It is common sense that the second basement floor of the library is not open to the public. But as a new night shift administrator, there is a strange rule written in bold red letters on the first page of my work manual: "If you see the fourteenth bookshelf on the B2 floor, please close your eyes immediately and remain silent for tens of seconds. Remember, no matter what sound you hear, don't look back."
I originally thought it was just a silly prank. Until tonight, at 2:15 in the morning, when I went to the archives room to put all the books that needed to be placed today into the trolley and placed them on each floor in turn, when I pushed the clanking trolley to the B2 floor, I looked at the corridor extending deeper through the dim voice-activated lights. On both sides of the corridor are densely packed bookshelves. I counted them subconsciously: "... Twelve, thirteen." My throat was a little dry. At the end of my sight was the fourteenth.
The cold white light flickered suddenly, as if there was a bad contact. In the gap between light and darkness, I clearly saw a little girl wearing a yellow raincoat standing in the shadow of the fourteenth bookshelf, with her back to me, reaching out her hand as if to take away a book on the shelf. Her raincoat was dripping with water, forming a small puddle of turbid liquid on the ground. But the problem is—tonight is a sunny day with a bright moon and few stars.
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