THE VISITOR IN THE VAULT
Newling hated the vault. Hated its shadows, its silence, its cold stale air.
But this morning there could be no escape. Preston Haver's books had been sorted and classified, and Mr. Twais, the head librarian, had given instructions that some of the most valuable of the lot were to be stored in the locked basement vault.
Running his hand through his thinning hair, Newling pushed the book truck into the staff elevator. Mrs. Joy, the desk attendant, watched him with an abstracted expression. There was no one else in sight. Mr. Twais was in his private office, reading the morning mail.
The elevator glided to a smooth stop and Newling rolled out the truck. Fretting with irritation, he started down the long, dimly-lighted corridor which led to the locked vault.
Preston Haver always had been a nuisance. Always poking and prying around the library, looking for some outlandish book which no one had ever heard of. He had given Newling many a start as he shuffled suddenly into sight around a book shelf, grinning and nodding like an overgrown gnome.
Some weeks before he had donated and shipped his entire private book collection to the library. Mr. Twais had been ecstatic, but Newling considered the whole business a bother.
Reaching the far end of the corridor, he stopped before the massive locked door of the vault, twirled the shiny dials until he heard the familiar faint click, and then pushed ajar the heavy metal door.
Frowning, he rolled the truck inside. The atmosphere of the vault this morning seemed even more oppressive than usual. It seemed far colder than it ordinarily was. Newling shivered as he brought the truck to a stop and scanned the shelves for a suitable spot for the books.
Most of them were vellum-bound incunabula, written in Latin and embellished with archaic designs. Remembering Preston Haver's yellow-toothed smile and bony hands, Newling lifted the books with distaste.
He began placing them on shelves as rapidly as he could, occasionally glancing behind him into the deeper shadows of the vault. The lighting was far from adequate, and although Mr. Twais had promised that something would be done, somehow nothing ever was.
Newling filled one shelf and started another. He was cold in spite of his hurried movements. He glanced toward the vault door, to make sure that it was still open. More than once he had had nightmares about being shut up in the vault.
The book truck was nearly empty, and he was beginning to feel somewhat relieved, when he suddenly froze with his arm half outstretched toward a shelf.
He had heard nothing and seen nothing, but he knew, even before he turned, that he was no longer alone in the vault.
His heart was hammering and he could feel the cold sweat break out on his forehead. Mustering his last shred of will power, he forced himself to turn around.
Weakly, he leaned back against the book shelves. Preston Haver stood inside the vault door, half in shadow. He looked yellower and bonier than ever and his gaunt mirthless grin seemed more grotesque.
Nodding and still grinning, he shuffled forward. "I see you're shelving my books!" His voice was cracked and thin. It sounded to Newling as if it came from the far end of the corridor.
Newling stammered. "You, you have a fine collection, Mr. Haver. We're putting the—the best ones—here in the vault."
Preston Haver's ghastly grin widened. His long yellow eye-teeth looked like fangs, Newling thought.
He peered at the librarian with his reddish eyes. "There's just one"—his eyes roved the shelves—"one that I sent by mistake. I want it back."
Newling nodded. "Of course. Could you—ah—describe it, sir?"
The visitor stared at him, with a kind of enigmatic smirk. "A small book, with a soft cover. I'm sure you'd have it here. It's rare—oh, very rare!"
He threw back his head and laughed, while Newling listened in horrified fascination. He had never heard Preston Haver laugh before. He hoped he never did again.
Regaining some measure of composure, Newling turned to the shelves and began a systematic scrutiny. He felt thoroughly chilled, chilled to the very marrow. Of course it was imagination, but Preston Haver's presence seemed to have immeasurably intensified the oppressive clammy atmosphere of the vault.
Newling sighed with relief when he spotted the book.
His unwelcome visitor literally snatched it out of his hand, a quick gleam of triumph in his glowing eyes. He chuckled with glee. Newling recoiled from his evil grin.
Preston Haver peered up at him with an air of confidence which he found utterly repellent.
"This cover," he said, stroking it fondly with his bony hand. "Human skin!"
Newling stared at it, horrified. It was a pale, grey-yellow, mottled looking.
"Human skin!" his visitor hissed again.
Newling wiped the perspiration from his face. He felt weak and he suddenly realized that he was actually trembling.
"I'm sure it's—quite a treasure," he managed.
Preston Haver nodded. "Quite a treasure! You see," he went on, again with that odd air of confidence which Newling found revolting, "I'm starting on a trip—a long trip—and I couldn't leave without this book!"
Newling's voice was scarcely a whisper. "I'm glad you, we, found it."
His visitor moved toward the vault door. Just before reaching it, he turned, and his red eyes sought out the librarian's. His face contorted into one last, lingering malignant grin and then he was gone.
Newling leaned against the shelves for a full five minutes before he summoned up enough strength to finish emptying the book truck.
Still shaking, he rolled it out of the vault, slammed the great door, automatically twirled the dials and started back down the corridor.
He was cold and weak. He had scarcely strength enough to slide open the elevator doors.
He stepped out of the elevator into the large open-shelf room of the library with a feeling of indescribable relief. He felt as if he had ascended from a tomb.
Mr. Twais, the head librarian, was coming down the aisle. He stopped when he came abreast of Newling. He was about to say something, but at the sight of Newling's face, his mouth fell open.
"What is it, man?" he exclaimed. "You look positively shaken!"
"Oh—nothing," Newling whispered. "I'll be all right. Just—the air—in the vault. I guess I felt a trifle faint."
Mr. Twais seemed satisfied. He nodded. "You'd better go in the lounge and rest for a few minutes. Oh, by the way, have you heard the news?"
Newling shook his head.
Mr. Twais' expression became properly sober. "Preston Haver, our generous benefactor, died during the night."