Every Halloween, when dusk began to settle over Willowdale, Eleanor Marwick closed the public library with a smile that was as much mischief as it was politeness. By day, Eleanor was the quintessential librarian: quiet, precise, and draped in an earthy cardigan. But as October 31st arrived, she was, for one night, something else entirely.
Tonight, as soon as the clock chimed seven, she shed her librarian guise and stepped into her true role: the witch of Willowdale. Her cardigan transformed into a flowing cloak, her sensible shoes became lace-up boots that clicked against the cobblestone paths. A grimoire appeared in her hands, pages filled with spells in looping ink, all waiting to be unleashed.
The first stop was Mrs. Haversham’s house. Sweet, gray-haired Mrs. Haversham never missed a due date and handled every book with reverence. Eleanor whispered a soft incantation, and immediately Mrs. Haversham’s garden burst into a spectacle of flowers that would bloom all winter. Mrs. Haversham would have no idea how it happened, but Eleanor hoped the old woman would appreciate the miracle.
Next, she visited Benny, the teenage boy notorious for returning books in questionable condition, if at all. Last month, he’d managed to drop *Moby-Dick* into a puddle and never bothered to pay the fine. With a flick of her wrist, Eleanor murmured a different sort of spell. Benny, who was at that moment trying to play his video game, suddenly felt an itching in his fingers and a strong urge to read—the only cure would be to finish a novel *in one sitting*. Tomorrow, Benny wouldn’t even know why he felt compelled to spend his weekend on Tolstoy.
She continued her rounds, casting small, invisible charms on patrons who had been diligent and curses—always reversible, but just pesky enough—on those who weren’t. Mr. Carter, who never seemed to return anything without a new dog-eared corner, would find his shoes mysteriously shrinking with every step. Mrs. Lacey, who constantly whispered gossip during her book club meetings, would lose her voice for a day. Nothing malicious—just a lesson in respecting the sanctity of literature.
As midnight approached, Eleanor returned to the library, her heart content. Her cloak vanished, the grimoire dissolved into thin air, and she once again became the unassuming librarian. Come morning, she would be back to her usual self, a pleasant fixture among the shelves, with no one suspecting that the quiet librarian knew exactly who loved the library—and who merely used it.
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Here's a cute Halloween shirt or mug design for librarians (with my affiliate link).
