Mr. Linden's Library

Based on the mysterious picture, Mr.Linden's Library. Follow Mary into her decent to madness.

The bell above the library’s door jingled at the entrance of young Mary; a girl with a flair for foreign literature, she was a tiny being, petite in every way; her body was small, and her limbs were proportionate. Her long crimson hair flowed effortlessly with its luster. Her skin was pale but flawless, like porcelain molded by a master of ceramics. Mr. Linden waved her down, “Mary, good to see you again! It’s been a long time, we did some renovations recently, and all of our foreign literature is in the back now.” Mr. Linden was a tall, talkative man, once he begins speaking; it’s difficult to give a response. He had an average face with raven black hair, combed over and flat. His short black goatee looked sharp and trimmed. “Thank you Mr. Linden,” Mary replied, “That’s where I’ll be then.”

            Mary rummaged through the shelves, tossing all the books that she had already read, which was quite a number of them. She learned much of foreign culture, language included, because she sometimes enjoys translating the books that were not translated already. She learned much grammar and vocabulary through this. She had gotten herself a step ladder so she could reach the higher shelves. She spent nearly twenty minutes looking through books before she saw a small chest on the very top of the shelf; she had lowered herself from the step ladder in order to get a much taller ladder, she climbed to the top of it and retrieved the chest. Mary had placed the chest on a table below and examined the chest; it had been covered in dust, difficult to make anything of the chest itself out. She had brushed off the chest, it was made of wood which had been stained green, and it had golden embroidery on it that read: Vermiculo Resurrexit. Mary had known from previous study that it was Latin for Vermillion Rose. She opened up the box, inside was a book, which also seemed to be covered in dust, she had blown it off, the dust appeared to be a fine yellow powder on everything it had touched. Mary had sneezed,” Pollen, well that’s odd...” The book had the same tint and embroidery on it, except there was no author on the book, which was odd, especially in Mr. Linden’s Library. Mary shrugged it off and opened the book, to her surprise, the book was not written in Latin, and it was in a language that she had never seen before. She decided to do some research on it, so she brought the book to the counter.

            “A lot of people return this book early having not even finished translating the first page,” Mr. Linden had said, “are you sure that you want it? I mean most people give up from frustration at the difficulty of this book.” “Come on Mr. Linden, if anyone can translate a book, I can, besides I’ve been getting bored with all of the others, I want to try reading something new.” Mary replied. “Well something about this book has never sit right with me, people come back not just frustrated, but they’re always tired and a little bit paranoid, like the book had kept them up night after night.” He replied. “I’ve got plenty of time, Sir. I’m sure that I’ll be fine.” She said. “Alright then, may I borrow your library card for a moment?”

            Mary had returned home, ready for bed, anxious to start on her new gem in the morning, she placed the book on the coffee table next to her bed and laid down for what may have been the most terrifying night of her life. That night, she had dreamt that she was in an enchanting but terrible forest, she heard whispers, and they mumbled promises of knowledge and better understanding. Mary had followed the whispers into what she believed to be the center of the forest; she looked upon a giant green rose, the size of a fully grown oak tree which had seemed to be what was whispering to her. The whispers were louder now, praising Mary for her diligent study and quest for knowledge. She walked closer and hesitated, then reluctantly placed her hand on the rose. Before she could react, vines had entangled her body, arms, legs, torso, and head. The vines each had several razor sharp thorns lining them; they tore her flesh as easily as barbed wire. The vine holding her head fixed her sight on the body, forcing Mary to watch her own mutilation. But Mary did not cry, she did not scream, she did not howl for pain, instead, she smiled, she felt a portion of her mind begin to learn things that she had never heard before. As she watched her flesh fall from her bone, and her blood drip from her mutilated flesh, she could only think of what she would attain, then suddenly, all at once, and for almost no time at all, she had actually hurt, and realized the hurt she was feeling. She woke up in a flash, scratching at her wrists; they were red with poison ivy.

            She had only slept for two hours that night; the remainder of the night was spent in study, looking through all the resources at her disposal to try and find what the language was, not being able to sleep. She had looked the title of the book up on the internet, she spent hours looking, and searching for rare books and anything else she could think of. She found nothing. She opened the book again, and to her surprise, she had understood a few of the words, she didn’t know how, but she had. She read the first sentence, and from it, a few words throughout the book. The first sentence had read: In dreams, you are powerful, live your dreams, you must make sacrifices to live your dreams. Oddly enough, the word sacrifice had occurred in nearly every sentence, Mary had been curious of the importance of this word, but again, shrugged it off. Much more time had passed than Mary had thought; it was already 1:00 AM, though it felt like only hours she had been awake, even though she woke at 12:00 AM the other night. She had gone to bed, and she had dreamt again.

            She woke up from life in a familiar forest, yet more terrible and less enchanting. She was already in the center this time; the rose had seemed bigger than before. It didn’t just whisper this time, it spoke to her its voice rung beautifully with the voice of three, it’s harmony was music to Mary’s ears. “Hello Mary, you wish to learn, correct?” The plant’s voice had sung in her mind. “Yes, I do want to learn.” Mary had replied. “Then you must give something up, sacrifice means a lot to us, so what is your quest of knowledge worth to you?” The plant had said. “I’m not sure…But I want to learn, I’ll give you anything.” Suddenly she had felt a burning sensation in her stomach; she looked down, and to her horror, every wound that she had gained in her last dream was now a scar, but that wasn’t the worst of it, a vine had pierced her belly, it had gone straight through, she breathed weakly, and looked up at the rose. “The price you will pay is your fertility, which is classified under anything, I believe. We will continue to trade your worldly possessions for knowledge, see you next time you sleep.”

            Mary had stared in horror, not knowing what she had just agreed to, but before she had known the full pain of the mortal wound, she awoke, in her bed, with a stomach ache; it was 3:00 AM. She opened the book again, immediately after waking, and to her disbelief, she recognized another sentence. It had read: Bring your dreams to reality, your sacrifice will be taken in blood and glory, and you will be rewarded in fulfilled avarice and power. Mary’s eyes blurred with tears at her realization. The dreams were real, she looked at her wrists, they were scarred, she lifted her blouse to look at her stomach, it was scarred, she looked at the scars, and she was scared. That day, she had gone back to Mr. Linden, tired, and terrified.

            She had returned the book, hoping that would be the end of it, but that night, when she slept, once again, she dreamt of a forest. That night, the forest was absolutely terrifying. The trees were black, and the fog was thick. The rose towered tall, vines, thorns, and roots in every direction.  “Why didn’t you tell me the consequences?” Mary had asked the rose. “You had not asked,” the rose replied, “when you said anything, you had been locked in our agreement, you will forfeit something every day for more knowledge, until you can read the book, front to back, tonight, your sacrifice is the first half of that which makes you vane.” Vines had covered her entire body, tearing and ripping her skin, she had been mummified with razor sharp vines, she howled with pain, she cried out, tonight was more painful than ever before. She awoke before it was over, she ran to her bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, every inch on her face was covered in scars, they distorted her skin and her shape, she cried that day. She had retrieved the book again from the Library, and read the book once more. The new sentence read: Though the price seems heavy, this is what you had wanted all along; you will sacrifice everything to live this dream.

            The third sacrifice had been the second half of her beauty; the vines had ripped her hair and stained her skin. The mirror had shown that her hair was nearly gone, and her skin tinted green, she was too embarrassed to leave her home, she cried again, but continued to read. ‘Wants come and go, but dreams you need to work for; need to sacrifice for; you will soon be powerful in life.’ The fourth sacrifice had been her hearing, the vines had penetrated her ears and burst her ear drums; her ears were bleeding when she woke, she did not cry. ‘Each sacrifice will be worse and worse, but you cannot turn back, you don’t have the will too, you do not want to.’ Next came her voice, the vines had pierced her throat, she could not cry. ‘No one can understand the sacrifices you’ve made, no one can possibly hear.’ Fifth came her sanity, she couldn’t stand the torture anymore, the vines had pierced her forehead, she laughed. She read the final sentence: Sometimes the sacrifices aren’t worth the trouble. That night, she had set fire to her home; all that was found was a charred book in the rubble. The sixth night, she sacrificed her body, the vines had left her alone, and her spirit had cried. Mr. Linden had warned her about that book. Now it was too late.