Page 6 of The Alien in the Archive

I freeze, my pen hovering over the page.

…nothing else.

Great. Now I’m being haunted. That’s exactly what I needed tonight.

My chest tightens. It’s not like I haven’t spooked myself in archives before—an empty chair creaking, a book falling off a shelf—but this? This feels…different.

Okay…so I’m imagining things. It wouldn’t be the first time; archives get too quiet late at night, and it’s always the kind of quiet that sets your teeth on edge. I try to start writing again, but now the scratching of pen on paper makes me want to pull my hair out.

Then I hear it again.

A voice…low and dark.

Not a whisper, though. It’s in my head.

I look up, my heart pounding, but the space around me is empty. The golden sphere hovering over the paper flickers faintly, casting strange shadows across the shelves. I strain to listen for anyone moving, then I open my mind.

I just heard somebody’s thoughts.

My stomach twists. It wasn’t like the faint background buzz I get from passersby or crowds—those are easy to brush aside, like catching stray snippets of conversation on a busy street. This was focused. Directed.

It reminds me of the first time it happened in the stacks at Harvard just over a year ago, on a night like this. I was up late working on my dissertation, alone in the library, when I heard somebody thinking about what they would jerk off to that night.

I confronted the guy; he was sitting at a table nearby. I thought he was harassing me. He tried to defend himself and I left in a rage, only for it to happen again.

The second time, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. The guy hadn’t even been facing me, and yet his thoughts had unraveledin my mind, clear as if he’d whispered them to me. I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around it.

Now it happens all the time, and I’m certain when I’m in someone else’s head, but they’ve never said my name.

Maybe—hopefully—it’s just a feisty book.

I push back from the table, pacing myself to calm the screaming terror threatening to take over. I gather my things, and by the time I’m almost packed, I’m shoving everything into my bag. The golden sphere follows me as I move, its light bobbing gently in the air.

And as I turn toward the main corridor, I see it.

A dark figure…a man.

My breath catches. He’s too far to make out details, just the vague shape of broad shoulders, a cloak or coat brushing against his legs, and a wild tangle of hair around his face.

It’s definitely not part of the archive’s security; this figure has the shape and posture of something organic, with long, shaggy hair around his shoulders. Beyond that, I can’t see much of anything. I take a cautious step forward, raising my hand in a tentative wave.

“Hello?” I call. “I’m sorry if I stayed late, I’m just…”

I trail off when he moves slightly, taking a step forward. My muscles tense up, ready to flee if necessary, ready to fight if he catches me.

A small part of me clings to logic: maybe it’s another scholar who lost track of time, just like I did. Maybe they’re harmless. But something in the way he moves—a slow, deliberate shift, like a predator circling prey—makes my skin crawl.

“I need you to talk to me or Iwillscream,” I say, my voice far more confident than I feel. “And I’m a fighter. If you try anything?—”

A brilliant white light suddenly flares in front of me, and I stumble backward, landing right on my ass. When I get mybearings again, the shadowy figure is gone, disappeared into the stacks.

I don’t wait to find out where he went.

I leap to my feet, then I’m running down the corridor, my boots echoing against the stone floor. I glance down at my ID card to make sure I’m going the right way—just a couple more turns and I should be good, racing through that looming gate.

Hungry,the stranger’s thoughts say.

The word isn’t loud. It’s soft, curled like smoke in the corners of my mind…and it’s oddly comfortable, as if I could have thought it myself.

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