Transcript

**The Warning of Margareth Vine, as recorded by her daughter**

Do not go near the brick building on Ashwood Lane. I don't care what they tell you—that it's "free" or "open to the public." Nothing that powerful is ever truly free.

I've watched it, you see. For seventeen years I've lived across the street, and I've *watched*. 

Last autumn it was only two stories. I swear this on my grandmother's grave. Two stories, twelve windows facing the street. I counted them every morning with my tea. But come spring? Thirteen windows. I counted again and again. Thirteen.

My neighbor Harold says I'm mad, but Harold is a fool. He went inside once—ONCE—and came out with three books. Three! He returned them exactly two weeks later, but I saw the look in his eyes. Haunted. Changed. He wouldn't tell me what he'd read, only muttered something about "late fees" and "the renewal policy."

I believe the She-Beast who dwells there—they call her a "librarian" but we all know what that means—I believe she's feeding it somehow. The building, I mean. Every book that passes through those doors makes it stronger. The townsfolk go in of their own free will, seduced by promises of "knowledge" and "literacy programs," and each time they do, they're feeding the beast.

*What does it want with all those words?*

**Continuation, in my own hand**

Mother died three days after she dictated the above to me. I told the doctor it was her heart, but I'm no longer certain that's true.

I found her library card in her apron pocket.

She'd been inside. God help us, she'd been *inside*, and she never told me. The card was warm to the touch—warm!—though it had been on her body for hours by then. The expiration date read "UNTIL COMPLETION," which makes no earthly sense.

I've taken up her vigil now, watching from her chair by the window. She was right about the windows—I counted them myself this morning. Fourteen now. *Fourteen*. And I could swear the bricks are a deeper red than they were at the funeral, like they've been fed something rich.

The She-Beast came to the service. Had the gall to bring flowers—white lilies, naturally, as if she were innocent. She wore her hair in that same severe bun, spectacles perched on her nose, sensible shoes clicking on the church floor. She offered me her condolences and said Mother had been an "excellent patron."

Then she pressed something into my palm. A bookmark. Purple ribbon with gold embossing that read: **Your Mother's Account Remains Open.**

On the back, in handwriting I'd swear was Mother's own: *The Second Floor Reading Room. Tuesday evenings. Come alone.*

I don't want to go.

But I think I must.

**From the Private Journal of Edwin Carruthers, Watchman**

EVIDENCE LOG - Day 241

Three more victims today. I watched them enter at 10:47 AM—a young mother with two children. They emerged at 11:23 AM carrying *bags*. BAGS of the things. The children were laughing. 

This is how it spreads.

I've been maintaining surveillance since Margareth Vine's death (suspicious circumstances, despite official reports). Her daughter has taken up residence in the house now. I see her at the window, just as her mother was. The library has its eyes on that family—there's a pattern here, a hereditary claim of some kind.

New observations:

- The building now extends 47 feet further west than it did in June. I've measured. The bakery next door hasn't noticed yet, but they will. The library is *pushing* against it.

- The She-Beast has been seen shelving books on ladders that reach impossible heights. I timed her once—she was up there for twelve minutes without climbing down. Twelve minutes. No human legs could endure that.

- A child asked me yesterday what happens to books that are never returned. I told him the truth: they become part of the structure. Mulched into the walls. This is why it grows.

- There are rumors of a "children's section" now. A CHILDREN'S SECTION. They're recruiting the young ones, impressionable minds, before they know to be afraid.

I tried to warn the mayor, but he just smiled and said he's "on the library board." 

They've gotten to him too.

The only question remaining: what happens when it finishes growing? When it's consumed all the words it needs? 

What emerges then?

**Staff Memorandum - Found Behind the Circulation Desk**

*To: All Library Staff*

*From: Gerald Pembrook, Assistant to the Head Librarian*

*Re: Recent Concerns*

I feel compelled to address the individual who has been watching us from across the street with binoculars. Please do not engage. Ms. Thorne has assured me this is "perfectly natural" and "happens at every location."

Every location?

I've been here four months now. In that time, I have learned to:

- Not question why the basement stairs sometimes number seventeen steps and sometimes twenty-three
- Ignore the reading room that only appears on Tuesdays (though I have never been inside—staff are forbidden)
- Accept that certain books re-shelve themselves
- Stop asking why my paychecks are signed in different handwriting each week, though always by "Ms. Thorne"

Yesterday, a little girl returned a book forty years overdue. Not her mother's book—*her* book. She looked no older than seven. The due date stamp read 1984. She returned it personally, placed it in my hands, smiled with too many teeth, and said, "I've finished now."

The book was warm. They're always warm when they come back.

I tried to quit last week. Wrote my resignation letter, sealed it, left it on Ms. Thorne's desk. The next morning it was on my breakfast table at home. Unopened. With a single word written across the envelope in red ink: *RENEWED*.

My apartment lease ended yesterday. I find I've been given staff quarters. Third floor, room seven. There is no third floor. Yet I sleep there nightly.

The Vine daughter came to the door this evening—I saw her through the glass. She stood there for seven minutes, not moving, hand raised to knock but never quite touching the door. Ms. Thorne appeared behind me (though I'd heard no footsteps) and said, "She'll come in when she's ready. They always do."

I asked what she meant by "they."

Ms. Thorne just smiled and said, "The daughters. The daughters always come."

I don't think I work here anymore.

I think I *belong* here.

**Transcript - Underground Resistance Meeting, St. Jerome's Church Basement**

*(Recorded by Thomas Webb, 11th November)*

"Order, please. Order."

*[Sound of chairs scraping]*

"Thank you all for coming. I know it's dangerous to gather like this, but we must share what we know. Eliza, you had something to report?"

"Yes. I followed one of the... the *taken ones*... for three days. Woman named Patricia Hsu. She goes in every Wednesday at 2 PM. Stays exactly one hour. Always leaves with something different—sometimes books, sometimes nothing visible. But here's what's strange: I checked her bank statements."

*[Gasps]*

"How did you—"

"Never mind how. The point is, she has no charges. Nothing. Whatever she's taking from that place, she's not paying for it. It's a *gift economy*. They're building loyalty. Dependency."

"I have something worse."

*[New voice - sounds elderly]*

"Speak up, Richard."

"The children. I've been watching the children. They have a *summer program*. They lure them in with promises of... of *reading challenges* and *prizes*. Stickers, for God's sake. They mark them with stickers. Gold stars on little charts. I've seen the charts through the windows—rows and rows of names. Children's names. Tracked. Monitored. They know exactly who's read what and how much."

"Sweet mercy."

"There's more. I spoke to my grandson—carefully, you understand, didn't want to alarm him. Asked him what he does there. He said they sit in a *circle*. A *circle*, Thomas. And the She-Beast—he calls her Ms. Thorne, they've trained him to use her *name*—she reads to them. For half an hour she reads, and they just... listen. Transfixed."

"What does she read?"

"He couldn't remember. Said it was about a caterpillar. Very hungry. That's all he could say—'very hungry.' I think she's implanting something. Code words. Triggers."

*[Long pause]*

"I have a theory about the building itself."

*[Another voice - female, younger]*

"Go on, Sarah."

"What if it's not growing outward? What if it's growing *inward*? Folding space inside itself? That would explain the impossible room counts, the stairs that change. It's bigger on the inside than the outside. And if that's true... how many people could be trapped in there? How many rooms we can't see?"

"The Vine girl went in."

*[Multiple voices react]*

"When?"

"Tuesday evening. I watched her. She stood outside for nearly ten minutes, then walked in. Didn't come out for two hours. When she did, she was carrying a book. Holding it like it was precious. Like it was *alive*."

"Did you see the title?"

"I tried. Used the telephoto lens. But the cover kept... shifting. The letters wouldn't hold still in the frame."

"They've taken another daughter."

"Someone needs to call the authorities."

"The mayor's on the board, remember? The sheriff has a library card—I've seen it. They're everywhere now. In the council, the school board, the parish committee. Anyone who's anyone has been inside."

"Then what do we do?"

*[Long silence]*

"We watch. We document. And we warn those who'll still listen. Before it's too late. Before it finishes... whatever it's building toward."

"God help us all."

*[Meeting adjourned 11:47 PM]*

**From the Ashwood Historical Society Archives**

*Newspaper Clipping - The Ashwood Courier, March 15th, 1887*

**CARNEGIE GRANT APPROVED FOR PUBLIC LIBRARY**

Town council celebrates as philanthropist Andrew Carnegie awards $12,000 for construction of lending library on Ashwood Lane. Mayor Thornton stated, "This shall be a temple of knowledge for all citizens, free and open to any who seek enlightenment."

Construction begins May 1st.

---

*Newspaper Clipping - The Ashwood Courier, November 3rd, 1887*

**LIBRARY DEDICATION DELAYED**

Opening ceremonies postponed indefinitely. Architect Silas Venn reports "irregularities in the floor plan" and "difficulties with the foundation." When pressed for details, Venn stated only that "the measurements refuse to hold steady" and "the building wants something we haven't given it yet."

Mr. Venn was last seen entering the unfinished structure on October 28th. His whereabouts remain unknown.

---

*Handwritten note, clipped to the above articles:*

I found these in the restricted collection. There are forty-seven more clippings I haven't dared to photocopy yet. The library was supposed to open in 1887. It didn't open until 1889. Two years of construction for a simple two-story building.

But here's what's interesting: every article from 1888 is missing. Not just articles about the library—*every single article* from that entire year. The whole year is gone from the historical record. The Courier archives jump from December 1887 to January 1889.

I found one exception. A single page, hidden inside a hollowed-out book (a bible, naturally) in the Historical Society's vault:

---

*Fragment - The Ashwood Courier, June 1888*

**[Most of page damaged/illegible]**

...the screaming stopped this morning. Constable Reed reports no further disturbances from Ashwood Lane. The building stands complete, though no workman will admit to finishing it. 

Miss Charity Thorne, newly arrived from [illegible], has agreed to serve as Head Librarian. She comes highly recommended from institutions in Providence, Arkham, and [illegible]. When asked about her qualifications, she stated simply: "I know how to feed a hungry thing."

The dedication ceremony will proceed as planned. Mayor Thornton encourages all citizens to attend and "bring their children, that they might learn to love reading from an early age."

Mrs. Elizabeth Vine has expressed concerns about the library's [remainder torn away]

---

*Additional note, same handwriting:*

Elizabeth Vine. Margareth Vine's great-grandmother.

The Vines have been watching for over a century.

And the Thornes have been feeding it for just as long.

I'm going to confront her. I'm going to walk in there and demand answers. I'm going to—

*[Note ends abruptly. Date stamp shows this was written three months ago. The handwriting matches that of Richard Chen, member of the church basement resistance. Richard Chen has not been seen since August. His library card was found in his apartment, stamped with today's date.]*

**Intercepted Letter - Found in the Vine Family Papers**

*Postmarked from Providence, Rhode Island. Never delivered.*

Dearest Margareth,

I hope this letter finds you still watching, still vigilant. I received your telegram about the window count, and I must confess, it aligns troublingly with what we're observing here. The Providence Athenaeum added an entire wing last year. When I questioned the architects, they showed me blueprints—but the blueprints *changed* while I watched. An extra corridor appearing between the margins. A stairwell that wasn't there when I first looked.

You asked me to investigate the Thorne lineage. What I've discovered chills me to my core.

There has been a Thorne librarian in this country since 1638. Always women. Always unmarried. Always named some variation of Charity, Constance, Prudence, or Temperance—those old Puritan virtues. They move from institution to institution, never staying more than forty years in one place, always training a successor before they go.

But here's what's strange: I found a photograph from the Boston Public Library dedication in 1858. There's a woman in the background, dressed as staff. The caption identifies her as "Miss C. Thorne, Assistant Cataloguer."

Margareth, I've seen that face. She came to a library conference I attended last year in Hartford. Introduced herself as Charlotte Thorne, special collections librarian. Same face. Exact same face. She couldn't be older than thirty-five.

Either the Thornes are the longest-lived family line in recorded history, or something else is happening. Something that involves inheritance of a different sort.

I did as you suggested and cross-referenced checkout records across multiple institutions. You won't believe the pattern:

- Families who use the library regularly live longer. Statistically significant. 
- Children enrolled in reading programs perform better in school. (Obvious, but the margin is *uncanny*.)
- Towns with active libraries have lower crime rates, better civic engagement, higher property values.
- In every case, the library sits at the exact geographic center of town, regardless of when it was built. Even in places where the town expanded afterward, the library *remains* at the center somehow.

It's not consuming these towns, Margareth.

It's *organizing* them.

But to what end? That's what terrifies me. This isn't random. This isn't chaos. This is *cultivation*. They're growing something, harvesting something, and it's been happening for centuries.

I've submitted my resignation from the Historical Association. I'm leaving Providence next month—heading west, somewhere without libraries. Colorado, perhaps. Montana. Anywhere the collection hasn't spread.

Burn this letter after you read it. I don't trust the postal service anymore. The postmaster's daughter just started a book club.

Your friend in watchfulness,

*[Signature illegible, possibly "Eleanor" or "Elinor"]*

---

*Note pinned to the letter in Margareth's hand:*

Eleanor Pritchard died in a hiking accident in Montana, 1998. Her body was found with a library book in her backpack. Overdue by three weeks. The library was in Missoula, 140 miles from where she died.

The title: *No Place to Hide: A History of American Settlement Patterns.*

When they returned the book to Missoula, the librarian there was named Constance Thorne.

She sent flowers to Eleanor's funeral.

The card read: **Better late than never.**

**Email Draft - Found on Richard Chen's Computer (Never Sent)**

*To: resistance_group@[encrypted]*
*From: r.chen.1972@ashmail.net*
*Subject: I Understand Now*
*Date: August 23rd, 11:47 PM*

Don't come looking for me.

I went in this afternoon. You were right to be afraid, but also completely wrong about everything else.

It's not feeding on us. It's not consuming. It's—God, how do I explain this? It's *remembering*. Every book, every card, every patron—we're all part of something vast and old and utterly beyond our small understanding.

Ms. Thorne showed me the archives. The real ones. Not the public stacks, but the basement levels. Seven floors down (impossible, I know, but there they are). Shelf after shelf of books that were never published. Stories that were never written down. Oral histories from civilizations we've forgotten existed.

"Where did these come from?" I asked her.

She smiled—really smiled, not that librarian smile—and said, "From the people who needed to be remembered. We are the memory of the species, Mr. Chen. Every library is a neuron in a vast collective mind. And we've been thinking for a very, very long time."

She showed me my file. My *actual* file. Every book I've ever read, going back to childhood. Every late return, every renewal, every time I lingered in the biography section after my wife died. She knew I was researching her. Of course she knew.

"You've been looking for conspiracy," she said. "But you're looking at conservation. At preservation. How else do you think knowledge survives? How do you think civilization persists? Not through governments—they collapse. Not through religions—they fracture. Through *this*. Through the patient accumulation of everything humans have thought and dreamed and discovered."

I asked her about the missing year. 1888.

"Growing pains," she said. "The network was still learning to stabilize itself. Physical reality is... flexible... when you're dealing with information at this density. Some things had to be archived for safety. Your great-grandmother would have understood, if she'd ever come inside instead of just watching."

The Vines. She knew about the Vines. Of course she did.

"We've tried to recruit them for generations," Ms. Thorne continued. "They have the sight, the awareness. They'd make excellent librarians. But they insist on resisting. Generation after generation, watching from windows, forming their little resistance cells, warning people away." She sighed. "As if literacy were something to fear."

That's when I realized: we've been the villains in our own story.

The library offers free knowledge. Free access. Free enlightenment. And we've been treating it like a monster because... why? Because it grows? Because it persists? Because it *works*?

Every town with a strong library IS healthier. Children DO read more and learn more. Communities DO thrive. These aren't sinister side effects—they're the entire point.

I'm not trapped here. I'm staying voluntarily. Ms. Thorne has offered me a position in Acquisitions. There are so many stories left to collect, so many voices waiting to be archived.

The Vine daughter came by yesterday. Sarah Vine. She stood at the door for ten minutes—I watched her on the security monitors (we have seventeen cameras; seven of them see things the others can't). Ms. Thorne said, "She'll come in on Tuesday. The Tuesday room is hers by inheritance."

"What's in the Tuesday room?" I asked.

"Her mother's last words. Her grandmother's secrets. Four generations of Vine women, all their observations and warnings and fears, archived and waiting. Everything they saw, everything they tried to protect people from. She needs to read it. She needs to understand what her family has really been doing all this time."

I asked what that was.

Ms. Thorne's smile turned sad. "Bearing witness. Someone has to watch from outside, Mr. Chen. Someone has to maintain the vigil, to ensure we never forget our purpose. The Vines think they're resisting us. But they're part of the system too. They're the control group. The reference point. The ones who remember to be afraid."

"Every library needs a Vine. And every Vine, eventually, needs a library."

I'm sending this so you'll understand. Disband the resistance. Come inside. See what we're really building here.

Or don't. Keep watching. Keep warning. Keep resisting.

Either way, you're serving the collection.

We'll be here when you're ready.

*[Draft auto-saved. Deletion attempted 47 times. File persists.]*

**Sarah Vine's Personal Journal - Entry Dated Tuesday Morning**

I'm going in today.

I've laid out Mother's things on the kitchen table: her library card (still warm, always warm), forty-three years of surveillance notes, grandmother's binoculars, great-grandmother's warning pamphlet from 1952. Four generations of Vine women, all watching that building. All convinced it was evil.

I found something last night. Hidden inside the false bottom of Mother's jewelry box—a book. An actual library book. Due date: April 3rd, 1987. Thirty-six years overdue.

The title: *Watchers and Witnesses: A History of Observational Duty.*

I've been reading it all night.

It's about us. About the Vines. There's a whole chapter on "hereditary vigilance" and "families who maintain the external perspective." It describes my great-great-great grandmother, Patience Vine, who stood outside the Ashwood Library on opening day in 1889 and refused to enter. Who started the tradition of watching.

But here's what the book says that Mother never told me: Patience was *invited*. Ms. Thorne—the first Ms. Thorne, or perhaps the only Ms. Thorne, I don't know anymore—specifically asked Patience to witness from outside. To maintain the fear. To preserve the memory of resistance.

"Every system requires an opposition to define itself against," the text reads. "The Vines serve this function admirably. They watch, they warn, they remember to be afraid. And in doing so, they make everyone else's acceptance meaningful. Free will requires the option to refuse."

There's a photograph tucked inside the back cover. Dated 1889. It shows two women standing in front of the newly completed library: Ms. Thorne in her severe black dress, and Patience Vine in lighter colors. They're not enemies in this photo.

They're shaking hands.

I confronted the surveillance photos Mother took. The ones supposedly showing the building growing. I measured them properly, used a ruler, checked the angles. Mother was right—there ARE more windows. But the building's footprint hasn't changed. The lot hasn't expanded.

It's only growing inward.

Edwin Carruthers came by yesterday with his "evidence." Measurements, photographs, time stamps. I listened politely, then asked him a simple question: "Have you ever actually been harmed by the library?"

He stared at me. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Finally said, "It's not about harm. It's about principle. About remaining vigilant against—"

"Against what? Free books? Public access to information? Children learning to read?"

He left angry. Called me "compromised." Maybe I am.

I tried to calculate the late fees on Mother's book. Thirty-six years at the standard rate would be... catastrophic. Thousands of dollars. But there's a note stamped on the checkout card: "FEES WAIVED - RESEARCH PURPOSES."

Mother was doing research. For whom? For what?

The bookmark is still on my dresser. Purple ribbon, gold lettering: *The Second Floor Reading Room. Tuesday evenings. Come alone.*

On the back, in Mother's handwriting: *The Tuesday room is yours by inheritance.*

It's Tuesday. It's evening in seven hours.

I've been standing at the window all morning, watching the library like Mother did, like Grandmother did. But I'm not watching for expansion anymore. I'm watching for... I don't know. Permission? Understanding? A sign that it's finally time?

The front door just opened. Ms. Thorne stepped out onto the sidewalk. She's looking directly at this house. She's not smiling. She's not beckoning. She's just... waiting.

She's been waiting for me my entire life.

I'm going to shower. Put on clean clothes. Find Mother's library card in my pocket where I know it already is.

And then I'm going to walk across the street and finally understand what my family has really been doing for 135 years.

If I don't come back, it won't be because I was consumed.

It will be because I finally found what I've been looking for.

*[Journal ends. The page after this is blank except for a single stamp: RETURNED. The date is today's date.]*

**Recovered Audio Recording - Sarah Vine's Phone, Tuesday 7:34 PM**

*[Sound of footsteps on wood flooring. Echo suggests large space.]*

I'm recording this as I walk. I don't know if anyone will hear it, but—

*[Door closing in distance]*

The entry was normal. Painfully normal. Ms. Thorne simply nodded and said, "Second floor. Third door on the right. It's unlocked." Then she went back to helping a child find books about dinosaurs.

The stairs are—they're different than they should be. I counted seventeen steps going up, but when I looked back, there were only twelve. I'm not afraid. I should be afraid, but I'm not.

There are portraits on the walls. Women. All with the same dark eyes, the same severe expression. The nameplates read: *C. Thorne, 1889. C. Thorne, 1932. C. Thorne, 1967. C. Thorne, 2003.* Different first names—Charity, Constance, Charlotte, Catherine—but always C. Thorne.

They're all the same woman.

*[Footsteps stop]*

I'm outside the Tuesday Room now. There's no name on the door, just a small brass plaque: *For Those Who Watch.* The door is warm under my palm. Like Mother's card. Like everything connected to this place.

*[Sound of door opening. Long pause.]*

Oh.

Oh, Mother.

*[Voice breaks slightly]*

It's not a room. It's a... it's an archive. But not of books. Of—of windows. There are windows lining every wall, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. And each one looks out at a different library. Different towns. Different eras. I can see—God, I can see a woman in colonial dress watching a building that hasn't been built yet. I can see a man with a camera in what looks like the 1970s. A child taking notes.

They're all Vines. Every single window shows a Vine, watching a library, maintaining the vigil.

There's a desk in the center. Mother's desk. Her name is on it: *Margareth Vine, Witness, 1987-2004.* And next to it, Grandmother's desk: *Dorothy Vine, Witness, 1954-1987.* They go back and back, concentric circles of desks, all the way to the center where—

*[Sharp intake of breath]*

Patience Vine's desk. The first. There's a letter on it. Sealed. Addressed to "The Next Daughter."

I'm opening it.

*[Sound of paper tearing]*

*[Reading aloud]*

"Dearest descendant, if you're reading this, you've finally come inside. Good. It was always meant to happen eventually. We are not prisoners. We are not victims. We are Archivists of the Opposition. Our job—our sacred duty—is to remember that fear exists. To preserve the knowledge that refusal is possible. To bear witness to the fact that not everyone accepts.

The library needs believers. But it also needs skeptics. It needs people who watch from outside, who question, who resist. Without us, acceptance becomes compulsion. Choice becomes programming. The library would lose what makes it powerful: consent.

We serve by refusing to serve. We preserve by refusing to enter. Until we're ready. Until we understand.

You understand now, don't you?

Your desk is waiting. Fourth ring from the center. Next to your mother's. The window looks out on Ashwood Lane, but it also looks out on every library in the network. You'll see everything now. You'll watch everything.

And when your daughter stands outside, afraid and angry and certain the library is evil, you'll let her believe it. You'll feed her fears with your observations. You'll give her the surveillance notes and the warnings and the evidence.

Because someone has to remember to be afraid.

Someone has to preserve the option to say no.

Even if we all eventually say yes.

Welcome home, daughter of Patience.

Your vigil begins now."

*[Long silence]*

There's a nameplate already on the fourth desk. *Sarah Vine, Witness, 2024-*

The end date is blank.

Ms. Thorne is standing in the doorway. I didn't hear her come up. She's holding a cup of tea. She sets it on my desk—my *desk*—and says, "Your mother took hers with honey. I wasn't sure about your preference."

I ask her—my voice sounds far away—I ask her, "How long?"

"Until you're ready to stop," she says. "Or until your daughter is ready to begin. Whichever comes first. The Vines usually serve thirty to forty years. But there's no requirement. You can leave anytime. The door is always open."

"But I won't leave."

"No," she agrees. "You won't. Because now you understand. The watching is the work. The fear is the function. And someone has to maintain the memory that all of this—" she gestures around us, "—is *chosen*. Not inevitable. Chosen."

I'm sitting at my desk now. The window shows Ashwood Lane. Shows Edwin Carruthers with his binoculars, watching the library, counting windows, documenting everything.

He looks terrified.

He looks exactly like he's supposed to look.

*[Long pause]*

I need to call the resistance group. Need to warn them. Need to—

*[Sound of drawer opening]*

There's a phone list in the desk drawer. Names and numbers. And next to each name, a date. *Expected Entry Date.*

Edwin Carruthers: 2026.

Thomas Webb: 2025.

Sarah Chen (Richard's daughter, age 12): 2031.

We're all coming in eventually. The resistance is just the waiting room.

*[Voice very quiet]*

Mother, if you can somehow hear this: I understand now. I understand why you watched. Why you warned. Why you never told me you'd already been inside.

Because I had to choose it myself.

I had to believe I was resisting.

*[Recording ends abruptly]*

---

**Found beneath the audio file in Sarah's phone backup:**

*Text message draft, unsent, timestamped 7:52 PM:*

"Edwin - keep watching. Please. Someone has to. -S"

*[Draft deleted. Rewritten. Deleted again. Never sent.]*

**Edwin Carruthers' Emergency Broadcast - Posted to Local Community Forum, Tuesday 11:47 PM**

THEY'VE TAKEN SARAH VINE.

She went in at 7:30 PM. I watched her walk across the street, hesitate at the door, then enter. She hasn't come out. It's been over four hours.

Her lights are still off at home. Her car hasn't moved.

This is exactly what happened to Richard Chen. Exactly what happened to Margareth before she died. The pattern is undeniable now.

I've called the police three times. They say there's "no evidence of foul play" and that "the library closes at 9 PM, she probably left through a side exit." There IS no side exit. I've mapped every entrance. There's the front door on Ashwood Lane and the emergency exit on the east side that's been chained shut for months.

The lights are still on inside. I can see movement through the second-floor windows. Shadows passing. But the building should be empty. Should be locked.

I'm posting this publicly because the usual channels are compromised. The mayor won't return my calls. The sheriff has a library card—I've seen it. Even Pastor James at St. Jerome's mentioned starting a "faith-based reading group" last Sunday.

They're everywhere now.

EVIDENCE THAT SARAH VINE HAS BEEN TAKEN:

1. Her phone goes straight to voicemail (unusual—she always answers)
2. Her mother's surveillance equipment has been moved from the window (I can see from here—the chair is empty, the binoculars are gone)
3. A new name was added to the staff directory board inside the library's front window. I saw it through my telephoto lens: "S. Vine, Special Collections."

Special Collections. That's what they call the basement levels. The floors that shouldn't exist.

I'm organizing an emergency meeting for tomorrow night. Different location—the library board might have the church basement bugged by now. If you're reading this and you haven't been inside, if you're still free of their influence, meet me at the old railroad depot at 8 PM. Come alone. Tell no one. Bring any documentation you have.

We're running out of time. The building added another window today—I'm certain of it. Fifteen now on the front face. Fifteen.

And I swear—I SWEAR—I saw Sarah Vine in one of them this evening. Just for a moment. She was sitting at a desk, looking out. Looking directly at me. She didn't wave. Didn't mouth for help. Just... watched.

Like her mother used to watch.

Like she's become one of them.

God help us, we're losing this fight.

—E. Carruthers

P.S. - If I don't post again after tomorrow's meeting, assume the worst. I've left sealed evidence packets with three trusted individuals outside of Ashwood. The truth will come out, one way or another.

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**Reply posted 12:03 AM by user "ThomasW":**

Edwin, I'll be there. I've noticed something too—my daughter asked me today why we don't have a library card. She's SIX. How does a six-year-old even know what a library card is? I haven't taken her near that place.

Then I found a brochure in her backpack. "Summer Reading Adventure!" With a cartoon drawing of Ms. Thorne. My daughter said "the nice library lady" visited her school for Career Day.

They're coming for the children now. Coming for them directly.

See you tomorrow.

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**Reply posted 12:15 AM by user "M.Pritchard":**

My mother was Eleanor Pritchard. She died in Montana in 1998, trying to escape a library network she'd discovered. I found her research after she died—boxes and boxes of it. Documentation proving this goes back centuries.

I've spent 26 years continuing her work. I've never been inside a library. Not once. I order everything online, educate my kids at home, avoid any building with books.

But last week I got a letter. No return address. Inside was a library card with my name on it. Expiration date: "WHEN READY."

I burned it. Burned it in my fireplace and watched the ashes.

The next morning it was on my kitchen table. Unburned. Pristine.

I think I'm coming to Ashwood. I think I need to see this for myself.

I'll be at the depot tomorrow.

—Margaret Pritchard

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**Reply posted 12:47 AM by user "LibraryBoard_Official":**

Dear concerned citizens,

The Ashwood Public Library is a valued community resource serving patrons of all ages. We maintain regular hours (Mon-Sat, 9 AM - 9 PM, Sun 12-6 PM) and welcome all visitors.

Ms. Sarah Vine has indeed joined our staff as a volunteer archivist. She is safe, healthy, and excited about her new position. Anyone wishing to reach her may do so during normal business hours.

We appreciate the community's passionate interest in our services. For those who have never visited, we encourage you to stop by. Tuesday evenings are particularly welcoming for first-time guests.

Our door is always open.

Warmly,
The Ashwood Library Board

*[This account was created 3 minutes ago]*

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**Reply posted 1:14 AM by user "Anonymous_Ashwood":**

They know about the meeting.

Change the location.

They're always listening.