Matthew Skelton - Endymion Spring

"So, what's the problem?" said Duck, moving past him. "Let's just go through it."

He turned to her in disbelief. "How?"

She rolled her eyes. "Haven't you seen one of these before?" She tapped the steel, which let out a hollow din. Small circular handles, like steering wheels, had been set into the metal barrier at intervals, making the wall resemble a series of bank vaults.

"It's a collapsible bookcase," she said. "To save space. How else do you think libraries cope with the increasing number of books?"

She made a great show of rotating the first handle, which released a catch. A sharp metal sound exploded in the air like a gunshot and he jumped back. Automatically, the other wheels started spinning in a clockwise direction, reminding Blake of a race of scurrying spiders.

Like someone letting out a deep breath, the units eased open, rolling apart on metal tracks. Numerous parallel shelves, each line with hidden books, opened in front of them — a hall of mirrors, all identical.

"See?" she said, wiping her hands on her yellow coat. "No problem."

"OK, so which corridor now?" he asked, irritated.

"I don't know. You're the one with the book."

He checked the map. Endymion Spring indicated a passageway next to the wall, in the very corner of the library. It was a tight squeeze, but they could just pass through in single file. They joined hands like paper dolls.

Sure enough, at the end of the corridor, obscured by a curtain of cobwebs, was an old, unmarked door. A very old one — barely visible against the stone foundation of the library.

Blake's heart was beating fast: the whole library seemed to shake around him. The book had become agitated, flapping in his hand, almost catapulting itself toward the opening.

Brushing aside the webs, which clung to his skin like candy floss, Blake cleared the way.

A stone portal with eroded teeth, just like the one guarding the entrance to the Old Library at St. Jerome's, faced him. He stared at it in stunned silence. It was the ghost of a door, half-sunken in the floor.

Duck gripped him by the sleeve.

"I don't like this," she said, her voice a pale whisper. "I don't think we should go any further."

Blake's hand was already on the door, propelled there more by the book than his own courage. "Don't worry. Endymion Spring is with us," he said, trying to sound brave.

With trembling fingers, he turned the skeletal handle. It twisted in his hand with a brittle, bone-dry click. Very slowly the door opened.

A breath of fetid air rushed out to greet him and a million goose bumps erupted over his skin at once. The passage oozed a damp, cold, earthy scent that clogged his nostrils.

Nervously, he peered into the void.

A spiral staircase descended steeply away from him, curling into darkness. A few moss-mottled stone steps, that was all. He could see no further.

He wanted to run away, but the book was drawing him closer, pulling him irresistibly into the shadow, its silver pallor extinguished by the suffocating dark. He needed more light.

Then he remembered.

Patting the front of his jacket, he soon found what he was looking for: a cylindrical object tucked into one of his pockets. His torch. He'd forgotten to remove it after his incident in the college library.

He grinned and pulled it out, struggling to hold both the book and the light at the same time. Duck's face was a moon of fear beside him.

He turned back to the hole and watched as the thin beam of light tumbled down the ancient steps. Even now, he could not see the bottom.

"Great, another spiral staircase," he muttered, feeling Duck clinging to his elbow. Her eyes were wet.

With a shiver, he stepped into the shadow. It was like wading into a moonlit pond; the dark came up to his waist, like very cold water.

"Don't," squeaked Duck, her voice small and fragile. "I don't want to go down there. It's not funny anymore."

She hung on to him tightly, pinching his skin.

"Come on," he grumbled. "We have to!"

The book was dragging him down, pulling at him like a weight. He was sinking into darkness.

"It'll be OK," he tried to reassure her. "I'll protect you."

His voice cracked and he fought hard to keep back the fear scratching at his throat. He reached out to support her, but her sweaty hand eluded his.

"No, I don't want to," she said again, backing away. Tears slid down her cheeks.

"Look," he said. "I don't like this any more than you do, but we have no choice. The Last Book is nearby; I can feel it. It wants us to find it."

"I'm scared."

"I know, I am too," he confessed, "but I swear I won't let anything happen to you." The darkness was seeping up his legs, chilling him. His teeth were rattling. They had to keep moving. "We'll be OK as long as we stick together."

Duck's bottom lip quivered, but eventually she nodded. She edged closer to the stairwell like a little kid dipping her foot in a pool. She clung to the hood of Blake's jacket, nearly choking him.

Together they stepped into darkness.

The staircase spiraled steeply down before it gave way to an uneven, earthen floor. A damp mossy smell filled the air. For a moment it seemed to Blake that they had stumbled into a graveyard, a reliquary for dead or forgotten books. Endymion Spring's bones might be hidden nearby, he thought with a shiver.

Apart from a frail shaft of light falling like a veil from the pages of the open book in his hand, the chamber was thick with shadow. He swept the beam of his torch around the room, chasing away layers of darkness. Ancient pillars supported a low, rounded ceiling from which cobwebs dangled like sticky chandeliers. All around him were open chests, like plundered tombs. Rudimentary shelves lined the walls, but these had cracked and splintered centuries ago. Most of their contents had spilled to the ground.

Everywhere Blake looked there were books: ghostly white volumes in plain wrappers that gradually began to emit a faint silver glow — like the pages in Endymion Spring . Quires of paper filled the chests, while heavy reams, too large to pick up, lay on worn plinths, shrouded in dust. It was more likely a crypt than a library.

Black doorways gaped at intervals, ready to receive them. Blake peered into the deeper, darker rooms, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They were surrounded by a honeycomb of cell-like chambers.

Duck had lifted one of the large folios. "It's blank," she muttered as she let it fall. Instantly, a dusty detonation filled the neighboring rooms and a lisp of paper passed through the air. Endymion Spring , the sheets seemed to whisper in an unearthly refrain.

Blake whirled round, startled. His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated.

Shakily, he held out the blank book in front of him and used its lantern-like light to guide him. It was more effective than his torch; it picked up a trail of scintillating paper on the floor.

Duck followed, unconsciously leaving fingerprints like bird tracks on the books and shelves she touched.

The rooms were all alike: lined with blank books that seemed to be waiting for someone to fill them with words. The whole library appeared to be watching, waiting for Blake to find the Last Book . He felt incredibly small and insignificant in comparison. He shrank against the walls.

As if responding to his growing sense of uneasiness, the book jittered in his hand and fell to the ground. Its comforting light went out. The room was plunged into sudden darkness.

Duck's fingers clawed at him. "Blake!" she screamed, her voice reverberating against the shelves in a shrill shriek.

Frantically, Blake swung his torch around the chamber, tyring to locate the blank book.