NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 11: Chapter 11: The Library of Things That Shouldn’t Be
The morning after her encounter with the boy who didn't burn, Elara couldn't tell if she had slept at all.
She sat upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Her hands trembled, not from fear—but from something else. A strange knowing. Like the Grimoire had planted a seed inside her, and now it was starting to bloom.
The reflection in her mirror hadn't blinked. The name in the book had been scratched out. The boy's voice still echoed in her ears:
"The Grimoire—it's not just a book. It's a prison."
She needed to find that name. The Watcher's true name. And there was only one place left to search.
The Restricted Wing of the Hollowmoor Library.
The library was a cathedral of silence.
High ceilings arched like ribs over rows of ancient shelves. Candles hovered above the aisles, flickering with bluish flame. Dust hung in the air like fog, disturbed only when someone dared to breathe too loudly.
Elara slipped inside at dawn.
She didn't ask permission.
The library's enchanted security—The Archivists—were mostly asleep this early. These weren't people. They were living shadows, dressed in cracked porcelain masks, bound by vow to protect forbidden knowledge. They only awoke when rules were broken.
So Elara planned to break them quietly.
She moved past the history of hexes. Past the floor that whispered curses. Past the stairwell that led to books with no words—just screams.
Then she reached it.
The Restricted Wing.
No student was allowed beyond this point. Not without written permission from the Headmistress.
Elara had something better.
Blood.
She nicked her finger with a silver pin and pressed it to the lock.
It drank from her.
The door creaked open.
Inside, the shelves were taller, darker. Some looked like they'd grown from bone. Others were chained shut.
A low humming buzzed in her skull. The kind that told her she wasn't alone.
But she walked forward anyway.
Book titles here didn't make sense.
The Hourglass That Cried.
How to Remove Your Shadow.
The Mirror that Raised a Child.
She kept going, running her fingers along spines that twitched beneath her touch.
At last, in the farthest corner, she found a section called:
"Names Forgotten by the Living."
The air turned ice-cold. Her breath frosted in front of her. Her heartbeat sounded wrong in her chest—too slow, too deep.
She pulled out a thick volume bound in black hide.
It didn't open. It shivered.
The title glowed faintly:
True Names and the Dead Who Carry Them.
She opened it.
Inside were names written in ink that moved. Letters rearranged themselves when she tried to read them.
Some names disappeared completely if she stared too long.
Others… spoke.
Not aloud.
In her mind.
"Do not speak us. Do not free us."
Elara flipped page after page, searching for anything resembling "The Watcher."
Finally, she found a half-burned page.
Its corners were blackened. Most of the text was gone.
But one thing remained:
"He was born without a mouth. But learned to eat names."
"He is not called by name. He is the name."
"To find him, find the tongue that was cut."
Elara's hands went cold.
She remembered the boy's words again:
"The Grimoire—it feeds on sacrifice."
There was no name here.
Only a direction.
And then—
A soft knock behind her.
She turned.
No one was there.
But the shadows had shifted.
The books were watching her.
One of them opened on its own.
Pages flipped rapidly, faster and faster until they stopped—on a drawing.
A woman, sketched in charcoal, mouth sewn shut. Beneath her: "The Librarian Who Remembered Too Much."
The page began to bleed.
Elara stepped back.
Another knock—louder.
This time, from inside the wall.
She ran.
The corridor changed behind her.
Bookshelves melted into stone. Stone into corridors. Corridors into nothingness.
She wasn't in the library anymore.
She was beneath it.
The air reeked of ink and salt.
Then she saw it—
A massive door made of stitched leather. Hundreds of names carved into it.
But one stood out.
Her own.
Fresh.
Dripping.
She touched it.
The door pulsed like a heartbeat.
Behind it, something sighed.
"Step away."
A voice.
Raspy. Feminine. Familiar.
She turned—and saw her.
The woman from the book.
The Librarian.
Her mouth was still sewn shut. But her voice echoed in Elara's mind.
"He cannot be named. Not unless you give yours away first."
"That's how he binds you. Through mirrors. Through names. Through pages."
Elara tried to speak, but her mouth wouldn't move.
"If you speak his name, he wears your skin."
"The Grimoire is bleeding. You must feed it a false name."
"Whose name?" Elara whispered.
"The one who came before you."
The Librarian pointed at the floor.
A name was carved into the stone.
Verena Elowen.
Elara didn't know the name.
But it felt like it knew her.
Suddenly, a scream ripped through the silence.
Not a human scream.
Something ancient. Furious. Starving.
The door behind Elara bulged. As if something massive pushed against it.
The Librarian stepped forward, hand glowing.
"Run."
"But—"
"RUN!"
Elara turned and sprinted.
Behind her, the door began to split open.
And something inside whispered:
"Elara… I see you now."
She burst back into the main wing of the library, gasping, covered in sweat and ink.
The Restricted Wing door slammed shut behind her.
The Archivists were awake now. One of them turned its head.
But didn't chase.
Because it knew.
She'd brought something out with her.
That night, back in her dorm, she opened the Grimoire again.
It had already turned to a new page:
"She has been named by the nameless."
"The Watcher is watching."
"Next time, he will speak."
Elara didn't sleep.
Not because she couldn't.
But because the voice in her pillow was humming her lullaby.
Backwards.