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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/bladerunner3027 on 2025-07-17 18:26:51+00:00.


He introduced himself to me as the librarian. It’s a small town, and in small town fashion, we only really have the essentials - the server at the tiny diner knows far too much about your personal life, the barman is acutely aware of your alcohol to mixer ratio, the florist has your anniversaries and birthdays committed to memory, and he…

He’s the librarian. To me. A mild-mannered man in his early 40s with a penchant for exactly which books you’ll return with a smile and a glowing review, and those you’ll dislike.

I’ve always been a keen reader. My husband Jordan and I met in a bookshop - him tucked away working in a quiet corner whilst nursing a coffee, and I aimlessly searching for my next read. Naturally, we ended up at the library fairly often, especially since we had only moved here two months ago and found the library to be charming in all its cosy smallness.

I needed to return a book, so I mentioned it to him in passing - typical morning talk. I said something about heading down there, and must have brought Ellis up without thinking. Why would I have thought, after all? His response confused me:

Who’s Ellis? Whenever we’ve been there together, the librarian has always been an elderly woman. Laura, or something, I’m pretty sure she said was her name.

I told him that he must be confused, but he seemed convinced that I was. We put it down to there being two librarians and pushed it out of our minds, even if that explanation made no sense given we had both talked to the librarian at the same time before, but he was already late for work, and I was barely awake, so that’s what was easiest.

When I made the short walk to return my book later that morning, a new librarian was typing away, half-obscured behind the desk. I’d never felt betrayed by my eyesight until that point - and I stumbled over my words as I read the bright red nametag brandished on her flowery blouse.

Laura

She noticed the bewilderment on my face and spoke tenderly, “Are you okay, honey? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!

Uhm, I’m sorry, but I thought Ellis was the librarian? Is he off today or something?” I managed to form in reply.

I’ve been the sole librarian for longer than you’ve been alive. If there were an Ellis here, I’d love to pass my knowledge on, but sadly, there isn’t!” she said, her tone equal parts jest-filled and concerned.

I told her I must have made a mistake and went through the motions, rattled, until I had the chance to phone Jordan. I suppose I didn’t put enough emphasis on the slowly creeping sense of dread I was feeling because his tone, too, was more light-hearted than I had hoped for.

People with healthy minds don’t just conjure up entire beings. Was I losing it?

But then Jordan met someone by the name of Ellis, too. One of our neighbours, two houses to the left, whom we never had the chance to introduce ourselves to. Well, he’d taken the initiative and knocked on our door one evening when I was out grocery shopping and Jordan was home alone. From what I’ve learned, he said his name was Ellis and, armed with a homemade cake and a toothy grin, that he was sorry we hadn’t been formally introduced yet.

Jordan assumed that he was the Ellis I had met, but the description didn’t line up. The person I’d met wasn’t young. Wasn’t the same height. Wasn’t anything like the person Jordan met.

Curious and always up for a good mystery - even if feeling a strange unease - we asked the neighbours we had made friends with about this nebulous Ellis person.

We shouldn’t have gone looking for answers because an ugly truth reared its head soon after.

The second house to our left had been unoccupied since the owners died last year.

It might have been pristine from the outside, with grass trimmed neatly and white picket fences showing nary a sign of being unmaintained, but the inside was devoid of life. We confirmed as much with anybody who might have known - and as soon as both Jordan and I allowed the other to know of Ellis’ perceived existence, neither of us saw him again. It suddenly felt as if our lives were dragging some unknowable hitchhiker along. We would be certain that the other was around - that unmistakable sense of human presence - even when we were far apart. It was as if some concealed set of eyes had converged upon us, doing nothing more than watching. Waiting.

Our shared experience was enough to let us know there was more to this, but just as soon as we resolved to dig a little deeper, the whispers around town started. Other, more gossip-minded townsfolk had started to connect dots that seemed to be spread far enough apart from each other they might well have been stars in countless neighbouring solar systems. Everyone in town had either spoken to or heard of an Ellis - but in such a tight-knit community, it became very clear that nobody actually knew anybody by that name. Not a distant inheritor of property. Not an alcoholic recluse. Nobody on the fringes of the town’s tiny society - nobody with the ability to live with being ignored - went by Ellis. Nobody had any evidence of “their” version of Ellis existing. No letters, no photos, no text messages. Nothing. And yet, over the past few years, everybody had met Ellis or at least been told about him. All who spoke of him ended up in the same situation as we had - never seeing him again, but having that distinct feeling of being watched.

And everybody who laid their eyes upon him described him differently. An elderly man with a stick and ancient slacks. A middle-aged man who had no memorable features. A young man with a skateboard strapped to his back.

He was everything, all at once.

And now the entire town finally acknowledged his existence.

Confoundedness gave way to a quiet blanket of fear that seemed to smother the town and our new home. How do you trust your friends and neighbours when you can’t trust your own two eyes? It was in the midst of this fear that an idea began to float around in hushed conversations behind shuttered blinds.

We needed to hold a census.

It was the only real way to determine who belonged - and who didn’t.

It was a small town with, after our recent arrival, a small population of only 172, which made what could have been a logistical nightmare somewhat straightforward. We were all to gather in front of the little old town hall on a Saturday morning, and one person would be designated to conduct a headcount. After forming neat lines and choosing who would count, our instructions were repeated to us. We were to be provided a number, and each of us would repeat it aloud after our number was called. A lady whose name I couldn’t recall was to be Number 1, and the count would proceed to the back of her line before moving to the next line and counting back to the first person in that line in a snaking motion.

My husband and I were given numbers 171 and 172.

And when the count finally reached us…

We were numbers 172 and 173.