A Hidden Place

“What’s that about?” I asked a female librarian, middle-aged and plain-looking, with a grey bob of greasy hair. She didn’t look up from her screen, instead pushing a flyer across the desk at me.

“Thank you so much,” I said, my sarcasm seemingly falling on deaf ears.

Hmm. It sounded quite interesting. There were ten clues to things in the library. You filled in your answers to be entered for a draw to win a £100 book token. When was the last time I had one of those I wondered. Probably at least forty years ago!

I read, ‘Clue no. 1. Downstairs, there’s a painting, in a hidden place. If you find it then you’ll gaze upon a famous face.’ I trotted down some stairs labelled ‘To Public Archives’ and walked to an area with racks of newspapers and some stands to read at. Beyond, was a corridor lined with shelves full of magazine holders. At the far end lay what looked like an alcove. Ah-ha!

Many of the strip lights down here weren’t working and the light was poor. The magazines seemed to grow increasingly old as I headed down the narrow corridor. I read a label. ‘Cycling Monthly Jan-Dec 1928’. No one about. I was the only one down here. Disappointingly, a green-cushioned chair sat in the alcove, no painting. Behind it was a door with a push-button lock. Well, it did say a ‘hidden place’ but surely that was private? I looked around nervously, then moved the chair and tried the door. It was locked. On impulse, I punched 1-2-3-4 and bingo! it opened. Someone should change that code!

Inside, lay an ancient brick stairway with an old iron railing. I pressed a switch and small light bulbs, curving down and out of sight, illuminated the way.

In for a penny. Closing the door behind me, I started down a spiral staircase. Down and round and down and round I went. There was wiring along the wall and the little lights continued, although the further down I went, the lower the roof became, until it was scarcely above my head. Finally, the staircase opened onto a small, dank cave-like space with an earthen floor. In the centre was a plinth with a book chained to it. Light came from a single dim bulb in the ceiling. The covers of the book were vellum, smooth cream calf leather. I opened it and my heart thudded at the image of a hideous demon.

Suddenly, all the lights went out. In the total darkness, I started to feel panic rising. Then I felt fetid breath on my face and the hot touch of a scaly hand on mine.

I opened my eyes to find myself in a hospital bed, a pretty, young Indian nurse gently shaking my arm.

“What happened?” I asked, groggily, as the room came into focus.

“You fell down some stairs in the library. They thought you might be concussed. We’ll do some tests, it won’t take long,” she said.

“Oh, I had a strange dream.”

“Yes?”

I caught sight of my right hand. Across the back were four faint parallel red streaks. “Oh, nothing.”