“Librarian,” Diane said into Jackie’s palm. The human arm was connected to a figure that was leaking out of the wall, with wet skin and sandpaper eyes and a body that shimmered variations on the human form.

Diane sank into Jackie’s body in terror, feeling a moment where she just gave up. Jackie held her up, eyes steady on the figure.

“Too human-looking to be a librarian,” Jackie whispered. “I think that’s just the specter that haunts the biography section. It’s harmless.”

The bit at the end of the specter’s arm that wasn’t quite a hand reached out toward them. Its body dripped out of the wall like oil, black and viscous.

“Are you sure?” Diane said. The figure hovered closer. Its face was cratered and oozing, its eyes rough and gray. She pushed back into Jackie, unable to help herself.

“Oh, you know what?” Jackie said. “The specter regularly takes people. It’s taken a ton of people. Presumably they’re all dead. We should go.”

She took Diane’s arm and moved her down the aisle, toward the creature. A cleft opened below the thing’s eyes, splitting into a distorted mouth stuck in the shape of a final, mortal scream. Diane tried to lead Jackie into another run, but Jackie kept the pace even and slow. The creature loomed and Jackie leaned out an elbow, pushing it sharply aside. They tumbled forward, into, through, and beyond the specter. Diane turned to see if the specter had followed. It was gone.

“That wasn’t funny,” she said.

“It was kind of funny.” Jackie considered Diane’s face. “Oh, come on, dude. It’s not like knowing would have helped you any. I’ve had to do school reports on Helen Hunt enough times that I’ve learned to deal with the specter. Its intentions aren’t good, sure, but it’s too slow and weak to be much of a problem.”

Diane glared at Jackie, with irritation but also with a new respect. Jackie was braver than she, Diane knew, suddenly and solidly, as much as she had ever known any fact in her life. And while, as the older person, she was more responsible, still Jackie was capable in ways that Diane was not. She didn’t know what to do with that information, but she knew it.

They had made it past the books, past the ghost, to a beige metal shelf, bolted to the wall, a few dozen books and folders on it. There was a stepladder available for the convenience of shorter patrons or those seeking information from the top shelf. Handwritten on a piece of paper taped to the shelf was a note: FORBIDDEN MATERIAL SHELF.

“According to the index, should be here.”