Page 3 of The Alien in the Archive (Galactic Librarians #1)

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D avina was right—the archives are spooky at night.

I tell myself it’s just the same row of towering shelves, the same flickering lanterns casting uneven shadows, the same faint hum of protective energy running through the walls. Nothing’s changed, not really. But there’s something about the stillness after hours, when any other researchers have gone home, that feels heavier.

Like the archives are holding their breath.

I’ve been on M’mir for three days now, and I’ve rarely stepped foot outside of the archive. Sure, I go back to the village to sleep; my cozy cottage is nice. But my work is here.

And my work is the only thing that matters.

Archival work gets you into a rhythm, too, and when I’m in that rhythm, I become relentless. The work is meditative—cataloging ancient texts, cross-referencing translated fragments, picking apart myths to find kernels of truth. None of it feels dangerous or even all that unusual, aside from the occasional moment when a book hums faintly in my hands or vanishes from the desk.

That part should bother me more than it does. But I’ve told myself—over and over—that this is just part of working with alien texts in a place like this. The books are ancient, alien, and possibly alive. The humming and disappearing are quirks of a job that isn’t fully understood, much less predictable. Davina warned me, after all. And part of me likes the idea of books with personalities.

But tonight is different.

It’s late—later than I intended to stay—but I’ve been too engrossed in my work to leave. A glow lamp hovers over the book I’m reading and sitting cross-legged at one of the narrow study tables. The text is dense, full of metaphors and half-remembered stories, but there are hints—small, tantalizing details—that tie back to Earth.

And Yrsa shed her blood amongst the stars; And seven warriors sprang forth…

The words scratch at my brain, like an itch I can’t reach. I tap my pen against my notebook, frustrated but exhilarated. Yrsa’s Cradle. The Skoll’s sacred constellation—linked to myth, prophecy, and the origins of Elixir itself. Humans had no business knowing about it in Antiquity, and yet…here it is. Buried in fragments of translated myths from Earth.

It reminds me to look at the skylights, remembering that the constellation—Yrsa’s Cradle—is supposed to be bright tonight. If I’m still in the clear, I’ll see the colors of dusk rather than the stars.

I see the stars.

Shit.

But I don’t want to leave this be, because I can’t take a scan and I can’t take pictures. I start trying to finish up with the book, scribbling notes in my notebook?—

“Page.”

It’s just a whisper, but it breaks the silence like shattered glass.

I freeze, my pen hovering over the page .

…nothing else.

Great. Now I’m being haunted. That’s exactly what I needed tonight.

My chest tightens. It’s not like I haven’t spooked myself in archives before—an empty chair creaking, a book falling off a shelf—but this? This feels…different.

Okay…so I’m imagining things. It wouldn’t be the first time; archives get too quiet late at night, and it’s always the kind of quiet that sets your teeth on edge. I try to start writing again, but now the scratching of pen on paper makes me want to pull my hair out.

Then I hear it again.

A voice…low and dark.

Not a whisper, though. It’s in my head.

I look up, my heart pounding, but the space around me is empty. The golden sphere hovering over the paper flickers faintly, casting strange shadows across the shelves. I strain to listen for anyone moving, then I open my mind.

I just heard somebody’s thoughts.

My stomach twists. It wasn’t like the faint background buzz I get from passersby or crowds—those are easy to brush aside, like catching stray snippets of conversation on a busy street. This was focused. Directed.

It reminds me of the first time it happened in the stacks at Harvard just over a year ago, on a night like this. I was up late working on my dissertation, alone in the library, when I heard somebody thinking about what they would jerk off to that night.

I confronted the guy; he was sitting at a table nearby. I thought he was harassing me. He tried to defend himself and I left in a rage, only for it to happen again.

The second time, I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. The guy hadn’t even been facing me, and yet his thoughts had unraveled in my mind, clear as if he’d whispered them to me. I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around it.

Now it happens all the time, and I’m certain when I’m in someone else’s head, but they’ve never said my name.

Maybe—hopefully—it’s just a feisty book.

I push back from the table, pacing myself to calm the screaming terror threatening to take over. I gather my things, and by the time I’m almost packed, I’m shoving everything into my bag. The golden sphere follows me as I move, its light bobbing gently in the air.

And as I turn toward the main corridor, I see it.

A dark figure…a man.

My breath catches. He’s too far to make out details, just the vague shape of broad shoulders, a cloak or coat brushing against his legs, and a wild tangle of hair around his face.

It’s definitely not part of the archive’s security; this figure has the shape and posture of something organic, with long, shaggy hair around his shoulders. Beyond that, I can’t see much of anything. I take a cautious step forward, raising my hand in a tentative wave.

“Hello?” I call. “I’m sorry if I stayed late, I’m just…”

I trail off when he moves slightly, taking a step forward. My muscles tense up, ready to flee if necessary, ready to fight if he catches me.

A small part of me clings to logic: maybe it’s another scholar who lost track of time, just like I did. Maybe they’re harmless. But something in the way he moves—a slow, deliberate shift, like a predator circling prey—makes my skin crawl.

“I need you to talk to me or I will scream,” I say, my voice far more confident than I feel. “And I’m a fighter. If you try anything?—”

A brilliant white light suddenly flares in front of me, and I stumble backward, landing right on my ass. When I get my bearings again, the shadowy figure is gone, disappeared into the stacks.

I don’t wait to find out where he went.

I leap to my feet, then I’m running down the corridor, my boots echoing against the stone floor. I glance down at my ID card to make sure I’m going the right way—just a couple more turns and I should be good, racing through that looming gate.

Hungry, the stranger’s thoughts say.

The word isn’t loud. It’s soft, curled like smoke in the corners of my mind…and it’s oddly comfortable, as if I could have thought it myself.

Still, it stops me cold.

Silence falls over the stacks. I glance back one last time, finding nothing but an empty corridor. No one is chasing me; no one is here who isn’t supposed to be.

I take the few final steps and scan my ID card, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard when the gate creaks open with the scratch of metal on stone. I step through as soon as I can, eager to escape the dark archive, the breeze of the main hallway rushing over me like a breath of fresh air.

The gate closes behind me with a heavy thud.

I’m out.

I breathe.

But it feels hollow, like inhaling air too thin to fill my lungs. The archives have a way of sinking into you, of staying in your bones even after you’ve left.

I stand there for a long moment, clutching my bag to my side, trying to regain any semblance of composure. My heart is pounding, my skin crawling with the lingering sensation of being watched.

Davina told me that ghosts aren’t real, that she’s never seen anything in the Archive.

But standing there, staring at the now-closed gate, I’m not so sure.