AAA~Accursed Stacks of Miskatonic Branch

I sought a volume on taxonomy,
Some harmless text on moths or stars,
But ventured to a library
Where Dewey’s decimals bore strange scars.

The Reference Desk stood cold and stern,
Behind it, she—pale, silent, grim—
Her name tag read “Ms. Necronomicon,”
Her spectacles reflecting something dim.

“The catalog,” she whispered low,
“Will guide you where you need to go.”

I crossed the threshold, tentative,
Past shelves that leaned at angles wrong,
The card catalog stood before me,
And hummed an old, forbidden song.

Its drawers slid open, uninvited,
Each card inscribed in cuneiform,
The whispers rose in ancient Akkadian,
As something stirred beneath the floor.

“What section holds the book I seek?”
I dared to ask in voice too weak.

“Biography: 920 to 929,”
The cards replied in chittering tone,
“But venture past the Restricted Section
If you would glimpse what lies unknown.”

The Reading Room lay draped in shadow,
Its lamps burned green, unwholesome, cold,
Where scholars bent o’er crumbling volumes
And read of things that should not be told.

The floorboards pulsed with eldritch light,
As if the building breathed at night.

I spied the Interlibrary Loan,
A desk that smelled of brine and dread,
Behind it gaped a swirling portal
Where R’lyeh’s towers rose, long dead.

“Your book arrives,” the clerk intoned,
“From branches beyond space and time.
Sign here, and here, in blood preferred,
Return by date—or pay in kind.”

I signed. What choice had I but sign?
The book was already mine.

Its spine was bound in something living,
Its pages whispered, damp and cold,
The call number: Ph’nglui 666.6,
A classification madly bold.

I turned to page 999,
Where footnotes bled and margins screamed,
Where citations led to nowhere mortal,
And bibliography blasphemed.

The walls began to breathe around me,
The ceiling dripped with cosmic slime.

“Shhh,” said Ms. Necronomicon,
Adjusting glasses on her face,
“This is a library, not a madhouse—
Please show some decorum in this place.”

But then the Return Slot opened wide,
A gaping maw with teeth inside,
“YOUR BOOK IS OVERDUE,” it roared,
“THE FINE IS MORE THAN YOU CAN AFFORD.”

I fled through stacks of squirming tomes,
Past periodicals that wept and moaned,
The Exit Sign glowed sickly green—
Or was it watching, cold, serene?

Behind me, Ms. Necronomicon called:
“Sir, you still have our book!”

I run still through the waking world,
That volume clutched against my chest,
For though I escaped the Miskatonic Branch,
I fear I’ll never know true rest.

The due date stamp glows in the dark:
RETURN BY: NEVER.
And in the margins, something writes:
“We’ll see you soon. Forever.”

I dare not seek another library.
I dare not read again.
For once you’ve checked out from that place,
You’re always overdue, my friend.