Nebraska Center for Writers

by Julie Kaewert

WHEN I ENTERED Armand Beasley's library that night for what would be the first and last time, it inspired the awe I always felt in the presence of a gret mass of books. The myriad shelves held a wealth of volumes, each with its subtle secrets and echoes of the past, and I was humbled to realise that I would only ever know a minute fraction of them in my liftetime.
But on that night I also got an inkling of the horrors books can hold, the spine-tingling evil of any truly good thing gone bad. For under Beasley's gilded morocco spines and original dust jackets lurked deadly secrets — one of which nearly sent me to the great library in the sky.

Reprinted with permission
from Unbound
Copyright © 1997
by Julie Kaewert

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The Rock

Nebraska Center for Writers