The Library of Rejections

The storm had turned Harrowgate Street into a river of shadows. Wind shoved at the old building like it wanted it dead. Arun stepped into the rain, his manuscript tucked under his coat, another rejection email burning in his phone like a wound.

Your writing lacks originality. Derivative. Unpublishable.

That word echoed, unpublishable, as he stared at the rusted gates of Blackthorn Publishing, abandoned for decades. Local writers whispered about its secret archives. Manuscripts too cursed to print. He didn’t believe in curses.

He believed in opportunity.

He pushed the gates open.

Inside, the reception hall sagged under decades of rot. Torn pages plastered the walls like peeling skin. Rainwater dripped from the ceiling, tapping on the floor like footsteps that hadn’t caught up yet.

At the back stood an elevator with cracked glass, its doors trembling as if something breathed behind them. A sign hung overhead in faded red paint:

BASEMENT ARCHIVES.
ENTRY FORBIDDEN.

Arun stepped inside. The doors screeched shut like teeth. The descent went too far, deeper than any basement should go. When the elevator finally stopped, cold air slithered across his spine.

Lanterns flickered to life.

He stood before an impossible library.

Endless aisles, carved straight into bedrock. Shelves of manuscripts wrapped in leather, bone, cloth, or what looked like skin. Not a library, a tomb of stories.

A plaque awaited him:

THE LIBRARY OF REJECTIONS
For the stories that should not exist.

Arun’s heart rattled as he read the names on the spines. Not famous authors. Not historical figures. Just names swallowed by time:

H. Lark “Ashes That Speak” (Restricted)
Corvin Hale “Strings of the Hollow” (Sealed)
Marla Veer “The Script That Eats” (Condemned)
Jonas Vale “The Puppet Bones” (NEVER OPEN)

That last one pulsed. The leather cover twitched like breathing.

Arun untied the cord.

It was brilliant. Terrifying. A story about a writer who steals a forbidden manuscript, claims it as their own, and pays the price: those they know are twisted into puppets, joints cracking, bodies contorting as invisible strings drag them like marionettes.

Arun knew it was madness.

He also knew it was success.

He slid the manuscript into his bag and ran.

Three months later, “The Puppet Bones” by Arun Varma became a sensation. Reviewers worshipped it as the rebirth of horror. Bookstores sold out. Awards buzzed. Producers called. His parents, who said writing was a waste of time, now bragged about him to distant relatives.

He should have been happy.

Then reality broke.

His old teacher from writing class was found dead—back arched, limbs dangling, joints snapped like severed strings. Exactly like the mentor character in the stolen book.

Then his editor, jaw dislocated, hands twisted above her head like a dangling marionette. The same death scene. The same posture.

Arun re-read the manuscript.

Every victim was someone he knew.

Then the scratching began.

First in the walls. A dragging sound like bone scraping brick. Then in the ceiling. The floor. His closet.

The door creaked. Something stepped out.

A human-sized puppet of polished wood, ribs carved with runes. Double-jointed arms bent backward. Strings dangled from its wrists and spine, tugged by invisible hands.

Its head jerked, cracking to face him.

“You finished my story,” it rasped.

Arun stumbled back. “I made it better.”

“You made it real.”
The puppet advanced, knees bending wrong.
“And reality belongs to its original author.”

Arun fled into the night.

He returned to Blackthorn Publishing. The door was already open, waiting. The building groaned as if aware of him.

The elevator plummeted on its own. Lanterns ignited before he spoke. The library breathed, inhaling him.

“You can have it back,” Arun shouted, throwing the manuscript onto the stone floor. “I never wanted this!”

The shelves trembled. Pages ripped loose and spun like a cyclone. They formed shapes, human figures made of shredded sentences and dripping ink. Each one mouthed silent screams, paragraphs bleeding from their eyes.

One stepped forward. Its voice was wet paper tearing:

“We do not forgive thieves.”
“We bury them in their words.”

The shelves parted like ribs opening.

A niche formed, a coffin-shaped alcove in stone. Velvet lining. A brass plaque already carved:

ARUN VARMA ... “THE PUPPET BONES” (Stolen Work)

Invisible strings lashed onto his limbs. His arms jerked upward. His knees reversed. His jaw cracked open as if yanked by a puppeteer.

He wasn’t screaming, he was creaking, wood replacing bone.

He was becoming the story.

The next morning, demolition crews entered Blackthorn Publishing. They found no basement. No library. No body.

Just a book on the front counter.

The Library of Rejections
By Arun Varma
Do Not Publish

A new assistant arrived for her first day. She didn’t know the rumors. She didn’t see the strings.

She untied the cord.

Behind her, something in the dark smiled.

And the story began again.