A lone man sat at a desk in an empty library, the only source of light being the desk lamp stationed next to him as he pored over century old documents like a possessed man. On a chain around his neck hung a Wiccan star pendant, the once-fine metal and embedded jewels glinting dully as they caught the light whenever he shifted to either stretch his neck or lean over to write in a small pocketbook lying open next to him. Far behind him a door opened and he quickly stuffed the notebook into his suit jacket's interior pocket before going back as he was, seemingly making it look like he'd never moved.

The clicking sound that accompanies a female in heels echoed through the massive yet empty room as a blonde woman approached,
"Doctor," she scolded gently in a thick accent, "The library closed three hours ago. It is time to return to the hotel."
"Hmm?" he asked, turning him body so that he was facing her but still able to keep an eye on his text, "Ah, yes, I suppose. Just give a moment to wrap up here; you wouldn't believe how fascinating this all is."

The woman smiled and nodded before turning to leave the way she came, not wanting to interrupt the man any more than she already had. As soon as she was through the doors from whence she came the doctor pulled back out the pocketbook and made some hurried finishing touches to the contents within. Once he was content, he snapped it shut and wrapped a rubber band around it before gently placing it in a large manila envelope he'd retrieved from beneath a large volume sitting precariously near the edge of the desk.

After the pocketbook he placed several yellowed pieces of parchment within the confines of the envelope along with a few pages he'd ripped from some of the books scattered across the desk. He felt rather bad about ruining the books, but it had to be done. Future generations might curse him for this, but it was for them he was committing such an appalling deed. Leaning back, he fingered the pendant for a moment, holding it up so he could gaze lovingly at it. As much as it pained him to part with it, he needed to.

"Time to separate the lock and key," he murmured as he held it against his lips. Then, forcing himself to be callous, he lifting the chain above his head and slipped the pendant into the envelope. Then, with an overwhelming sense of bittersweet melancholy, he sealed the envelope shut and picked up the pen he'd been using to make notes in the pocketbook. Once he'd finished addressing the envelope he stood up and walked over to the head librarian's desk where he gently place it into a wooden box meant for mail.

Once his task was complete, he then went back to his desk but didn't sit down. Instead, he pulled a revolver from one of his pockets and cocked it before taking a stance next to the desk.
"Alright, you bastards," he snarled under his breath, "Do your worst. I'm ready for you."

The next afternoon an assistant librarian picked up the stack of envelopes piled into the box and ran them down to the post office where they were each mailed to their respective recipient. On the bottom of the pile was a manila envelope addressed to one Alfred F. Jones of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States of America.