Myrtle Warren: The Girl the Library Forgot

 

⭐ An Encounter with Moaning Myrtle Warren — The Forgotten Girl of the Library

Could I borrow your pen?

That’s all I said.

Just a simple question, whispered in the near-empty university library as I tried to complete my thesis the night before submission.

The girl sitting a few seats away looked my age—maybe nineteen, maybe twenty—but her eyes… her eyes were blank. Not cold. Not rude. Just vacant, as if she were looking through me, not at me. Without a nod, without a blink, she extended the pen toward me.

It was old-fashioned.

A fountain pen, heavy, cold to touch.

Oddly cold.

I didn’t think much of it. Stress kills common sense anyway. I wrote my final paragraph, signed the final page, and when I turned to return the pen… the girl was gone.

Just—gone.

No footsteps.

No rustling.

Not even the soft thud of a backpack.

Maybe she left early, I told myself. She wore the same uniform scarf as mine — so surely, I’d return it the next day.

Except I didn’t.

Because the next day, when I asked three seniors, two juniors, and even the librarian about a girl with shoulder-length hair and a pale blue scarf, they all gave the same answer:

> “No idea.”

“Never seen her.”

“You sure you weren’t dreaming?”

Dreaming? Nobody dreams with stress pimples on their face and three cups of cold coffee beside them.

Days passed. Work piled up. Life went on.

Then one evening, I found myself sitting at the exact same corner of that library. Same wooden table. Same flickering tube light. Same draft of cold air that always made page corners flutter.

I was searching for a reference book when suddenly—

A chill pricked the back of my neck.

The kind that warns before the mind understands.

I turned.

She was sitting right next to me.

The same blank-eyed girl.

The same pale blue scarf.

The same silent presence that felt like a shadow pinned to a chair.

She was reading a book, except… the book had no title.

My heart pounded—but I forced myself to speak.

“I—I have your pen,” I whispered and hurriedly opened my bag. “Here. I wanted to return it.”

She slowly lifted her eyes. This time, they didn’t look blank. They looked ancient. Tired. Worn.

“You kept it safe,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t normal.

It echoed — as if it was coming from behind walls.

I blinked. “Of course. I— I didn’t know how to find you.”

“You can’t find someone,” she whispered as she took the pen, “if they’re no longer living.”

I froze.

“I don’t understand.”

She looked over my shoulder — at the glass doors of the library — and her expression changed. Sharp. Angry. Almost violent.

“He’s here.”

“Who?”

But she didn’t answer. Instead, all around us, bookshelves shuddered. Pages rustled violently. A stack of research journals toppled to the floor, the thud echoing like thunder.

Students looked up, confused.

Someone muttered, “Strange wind again.”

Someone else said, “This place is cursed.”

But I knew.

It wasn’t wind.

She was trembling, gripping the pen until her fingers turned white.

“Myrtle Warren,” she said. “That was my name… once.”

A cold pulse ran through me.

“Myrtle?” I whispered. “Like Moaning—?”

She nodded. “A different Myrtle. A different tragedy.”

She pointed softly toward the glass door.

A boy — tall, smug, wearing headphones around his neck — walked inside. I recognized him. A senior student known for tormenting juniors, making girls cry, and stealing assignments.

When he passed our table, Myrtle stiffened.

“He used to bully me,” she murmured, voice trembling with rage that was years old. “Every day. Books torn. Notes stolen. Rumors started. He made my life so small that I could no longer breathe.”

The temperature around us dropped.

“One day,” she continued, “I finally stood up to him. I told him to stop. To leave me alone.”

She swallowed—or tried to.

“And he made sure I never spoke again.”

Her fingers tightened around the pen.

“I died that day,” she whispered. “My parents moved away. No investigation. No justice. Just silence.”

A wave of cold rushed through the shelves, knocking over more books. Students gasped. One screamed as a whole section toppled over.

The bully jumped back, startled, muttering, “What the hell—?”

He ran out of the library.

Myrtle exhaled, shoulders slumping.

“That’s why they think it’s wind,” she said softly. “Whenever he enters, I feel everything I felt that day. Fear. Rage. Pain. It… spills out.”

I swallowed hard. “But why me? Why did you give me the pen?”

She looked at me — really looked — for the first time.

“Because you asked kindly,” she said.

“No one ever asked me anything kindly back then.”

The pen glistened strangely in her hand. Its ink shimmered like liquid night.

“I’m trapped here,” she whispered. “Between the shelves. Between the whispers. Between the breaths of the living.”

Her voice faded with each word, like a radio losing signal.

“But you… you might be able to help me move on someday.”

“Me? How?”

She smiled — a sad, soft smile that looked like it had waited years to exist.

“That,” she said, already fading into mist,

“is a story I will tell you next time.”

And just like that—

She vanished.

Leaving behind only the faint scent of old books,

a cold draft,

and a blue scarf draped over the chair.

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