The Haunting of the Bookbinder’s Bench

A Willowbrook short story for my Cozy Corner subscribers

A Willowbrook Story

©2025 Nyx Halliwell

Hello, magical reader. These short stories are for paid subscribers in my Cozy Community and can be enjoyed over a cup of your favorite brew or before snuggling down to sleep. ☕️💜 I add a new one every month as a bonus, along with recipes, puzzles, and coloring pages.

If you’re new here, you can start at the beginning or get caught up with the Index.

If you’re not a paid member and would like access to all the stories, audios, and other bonuses, you can become a Cozy Corner member here: https://nyxhalliwellauthor.substack.com/subscribe

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Willowbrook, a picturesque town nestled between rolling hills and lush forests, exudes an enchanting charm with its cobblestone streets and cozy cottages. This welcoming community is a place where the magic of everyday life flourishes.

The antique bookbinding press arrived at Willowbrook Library on a Tuesday morning, crated in cedar and emitting a faint scent of beeswax and centuries-old ink.

Ember had cleared a corner near the reading nook for the “Art of Book Restoration” exhibit—a temporary display curated by the Historical Society. The press itself was a massive iron contraption, ornate with scrollwork and bolted with rusted steel. Beside it sat a display table featuring tools of the trade: bone folders, brass type, linen thread, and a stack of battered, blank books.

“Are you sure that thing isn’t cursed?” Oliver asked, standing a cautious few feet back, arms crossed. He wore his usual lopsided smile, but his eyes were wary.

“It’s just old,” Ember replied, brushing dust from the base. “Not haunted.”

That declaration lasted exactly twenty-seven minutes.

First, the books. Not the ones on display—those were safely under glass—but the ones shelved in the local history section. Ember returned from shelving a cart to find every single book alphabetized by first name.

Next, the pages. She was helping a patron find a Civil War-era diary when the book in question opened itself with a gust of air dramatic enough to flip her bangs. The patron decided not to check it out.

Then Clover hissed.

The usually serene tortoiseshell kitten leapt onto the circulation desk, tail puffed, and fixed her eyes on the bookbinder’s press with an expression Ember could only describe as offended. Clover hissed again. Loudly.

“Okay,” Ember muttered, scooping up the disgruntled feline. “So maybe haunted and old.”