When I was in seventh grade, I got locked in my the Patterson Library in Westfield, NY.

I was perusing the MG section, looking for YA books, which didn’t really exist back then. A librarian walked directly past me and shut the window. Perhaps an announcement was made? I certainly never heard one. But I did notice the silence. It’s a library, sure, so it was always pretty quiet, but the huge, circular marble building with two-story vaulted ceilings and pillars was wide open to all the rooms, and echoey. Then, it was silent.

I stacked my books and made my way to the huge circular wooden desk in the middle of the atrium where the librarians ruled supreme, surrounded by their card catalogs and stamps. Nobody was there, which was not unusual.

What was unusual was the ear-splitting alarm that started sounding the moment I approached the desk. A light started flashing in the skylight-brightened room. Frantically, I ran to the front door, only to find glass door closed, and the barred iron portcullis firmly locked. I ran back to the desk and shoved my books onto it, grabbing for the desk phone and frantically pushing the buttons. Only one line let me dial out of the library, and I desperately called my dad at work. “I’m locked in the library!!!!” I yelled into the phone, the alarm still screaming behind me.

“Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” he answered, plainly confused. He hung up. Don’t blame him. It was the ’90s.

I ran to the front door again and saw my mom’s car waiting on the street. She saw my panicked waving and reluctantly put the car in park, taking the key out of the ignition and dragging her feet up the stone steps. I found out later that she thought I wanted her card so I could check out a video.

She got to the front door just about the time that the police car screeched to a halt; siren blaring, lights flashing. The head librarian followed soon after. I don’t remember them taking my statement, but I remember them unlocking those heavy iron doors and swinging them open to my freedom.

I left the books on the desk. It was weeks before I could go back to the library.

Plenty of people have said they have dreamed about being locked in the library, but for those of us who actually have, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

And yet, here I am: Writing books. Creating books. Editing books. Enticing other children to lose track of time, linger a little too long, and experience the true power of an unfettered love of reading.

(My childhood library, looking appropriately spooky.)