Page 45 of The Blood we Crave

Getting anything done besides eavesdropping was futile in that place during my first semester. All the constant noise buzzing in my ears and distractions. There are too many students for the librarians to police into a more hushed tone, so now it’s overruled with gossip and turned into a lounge for students who want to feel like they’re studying but aren’t actually doing anything but yapping their jaws.

But not all hope was lost.

It had only taken me a few trips and a little secret exploring to find my hideaway. I’m good at that—finding the places others overlook.

I gather the books I need for my genetics and genomics class, along with a few extras for an extra ecology course I’d picked up. Majoring in organismic and evolutionary biology had been my only choice, really, when selecting a graduate focus.

An entomology degree from Hollow Heights it’s the most popular track, but it was mine and I enjoyed it. I’m not sure what I want to do. I’ve entertained the idea of becoming an ethologist, where I could study insects in their natural habitat for research, but my future always seems so hazy that planning that far ahead feels pointless.

I float through the tables of students unnoticed, another spirit inhabiting the shelves and nothing more. I carry myself all the way to the second level, glancing over the waist-high railing at all the people down below.

People-watching is my specialty.

Sometimes, when I’m bored, I’ll look around at those around me, building these stories inside my mind about their lives, even though I already know basically everything about them already.

Yasmine Poverly, for example, daughter of not one but two art tycoons, who is said to have swirls like Picasso, is sitting a little too close to her best friend Felicity’s long-term boyfriend, Jason Ellis.

Could it just be they are close after the years spent near one another? Sure. But it’s much more fun to cook up something a little more dramatic. Like what if Yasmine and Jason are sleeping together but they can’t say anything because Jason needs Felicity’s father to give his recommendation at Johns Hopkins? Or worse, what if they’ve secretly been plotting to murder Felicity because she is actually a raging bitch to the both of them?

See? Much more interesting than them just being acquaintances.

I turn away, walking past the tall stacks of books, rows and rows of informational text, some of them older than I am. The smell of old leather and withered paper gets stronger the deeper I travel into the library.

A few sections ahead of me, there is a librarian shelving books, and she looks to be the same one from the last time I was here. I’m assuming she’s tasked with making sure students don’t drop their pants and attempt quick fucks in the darker portions of the building.

With practiced ease, I glide past a shelf, cherry-picking a few from my space in the aisle and letting them fall onto the floor with a loud thud. Just as the sound covers my footsteps, I shift between two of the shelves, allowing the dim lighting to conceal my body.

There are a few good things about being invisible, and this happens to be one of my favorites.

I hear her sigh, watching as she walks straight past me and gathers the books on the floor. With her back to me, I take the opportunity to slip deeper into the section, passing row after row until I reach my destination.

Nestled between two mahogany shelves stands a black steel spiral staircase. The section of books itself is nothing of importance, old accounts of the founding of Ponderosa Springs and history regarding the renowned Hollow Heights University.

But the extra security isn’t for the books themselves; it’s for what lies atop the stairs constructed of wrought iron. The steel swirls and metal lattice conjoin to create a spiral of stairs leading to a portion of the Caldwell Library that no one is allowed to enter. It’s one of two points of entry to the boarded-up tower that has been out of commission.

At one point, I’d read, they’d used it for astronomy and astrophysics students. Expensive telescopes were stationed at each of the four arched colonnades, where people could gaze at the stars from the tallest building on campus.

Most of the ghost stories that drift through the halls of this place are simply that—stories. Tall tales made up to add to the lore of the darkness that settles here, ways to scare the new students or creep out the locals.

But the Tower isn’t just a story or a local myth.

It’s real.

Stepping over the chain and sign that says DO NOT ENTER in bold print, I start to climb the narrow path, taking the steps two at a time, swirling around and around until I reach the top.

The click of heels against the floor rushes my movements, my hands pressing flat against the plywood that rests across the oval entrance. I shove it out of the way, quickly tossing my bag up and onto the level above before lifting myself up into the space.

Once I make it inside, I shove the wood back over the hole in the floor, successfully hiding myself from everyone below me. I hold my breath for a beat, making sure they did not see my shoes slipping up here, before I release an exhale.

When I stand up, wiping off the dust from my backside, I feel a gust of wind blow in from four boarded-up windows. The large vacant space is littered with cobwebs and boxes of books that are too damaged to sell or use.

There is a small desk tucked away in the corner, one that I’d cleaned off to use as my study table when I come up here. Just to the right of it is a tall door, one I’ve never seen inside of, but from the blueprints of the building, I’ve determined there is a stone staircase that snakes around the outer level of the tower, taking you all the way to the entryway of the library. But it stays locked, and I’ve never had the guts to crack the dead bolt.

I walk to one side where a board is missing and peer out the front of the building. From this angle, you can see the entire campus, even the ocean that is just beyond the cliff beside the Kennedy District.

When I stand here, looking out across the grounds, I think about what Tabitha Flëur must have felt like the night she fell—or, depending on what version you believe, was pushed.

In the winter of 1979, Tabitha, a bright sophomore student who was majoring in ethics, tumbled from the Caldwell tower like a bag of rocks, cracking her skull on the path below.

---