The Library Of Eternal Youth: A Story
In the heart of a mist-covered town, where the street lamps flickered uncertainly and the wind whispered secrets through the cobblestones, there stood an ancient library. No one knew when it had been built. Some said it had always been there, older than the town itself. It was a towering structure of blackened stone and twisted iron, its windows dark despite the flickering candlelight within. A single name was carved above its arched doorway: The Athanasia Archives—the Library of Deathlessness.
Few dared to enter. Those who did never spoke of what they had seen inside. And those who overstayed, well… they were never seen again.
The Witches of the Library
The library was tended by three elderly women, all draped in flowing black robes that reeked of damp parchment and something far worse—the scent of decay masked beneath the sickly sweetness of perfume. Their names were whispered in fear: Madam Lysandra, Mistress Belladonna, and Grandmother Noctis.
They had ruled the library for centuries. None could say how old they were, for their faces were deceptively smooth, their bodies draped in illusions of youth. But those who saw them in the moonlight, when their magic flickered and failed, claimed their true faces were rotting, sagging like melted wax, their eyes sunken pits of endless hunger.
The townsfolk suspected something was unnatural about them, but no one had proof. What was certain was this: mothers who entered the library with their children were never welcome.
"Begone," Lysandra would say, her voice soft as silk, but her eyes gleaming with unspoken malice. "This is no place for babes."
"But why?" the mothers would ask.
And Grandmother Noctis would sigh, her gnarled fingers tracing the cover of a forbidden book. "Because knowledge is for those who seek it alone. And you… you are too distracted by your little burdens."
The doors would slam shut, locking out the mothers—but never the children.
The Vanishing Children
At first, it was only rumors. A boy seen walking into the library, but never out. A little girl who had wandered too close to its doors, only for her mother to find nothing but a single shoe left behind. The town shuddered with the stories, yet no one dared accuse the witches outright.
But then came Miriam.
Miriam was a widow, a woman of quiet strength. Her only son, Elias, had vanished after slipping into the library on a dare. She had searched every street, every alley. And when all hope seemed lost, she turned to the only place left—the cursed library itself.
She stormed through the doors, past the towering bookshelves and the endless corridors lined with flickering lanterns. Shadows danced across the stone floor as a damp, eerie silence pressed against her ears.
And then, she heard it.
A whisper. A murmur. A voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind.
"The life of the flesh is in the blood…" (Leviticus 17:11)
Miriam’s breath caught in her throat.
She followed the sound down a narrow hallway, past books bound in strange leather, past shelves stacked high with jars of thick, dark liquid. The scent of iron filled the air.
Then she saw it.
A massive cauldron, bubbling with something viscous and red. A circle of tattered dolls, their button eyes gouged out, their fabric bodies stained. And beside the cauldron—the witches.
Lysandra ran her fingers along the rim, murmuring incantations. Belladonna dipped a ladle into the bubbling crimson, drinking deep. Grandmother Noctis, her illusion flickering, revealing the skeletal horror beneath, turned her milky gaze toward Miriam.
"You shouldn’t be here, dear," she cooed. "But since you are… would you care for a taste?"
Miriam’s stomach turned. "Where is my son?"
Belladonna smirked. "Oh, sweet woman… they are all our sons now."
The Revelation
Miriam staggered back. Her heart pounded as she took in the grim reality. The witches—they had killed the children. Not in an instant, not mercifully. But over time, draining their blood, feeding on their youth, sustaining their own wretched existence.
She clenched her fists. Rage burned in her chest.
"They shed innocent blood, the blood of their sons and daughters… the land was polluted with blood." (Psalm 106:38)
The witches sneered at her fury. "And what will you do, little mother?"
Miriam reached for the nearest object—a heavy book, bound in cracked leather. With all her might, she hurled it at the cauldron.
The impact sent the pot toppling over, spilling its unholy contents across the floor. The witches shrieked as the steaming blood soaked into their robes, their stolen youth unraveling before her eyes. Skin shriveled, bones cracked, and their illusions melted like candle wax under the heat of righteous fury.
"Their evil will recoil on themselves; their violence will come down on their own heads." (Psalm 7:16)
The witches clawed at their faces, their screams shaking the walls of the library. Shadows writhed, the bookshelves trembled, and with a final, unearthly wail—they were gone.
The Library Stands Empty
Morning came. The townspeople gathered outside the ruined library, now abandoned and crumbling. No trace of the witches remained—only the bloodstained floor, the shattered remains of the cauldron, and the lingering whispers of lost children.
Some say Miriam walked away that day, never speaking of what she had seen. Others believe she never left, that she wanders the halls still, mourning the children she could not save.
And the library?
It remains. The doors stand open now, yet none dare enter. The books whisper in the wind, their pages rustling with secrets. And at night, if you listen closely, you may hear a voice—soft, sorrowful, warning:
"Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forb
id them not…" (Mark 10:14)
But the witches…
The witches are gone.
Aren’t they?
