two throats that were quickly becoming one.
The business plan competition's grand prize went to a young man who had spent a lot of time in the library that year. While the judges found his presentation nearly flawless, none felt good about their inevitable decision. There was something about the man that was personally familiar to everyone on the panel yet unsettlingly off in a way none felt comfortable mentioning to the others. So they remained, every one of them, alone in their shared feelings. As for OthO, he showed no real surprise at his win, flashing a smile when he was presented with his plaque and check that made the photographer uneasy.
Seed money in hand, he began to till the soil of humanity.
The librarian, a tired looking man approaching middle age, sat on the other side of the room, encased in a flimsy wall of plexiglass. Otho hadn’t seen him before, but the library staff had been experiencing a lot of turnover lately. This one gave him the heebie-jeebies something fierce, though he couldn't put his finger on why. The man seemed pleasant and helpful enough, if a little beaten down by life. After three years of pandemic, rampant corporate price gouging disguised as inflation, food rationing, and various wars and skirmishes around the globe...Otho figured everyone was probably feeling about the same, even if some seemed to glide through life as if coated in Teflon.
Otho was not one of those. Life’s shit had definitely found an easy target with him, and where it hit, it stuck firm. His recent attempt to pull himself up and start his own business was, if nothing else, keeping him distracted from the majority of his worries. The library was holding a business plan competition with real prize money that could keep him going for at least a few months, and so here he sat trying to block out his surroundings and focus on his future. It was slow going.
Looking up at the librarian again, he began zoning out as thoughts of all the work he should be doing danced through his mind. There were books to read, he had to go over the notes he took during the first of the competition's mandatory lectures, he had to secure at least some--
And that's when two things occurred to him simultaneously. First, that he'd been staring at the librarian while lost in thought, which was kind of creepy, and he should look somewhere else. Second, he figured out what was spooking him about the otherwise unassuming man: the librarian had not blinked once. He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring while mentally going over his procrastination schedule, but he himself had blinked a handful of times.
So he watched, The Startup Playbook forgotten on the table before him. When a patron approached, the librarian blinked normally and otherwise acted entirely as one would expect. When no one was interacting with him, he typed or scanned books or clicked around like anyone else behind the desk, but his eyes never even flickered closed.
Otho used the timer on his cell phone to see how long the strange breaks in autonomic function lasted, but the answer was always simply until the next interaction. He tried to match the man, forcing his eyes to stay open, but the longest he lasted was 42 seconds. He googled how long someone could keep their eyes open and read in disbelief that in a professional staring contest, one "Stare Master" Stagg had bested "Eyesore" Fleming at 40 minutes 59 seconds, though both men were in agony by the end of it. The librarian just looked tired.
At the end of the day, Otho gathered his mostly unread books and headed for the door. As he rounded the corner to head outside, he gave a quick glance across the desk and found that the librarian was already looking at him, as if waiting for this over the shoulder glance. The knowing wink he gave Otho and the slight sly upturn at the corners of his mouth looked knowingly predatory. It seemed like more a promise than anything, and Otho had to keep himself from bolting out the door.
That night, he lay awake for hours, the neon glow of unblinking eyes beaming down from the ceiling in the darkness of his small room. He wasn't sure if he slept, but the only clear thought in his head when his alarm did or didn't wake him was returning to the library.
The Librarian (the man's title had grown to be official enough to be capitalized in Otho's mind) was nowhere to be found, and Otho's disappointment had an edge of fear to it. It was the same feeling he got when a spider vanished from sight before he had the chance to trap it. In truth, nothing had changed: the spider had been there before he saw it, posing the same possible danger, but knowing about its existence without knowing where it was triggered a strong panic reflex. The Librarian was out there somewhere, or possibly in one of the back offices, his unblinking eyes tattooing themselves on the inside of Otho's eyelids regardless. There would be no concentrating today.
Otho fled to the morning light outside and wandered in a daze, only realizing what he was doing when a nearby streetlight buzzed to life in the evening gloom. It was as if he'd been asleep, though clearly, he had not; his feet were sore and blistered, his throat parched, and his stomach empty. The need to urinate was blinding, the nearby alley a godsend. When he zipped up some time later and tenderly stepped back from the spreading lake he'd pissed into existence behind a dumpster, he noticed a shadow darkening the narrow opening.
"It's time." The voice that came from the figure before him was flat and colorless, but Otho's nose began to drip a steady beat of mucus-thinned blood. He staggered back, unsure if the alley behind him had an open egress. The Librarian didn't move. "We must begin if you are to succeed." Pressure began to build in Otho's sinuses, increasing with every beat of his now laboring heart. "This place shall do, and time is short." Every flat word drove a spike through Otho's skull until his one, singular thought was to make it stop. He stepped forward instead of retreating, and the figure before him mirrored the advance.
By the time they were within arm's length, Otho's vision had narrowed, and only the primary colors remained vivid, the rest simply shades of grey. Up close, The Librarian was wholly unremarkable but somehow entirely wrong. Had Otho's mind been processing details, he would have noticed that they were the exact same height, had the same hair and eye color, and that with every step, the two grew more similar. That his revulsion was steeped in recognition and self-loathing.
He reached out and wrapped one hand firmly around the creature's throat, using his other to steady himself on the gritty brick wall next to them. "Stop... talking," Otho managed, though his own throat felt tight as well. Where their skin met, it rippled, vibrating so fast the border blurred, the pigment and textures of both swirling and blending.
It felt as if his fingers tightened around his own throat. The flat, tormenting voice croaked from Otho's own lips. "Yes... finish... it..." Even as blood began to well up around the fingers he was slowly burying in this creature’s flesh, his grip tightened steadily, the meat beneath and between his fingers melting gossamer at his touch, wetness running down his arm.
Without him telling it to, Otho’s other hand left the wall and plunged into the figure, passing easily through the flesh to the molten center of the unblinking mirror before him. With both arms, he drew The Librarian towards him, their embrace culminating in a screaming kiss, teeth grinding on teeth before finally giving way and slicing their way down two throats that were quickly becoming one.
The business plan competition's grand prize went to a young man who had spent a lot of time in the library that year. While the judges found his presentation nearly flawless, none felt good about their inevitable decision. There was something about the man that was personally familiar to everyone on the panel yet unsettlingly off in a way none felt comfortable mentioning to the others. So they remained, every one of them, alone in their shared feelings. As for OthO, he showed no real surprise at his win, flashing a smile when he was presented with his plaque and check that made the photographer uneasy.
Seed money in hand, he began to till the soil of humanity.
Arieh D. Ress is a Senior Librarian, writer, and photographer. He has spent his life wandering through realities as disparate as a Quaker/Buddhist retreat center in Massachusetts, the saltwater marshes of South Jersey, and a fruit farm clinging to the side of the recently very active Mauna Loa volcano. He currently lives with his wife and dog in a shoebox 3 stories above Greenwich Village.
