Whispers of Aisle 13

Vedha had always loved the library. Every weekend, she wandered its aisles like a pilgrim in a temple of whispers. On a gray, storm laden Sunday, she left home, unaware that today the library itself would breathe… and watch.

The first aisle stretched before her, dark and quiet. Her fingers traced the spines until they landed on a massive pile labelled HORROR. She carried it to a table and began flipping pages, ignoring biographies. Words crawled under her skin. Heart hammering, she devoured each story as if it were her lifeline.

By the last book, the lights flickered and died. Darkness swallowed the room. Seven o’clock. She couldn’t leave it unfinished. Candlelight flickered, shadows stretching like claws. She finished the final page, whispering: “These… these are incredible.”

On the cover, a photograph stared back at her. RAGHUNATH. She returned the books to the shelf and headed toward the door. But the rain had turned into a torrential downpour, hammering against the windows.

The library was no longer silent, it was alive. Candles sputtered; shadows darted in corners. The wind howled through cracks, carrying a sour metallic scent. Somewhere, dogs barked frantically. Peering outside, she saw sandals. Someone was still here.

“Slow down.”

The voice cut through the air like a blade. Her torch slipped from her trembling hands. She bent to retrieve it. AISLE 13, the sign read. Footsteps echoed—her own? Or someone else’s? Laughter rang low and cruel.

And then they were there: a towering man in blood-streaked clothes, a woman in crumpled saree, a boy in smudged red. Facing their backs to her. Their breaths ragged. Books clenched in hands like weapons.

“E-E-Excuse me…” she stammered.

They turned.

Raghunath. His family. Or… something like them.

Her heart raced. “Oh my god… sir! I read your books today. They’re… incredible!”

“You read them today?” Raghunath’s baritone voice rolled like distant thunder. “Those were published seven years ago.”

“Yes… I found them in the library… They’re amazing.” Her voice wavered.

He nodded once. Eyes fixed on the book in his hands.

“May I… take a selfie?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“That might… get you into trouble,” he said. Then, finally, a curt nod.

The photo she snapped felt unreal. She left the aisle, grabbed another book, and stepped outside. Rain had stopped. She slipped on her shoes, unaware that the sandals she had seen earlier had vanished.

At home, she placed the book on her study table. Rain returned. Lights flickered. Darkness. Torch in hand, she opened the book. A gust of wind slammed it open. The beam illuminated words that froze her blood:

A book by LATE RAGHUNATH…

Hands shaking, she searched online. Raghunath and his family had died in a car crash three years ago. Bodies never found. “Car… soaked in blood… Star Street, 13th Aisle…”

Who had she seen? The selfie? Gone.

Next morning, still shaken, she ran to the library. “Sir! Did an author visit Aisle 13 yesterday?”

The librarian froze. “AISLE 13? There are only eleven aisles!”

Her heart skipped. A chill ran down her spine.

That night, she returned home with another book. Rain battered the windows. She opened it, and words scrawled themselves across the pages:

“Welcome back, Vedha. You can’t leave.”

She froze. The air thickened. Shadows moved around her. And then she saw them: three figures, smiling, just beyond the candlelight.

She ran to the door. It led… nowhere. Every exit, every window, every street was the same library hallway. The aisles stretched endlessly, twisting impossibly, unfamiliar yet familiar. The books on the shelves whispered her name.

And then she realized, the library wasn’t just haunted. She was trapped inside it.

A flicker of torchlight revealed her own face in a mirror, but her eyes… they weren’t hers anymore. They glowed red, staring back at her.

Somewhere, a voice whispered: “Now, you belong to us. Forever.”

Vedha screamed. But no sound escaped. The library had claimed her. And just like that… the doors of reality closed behind her.

Outside, the library stood silent, as if waiting. For the next visitor.